Healing Hope

Chapter Twenty One

Do Not Go Gentle

“Do not go gentle into that good night.  Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas

Estel bottom lip quivered.  “Is my Ada sick?”

Thranduil quickly looked at the child, who must have awakened to see his Adar’s distress. All alone with him and feeling vastly uncomfortable, the king called upon all his fatherly memories.  He smiled reassuringly at the boy.  “No, child, elves do not get sick.  I believe your Adar is merely…” ah here was the dilemma…to prevaricate or not to prevaricate…“fatigued.”  The king knew he had, perhaps, taken the coward’s way out, but one simply did not explain to an overwrought four-year-old that his father had foresight of terrible doom befalling his brothers.

The king hastily ran through his repertoire of ideas and decided upon diversion.  Bending over, Thranduil picked up a carved wooden horse from the floor by the side of the bed wondering how he had managed not to step on the thing in all the confusion of the night terrors.  “I recognize this horse.  It is Asfaloth, is it not?”

Estel reluctantly pulled his eyes from the door and glanced at the horse.  “Um hum, Glorbindel made it for me.”

“I see,” observed the king, trying desperately to keep the conversation going and Estel’s mind off of Elrond’s...spell.  “He is a magnificent animal, but not so fine as Fuinur.”  No comment followed.  Time for something else, Thranduil decided.  He reached to pick up the cloth feline.  “And who is this?”

“That’s Blubby,” replied a shaky, small voice, once more on the verge of tears.

This was definitely not going well.  Lacking any new revelations, Thranduil did the only thing he could think of…the one thing common to all fathers.  He pulled the boy into this his arms, settling him on his lap.  Resting his cheek on Estel’s downy, dark curls, the king began to rock back and forth while singing a lullaby that Legolas had loved as an elfling.

As the melody floated through the room, enveloping him in a cocoon of tranquility, Estel began to relax in Thranduil’s arms.  Legolas’ Adar had strong arms, just like his Ada, and Estel felt safe.  All thoughts and concerns became harder to hold on to and finally faded as slowly his eyes drifted closed and sleep claimed him once more.

As he continued to sing, Thranduil felt a small tug and looked down to see that the child had taken hold of his thumb.  At a loss as to the reason why, he simply allowed the gesture thinking that perhaps it was something common to the edain.  The king made a mental note to ask Elrond for an explanation later. 

The king chuckled to himself as he rocked the child.  “Sleep well, little one, for you rest in the arms of a vastly cruel king who guts edain and eats them for dinner…or so they say.”

Erestor closed the door unseen.  “Vastly cruel, you say?” he murmured as he hurried down the hall.  He would be able to assure Elrond that Estel, at least, was well cared for.”

O-o-O-o-O

The main healing room of Imladris was long and narrow, lined with beds on each side.  At intervals there were pantries and store rooms opening from the main area.  At the far end of the span was a separate space which served as the surgery.  Rarely used these days, except for the odd training accident, the room was built when the Last Homely House was erected in the first age, when the valley under siege.  There were a great many injuries in those days and this room had been a hive of activity as the many healers worked to repair the wounds of the defenders of Rivendell.  Now the room appeared shadowed and empty.

Sariboril sighed as she rummaged through a jumbled mass of healing supplies and herbs in her apothecary pantry.  The U-shaped room, lined with shelves and cubbyholes on three sides was her domain, the place where she reigned supreme and even Lord Elrond - though often bemused by the complete chaos of the room - dared not move anything in there, for Sariboril knew where every thing was and could lay her hands on whatever she needed in an instant.  How she did it, no one knew, but she did, and that was all that mattered.

The healer had just come from Illuin and Belia’s home, where she had administered a sleeping draught to the sister of Belan.  She would have insisted upon Illuin taking one as well except that the warrior had finally surrendered to his grief and exhaustion, literally falling asleep while sitting at the table in the home’s cozy dining nook.  Sariboril had lain a soft woven coverlet over his shoulders and left him there, afraid that he would rouse and insist on returning to duty if she attempted to have him moved to his bed chamber.

Aye, she sighed, too many warriors had she witnessed take their last breath this side of Mandos’ halls.  She had hoped that these times would not come again for many millennia, and yet Glorfindel himself had called upon her to warn her of the probability of casualties coming into the healing wing again.  That was why she was presently in her apothecary.  Orcs had begun the practice of poisoning their spears and arrows with more and more obscure concoctions.  The healer wanted every weapon in her own arsenal of antidotes should the wounded begin to pour in.

