Healing Hope

Chapter 28

The Littlest Lord of Imladris

“The values by which we are to survive are not rules for just and unjust conduct, but are those deeper illuminations in whose light justice and injustice, good and evil, means and ends are seen in fearful sharpness of outline.”  Jacob Bronowski

The landscape was awash in the silvery light of Ithil, lending it an air of peace which was belied by the menacing howls emanating eerily from the dark.  Hideous yowls testified that the number of wargs was increasing.

“Surround Legolas and Estel,” Thranduil commanded.  The king immediately took the lead position while the remaining four guards made a box around the prince and his small charge.

Legolas quickly turned Estel so that the child’s face was pressed against his chest.  “Wrap your arms and legs around me, tithen pen, and hold tight.  We ride hard.” 

Even as he said it, the prince realized that Estel could not wrap both arms around him because of the sling on his arm.  He wrapped an arm protectively around the boy.  Once Estel was secure, the group began to move. Already warmed from the race to escape the orc attack, the horses soon reached full speed, their hooves thundering across the meadow as the baying of the pursuing wargs drew ever closer.

O-o-O-o-O

Glorfindel fought his way to where Erestor cradled Sariboril’s body.  The Imladris warriors had formed a protective wall around the pair as they fought off the orcs.  Glorfindel dispatched two orcs with one mighty swing of his sword and dropped to a knee beside Erestor.

“How fare you, Erestor?”

Erestor looked up from Sariboril.  Blood trickled down his face from a nasty cut above his eye.  “I am not injured.  It is Sariboril who is badly hurt.”

Before Glorfindel could answer he heard the swish of an arrow.  “Arrows!” he called in warning to his warriors.  But the arrows were not aimed at the elves.  Glorfindel was cheered to see that the arrows were flying swift and true into the attacking orcs.  He gazed the tree line until he could spot the Mirkwood archers.  Finding Falathar’s eye, the golden one saluted. 

Glorfindel quickly selected four of his warriors to protect the wounded while the rest followed him.  With the aid of the archers, the tide of evil was quickly turned back and defeated.  Glorfindel himself dispatched the last orc to the foul abyss.

He hurried back to Erestor’s side even as his warriors and those of Mirkwood formed a defensive perimeter around the area and made sure that none of the orcs were feigning death.

Glorfindel grasped Erestor’s shoulder, lending as much support as he could.  “How is Sariboril?”

Erestor looked up with sad eyes and shook his head slightly. “She is badly wounded.  We must get her back to Elrond if she is to have any chance at all.”

Glorfindel nodded.  He unbound his belt and tunic. “Here, bind her wounds the best you can with this while we make a litter.”

Falathar approached followed by his two fellow archers.  “Lord Glorfindel, how may we help?”

Two Imladris warriors continued the making of the litter as Glorfindel turned and offered his right arm to Falathar for a warrior’s clasp.  “You have helped us greatly already, and I offer you my thanks.” 

Falathar frowned when he caught sight of the wound on the healer.  Erestor had torn Glorfindel’s tunic into long strips and was binding a vicious slash that ran from her right shoulder blade across her back to her left hip.  “My king will be grieved to learn of the healer’s injuries.”

He hesitated when he looked back to the golden warrior and beheld Glorfindel’s conflicted countenance.   “My Lord?”

Glorfindel was torn, needing to assure himself that Thranduil had reached safety with Estel, yet clearly being needed here to see that the wounded could be safely transported back to Imladris and medical care. He struggled to know upon which path his duty was bound.  He stepped away from the elves…separating himself so that he might search his heart.

After a moment, the golden warrior walked back over to stand before Falathar. “One more thing I would ask of you, young one.  I would have you return to your king and protect the littlest Lord of Imladris.”

But for the seriousness of this one’s plea, Falathar would have smiled at the sentiment of the statement.  It was only too clear how dear the child was to all who dwelt within the hidden valley.  “Lord Estel will be well protected, my Lord. I give you my word as a warrior of Mirkwood.” 

The two warriors behind Falathar nodded their confirmation as well.  All three young elves were honored to pledge this oath to the legend standing before them.

Glorfindel looked deeply into each set of eyes and slowly dipped his head.  These warriors would protect Estel with their lives, of that he had no doubt.  “Then go swiftly.  I will carry your assurances to my Lord that his son is well protected.”

With salutes, the three Mirkwood archers withdrew.

Glorfindel surveyed the scene.  “Beling, take Sariboril.”  

Erestor reluctantly handed over care of the healer to the warrior and glanced questioningly at Glorfindel, who had knelt beside him.

Glorfindel picked up one of the remaining strips of his tunic.  “Here, stubborn one, give me your arm.” 

Erestor looked down at his forearm.  Blood poured from a wound he was not sure he even realized that he had, so numb was he from the suddenness of the attack and the resulting battle.  He held out his arm and winced as pain began to manifest itself in the site.