She had issued a call for her apprentice healers and come here immediately to begin preparations.  Not that there was much to do, for she kept everything in a virtual state of readiness.  With Elladan and Elrohir around, you never knew what would happen next, so it paid to be prepared.  Even though the twins and Estel were almost always cared for in the family surgery located on the third floor near Lord Elrond’s bed chamber, Sariboril would not have it said that she was not ready when and if the need arose.

Sariboril pulled irritably at the shimmering sleeve of her formal gown, idly thinking that she would need to go change into something more suitable for work.  A stain on the sleeve caught her eye and she ran her finger over it realizing that it was split pea soup from the fracas in the Hall of Fire earlier.  The healer smiled at the memory of the horses tromping through the room, of the look on Erestor’s face when the tureen of soup had been thrown over two tables of elves, and how magnificent King Thranduil had looked as he relished the scene.  Had that really only been a few hours ago?

O-o-O-o-O

As still as a statue, Elrond stood on the terrace off of his study.  His eyes should have been relishing the magnificent dawn turning the cascading Bruinen into a kaleidoscope of pinks and scarlets, but he saw none of the beauty.  Nor did he hear the normally soothing sounds of the rushing water.  His every effort was focused on sensing his sons…on clarifying the awful vision that had been visited upon him earlier.  The elf lord’s hands gripped the rail until his knuckles were white, such was his effort.

Erestor slipped almost silently into the room carrying a tray with a fresh pot of hot mulled wine.  He sighed as he beheld his friend of so many centuries.  Pain, grief and fear were evident in every aspect of Elrond’s stature as he stood there pale and looking so alone.  He sat the tray down onto the table and crossed the room.  Gently, but firmly, he took Elrond by the elbows and led him back to the table.  “Sit, Elrond, before you collapse, and I have to explain to your youngest why you have not come to see him.”

“Estel,” breathed Elrond as he sank gracefully into the chair. 

“You must rest and refresh yourself,” insisted the seneschal.

“I cannot,” groaned Elrond.  “The anxiety is too great within me.”

Erestor had seen it before, of course, though only one other time this bad: the sudden, unforeseen flash of a vision that left Elrond shaken and slightly disoriented.  Normally Elrond controlled his foresight, but in times of extreme duress to his family the visions could come to him unbidden.

“Drink this,” ordered Erestor, forcing the warm mug into overly cold hands.  “Your skills may be needed, and you will do your sons no good in this shape.”

The firm words penetrated the distress of the elf lord.  “Wallowing in pool of misery, you mean?”

Erestor merely raised an eyebrow in his best Elrond imitation.

“Your words, as always, are wise, my friend.  What would I do without your presence in my life?”

“Let us hope we never have to find that out,” teased Erestor gently, before sobering.  “You, Elrond, healed the hole of grief in my heart at the loss of Eregion.  My life now belongs to the house of Elrond.  You have made me a part of your family and I am content here.”

Elrond knew the effort it took for Erestor to utter those words.  He reached out to lay a comforting hand over that of the younger elf.  “You have given back more to me than I could ever have imparted, Erestor.  I depend your counsel.  Now, as you have so succinctly pointed out, I must master my emotions and be prepared to do what must be done.”  Elrond drained the cup and held it out for more.  “She senses no more either,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“The Lady of Lorien?” queried the seneschal as he refilled the cup.

Elrond dipped his head.  “Yes, Galadriel saw the vision as well, but like me, is unable to ascertain the outcome or clarify the details through the haze of nebulous images and feelings.”

Erestor nodded thoughtfully.  Visions and foresight were the province of the Elf Lords; his was the details of running this home and caring for this family.  “Good, the color is returning to your face.”

“Estel?”

Erestor sat down across from Elrond.  “I looked in on Estel before I heated the wine.  He is sleeping peacefully in Thranduil’s lap.”

Elrond’s eyebrow rose a fraction, and Erestor chuckled in response.

O-o-O-o-O

The younger twin moved to stand over his fallen brother, a look of fierce determination written in every line of his fair face.  “You will not have him,” he said slowly and deliberately.

Time seemed to stand still. As the orcs still hesitated to press the attack, seemingly countless thoughts flashed through Elrohir’s mind.  Some of these orcs looked different than the orcs he had fought before, and they had attacked after the break of dawn.  Would their beautiful swords, gifted to them by their grandparents, become trophies for these vile creatures, or would they be discarded and trampled upon in the upcoming melee?  If they were discarded, would his Ada find them and realize the fate of his sons?  He would miss seeing Estel grow to manhood! Why didn’t they just finish it? 