Tenderly but firmly, Glorfindel began to wrap the strip around the gash, binding the wound and stemming the blood flow.   Already the edges had begun to turn black and swell.  “The blade that struck this wound was poisoned.  We must get you back to Imladris quickly.”

O-o-O-o-O

Instead of stopping in the library as originally planned, Elrond opted to lead Mithrandir out to the gazebo adjoining the terrace.  The flames flickered as the hanging lamps swayed gently in the night breeze, and shadows gathered, as if darkness were hungry for the light. 

Elrond stood at the carved wooden rail looking out into the night, his thoughts with the troop leaving the valley. 

Mithrandir’s eyebrows knotted as he stood watching the Elf Lord’s back.  For Elrond to be this concerned, the news must be grave.  “Why don’t you just tell me your news, Elrond?”

Elrond turned back to the Maia.  “Arathorn is dead.”

Mithrandir sat down, his shoulders sagging.  “So the line of kings has ended.  This is grave news, indeed.”

“The line has not ended,” said Elrond softly.  He walked over to sit beside the wizard as an elleth walked through the library door with a tray bearing a two cups and a decanter of miruvor.  The Elf Lord lifted an eyebrow at the substitution, but nodded to the elleth and asked her to thank cook.

Elrond gave Mithrandir a wry look.  “Perhaps this is a better choice than the tea after all.”

“I can certainly use it,” remarked Mithrandir, fingering the empty pipe carried deep within a pocket of his robe.  “And you were going to tell me about the line of Elendil.” 

Elrond picked up the two cups and handed one to Mithrandir.  “Arathorn’s wife and young son were brought here to live.  Sadly, Gilraen died soon afterwards.”

“And the boy?” asked Mithrandir, unconsciously holding his breath.

“I have adopted him as my own,” said Elrond.  “We call him Estel.”

“Estel,” breathed Mithrandir, “Estel…how very appropriate.”  The wizard chuckled softly.  “That explains the blanket and stuffed animal I saw in the healing wing.”

Elrond smiled gently, his eyes far away.  “Estel brought items dear to his heart to comfort his brothers.” 

“Speaking of the twins,” coughed Mithrandir, “I have not heard tales of their legendary orc hunts of late.  The ‘duo of death’ I believe the young Silvans call them?”

Elrond regarded the Istari with amusement in his eyes. “That is because they had not felt the need for their legendary orc hunts…of late.”

“I see,” responded Mithrandir, not really seeing at all, so he changed the subject back the one most pressing.  “You have succored many of the line of kings here in Imladris, yet never before has one been claimed as a son of Elrond.  Why this one?”

Elrond stared into his cup for a moment before raising his eyes.  “This one is special.”

“Oh? And when might I meet this special hope?”

“He is not here,” said Elrond evenly.  “When I learned of your approach, I sent him to Mirkwood in the company of King Thranduil and Prince Legolas.”

“I…see,” said Mithrandir thoughtfully.  “Better to send the child away until you could ascertain my allegiance?”  

“Mithrandir…”

The wizard held up his hand forestalling any further apology.  “The important thing now is for us to protect this child.  Perhaps I should ride to Orthanc to confer with Saruman.”

Elrond could not suppress the shiver that seemed to begin at Vilya, running up his arm and down his spine.  “For now, let us keep our own council, my friend.” 

Almost simultaneously, Mithrandir glanced down at Narya, a slight frown on his face. The Maia took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. He did not completely understand the feeling of caution that suddenly descended upon him, but he accepted its validity.  “Very well,” he nodded.  “We must look for answers without revealing the location of Elendil’s heir.”

“More than that, Mithrandir,” Elrond insisted.  “I feel very strongly that Estel’s very existence should remain known to as few as possible.  Even Thranduil and Prince Legolas do not know his true identity.”

A thrill of concern raced through the Maia’s veins.  “They do not know the importance of who they protect?  That is troubling.”

“They know they protect my son,” said Elrond.  “Had I not confidence in their ability to see that no harm befalls him, I would never have allowed Estel to go.”

“Thranduil has ever been rash,” pressed the wizard.  “And his dislike of the edain is widely known.”

“Thanduil is not so rash as he allows others to think,” said Elrond.  “And so far as his dislike of edain goes,” the elf could not suppress a small smile, “that was before he fell under the spell of the hope of man.”

“I am anxious to meet the adan who could charm Thranduil. Why not go after him?” suggested Mithrandir.  “Now that you know I am not in league with the enemy, you could catch him before the Mirkwood party reaches the mountain passes.”

 Elrond came to his feet, pacing the small gazebo, speaking almost to himself.  “The season is late.  The passes will close soon and I will be away from my youngest until the spring.  I could send Glorfindel back out to see that Estel, Erestor and Sariboril return, but the question of the orcs and how they are invisible remains unanswered.”

“Yes, it does,” nodded Mithrandir.  “We must know by what power the orcs are cloaked.”

Elrond stopped his pacing to look at the Istari.  “Mithrandir, what of the Ithryn Luin…the Blue Wizards…could they be involved?”   

“Alatar and Pallando?”  The Maia unconsciously stroked his beard, deep in thought.  “No word has come of them since they traveled to the east.  My heart tells me no, but I cannot rule out the possibility. Whatever the case, the orcs are not cloaking themselves, and that is a certainty.”  He sighed deeply.  “There is more a play here than we know.  We must proceed with caution.”

Elrond nodded.  “And so Estel must be safely away.  If the dark one suspects that the heir of Elendil is here, then let us keep his eye fixed on Imladris and away from Mirkwood.”

“I fear there is evil enough to reach all the elven kingdoms,” said Gandalf.

O-o-O-o-O

The incessant baying of the wargs drawing ever closer bore witness that outrunning the beasts would be impossible.  Gauging the distance to the edge of the meadow, Thranduil sought a means of defense.  They were too few to face wargs on their own territory, and even had he been inclined to do so, he would not take such risks with Estel.  He had to find a way to negate the advantage of the wargs.

As they raced into the forest, Thranduil pulled up on his horse.  He chose the largest oak and pointed.  “To the trees!”

Legolas pulled up beside his father.  “Here, Adar, take Estel!” 

Thranduil took the boy into his arms as Legolas stood up on his horse’s back and gracefully leapt onto the lowest tree limb where he turned and reached back.  Thranduil easily lifted Estel up towards his son.  “Be careful of his broken arm, Legolas.”

Legolas pulled Estel into his arms and carried him further up the tree and out of the way of his Adar and the other four warriors.  “You’re not afraid to be this high, are you, tithen pen?”

The wargs burst from the clearing and were enraged to find their prey above them.  The elven horses were now well out of range, so the beasts circled the great tree, their deafening howls piercing the night.

Thranduil was amazed to see that nearly thirty of the animals had been in pursuit.  They literally fell all over themselves jumping up and trying to snare their meal, their huge jaws snapping with thunderous force. A particularly large male growled at the king, the deep rumble in his chest fairly shaking the leaves. “You shall not have me this night!” laughed the king, pulling an arrow from his quiver.

Estel had said not a word for so long that Legolas feared the shock of all that had befallen them in such a short time was beginning to adversely affect the child.

Legolas propped himself against the trunk of the tree so that he could shift Estel to look into his face.  “Estel,” he said gently.  “I will not let you fall and the wargs will not get to you here.”

Estel’s eyes spoke volumes as a soft whimper escaped him.  He laid his head against Legolas’ chest and his good arm wrapped around the prince’s neck.  “Make them go away, Legolas”

The prince breathed a sigh of relief to hear the child speak.  “We will, little one, I promise!”

Even as the prince spoke, King Thranduil and the Mirkwood archers were raining down death upon the wargs.  Some of the beasts, maddened by the scent of blood, began ripping at the bodies of the wargs already fallen under the lethal flow of arrows. 

“Disgusting creatures,” sniffed Thranduil as he dispatched another.  “Curious,” he observed to no one in particular.  “Warg packs do not normally grow so large.” 

Warg packs normally consisted of a dominant male, five or six females and their various cubs.  A male cub, upon reaching maturity, could either challenge the pack leader or, as was more often the case, find himself driven off to gather up his own brood of females. Territories were strictly guarded to retain sufficient food sources for the pack.

Finally the last of the wargs was killed, leaving a huge pile of stinking carcasses underneath the tree.  Thranduil placed his hand against the ancient oak, seeking out the life force within.  He apologized to the tree for leaving such a reeking mess to befoul the air, but he dared not delay their departure.  The king whistled for his horse, who he knew would be close enough to hear.

“Come,” said Thranduil.  “We must be well away from this place before the stench of blood draws more enemies down upon us.”

“What of our warriors, my king?” asked one of the archers, whose brother had been one chosen to accompany Falathar.

“They will follow,” replied Thranduil.  “Falathar knows we will stop ahead to wait for them.  The horses will need water and the child will need rest.  Besides, we needs find a defensible place to camp until the rest of our warriors from Imladris join us.  I would not risk taking Estel through the mountain passage without a sufficient force.

“Legolas,” Thranduil called softly up the tree.  “How is Estel?”

“He will be better when we are away from this place,” said Legolas, shifting his grip on Estel so that he could climb down to join his adar. 

Thranduil reached out to pat Estel on the back.  “Quite an adventure you are having, young one!”

Estel looked from Thranduil to Legolas.  “Can we go home now?”

TBC