As a low moan emanated from the fallen twin at his feet, Elrohir’s heart soared momentarily, before his mind suggested that it would be better for Elladan to never feel what was coming. The resolve to protect his brother chased the forlorn thoughts from Elrohir.  The odds might not be good at the moment – who was he kidding, the twin chided himself, it was downright hopeless – but these two had beaten the odds before.

Now that he was not immediately engaged in the life or death battle, pain raged through Elrohir’s chest from a sword slash to his ribs.  His tunic was wet – but whether from blood or sweat he had neither the time nor the inclination to notice.  He raised his sword into the ready position.  Foul, black orc blood dripped down the hilt making his hands slippery, but he simply tightened his grip and forced himself ignored it.  The deafening silence seemed to pound in his ears until all he could hear was his own labored breathing.

“Come on,” he raged at the beasts.  “Finish it!” 

A huge being – different than any orc he had ever seen - stepped forward.  “Son of Elrond.”  The deep voice reverberated in the clearing.

Elrohir literally felt his mouth fall open.  How did this spawn of evil know who he was?  And what was he?  Elrohir noted that there were five more like this massive perversion scattered in the midst of the other orcs.  Glorfindel would need to be warned of this new enemy.

“Quiet!” the being growled to the orc band.  The ones not like him were fidgeting.  The gray mist of predawn had evaporated in the warming sun, and the creatures were obviously ill at ease. 

The creature fixed him with a deadly glare. “Know this before you die, son of Elrond.  I have stalked your home.  I have stalked you.”  He stopped with an evil laugh at the look of shock on the twin’s face.

Quick fear for his home and family flashed through his mind, and he mentally assigned their safety to Glorfindel.  Elrohir raised his chin in defiance. “Imladris will not go down without a fight, and neither will I!”

The beast simply laughed again.  Then his head jerked suddenly to the side and he appeared to hear something.  “My master calls.”  He turned to the five like him.  “We leave.”  Looking back to Elrohir he spat at the twin.  “It shall be as you say.  Finish them!” he ordered the orcs, before turning to sprint off.

Elrohir prepared for the attack.   The orcs hesitated only a moment, ready to feast on elf flesh and get back to their lair in the face of the sunlight.  They charged en mass. 

The twin could not hope to hold off such an onslaught.  He seemed to disappear beneath a black tide of evil.

Suddenly arrows filled the air, dropping the orcs as they rushed forward.  From all around a bellow of rage could be heard as Glorfindel led his warriors in attack.  When he had seen Elrohir overcome, the heart of the golden warrior had nearly stopped.

As soon as Elrond had reported his vision, Glorfindel, Beling, Legolas and Falathar had bolted from the library.  It had only taken moments for the alert to be sounded and rescue mounted.  They had ridden wildly, desperate to reach the twins and prevent another tragedy such as had befallen Belan.

Arriving at the scene, Legolas and Falathar led the wood elves into the trees to cover the ground assault while Glorfindel and Beling led their warriors to circle the attacking orcs. 

Legolas had seen a small group of much larger orcs running away from the area, but he dismissed them as being an immediate threat to the twins.  Once he could see the orcs rushing Elrohir – he could not tell whether Elladan lived or not – his thoughts had been completely concentrated on the accuracy of his shots.

It took only moments to finish off the orcs.  Glorfindel waded through their foul bodies tossing them aside to reach the twins. 

Legolas led the wood elves in quickly constructing litters for the wounded pair.  They were made in such a way that they could be carried between two riders.  When they reached the more narrow passes closer to Imladris, they would have to be transferred to two elves on foot, but these would allow them to ride much of the way.

Glorfindel tossed the last body from his young charges.  “Elrohir!”  He pulled the twin into his arms and breathed a sigh of relief to feel Elrohir’s breath on his cheek.  “He lives!”  He assessed the twin’s injuries as rapidly as he could finding numerous cuts and abrasions, the worst of which was a deep gash running the length of his ribcage.  There was also swelling from a blow to his temple.  Glorfindel lifted the twin and passed him to Beling’s waiting arms.  He took a deep breath and turned his attention to Elladan.  The twin had made no move that he had been able to detect.  A thick shaft protruded from his back, but the movement of his chest testified that the twin still clung – however tenuously – to life.

“Elladan, stay with me,” urged the warrior.  Glorfindel used brute strength to snap off the shaft so that it only extended a few inches from Elladan’s back.  “Let’s get them back to Imladris.  Legolas, ride ahead to alert the healers!”

Elbereth be with us, Glorfindel breathed. It was going to be close.

TBC