Healing Hope

Chapter Thirty Eight

Just Be My Friend

Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend."   Albert Camus

Erestor sat up with a start, straining his ears for the sound that had summoned him from sleep, unsure whether or not the sound was real or a phantom of his dreams.  The first light of dawn was just gracing the valley, casting a soft, pink hue over the landscape as the Seneschal struggled to bring himself to wakefulness.  There it was again...the horned call faint, but clear.  Three short bursts followed by a long one.  That chased any vestige of sleep from his mind. Erestor pulled back the light cover and put his feet on the floor, fighting off the slight wave of vertigo that overcame him.   “I have been abed too long,” he muttered to himself, pulling the irritating sling from around his neck and letting it fall onto the bed.

“Erestor?”  Elrohir was sitting up looking at him, confusion clearly written upon his features.  “Was that the attack signal?”

Erestor nodded as he stood up.  “It came from the border.”

“I must go,” said Elrohir resolutely, swinging his legs off the bed.  His attempt to stifle the moan elicited by the motion was not completely successful.

“El?”   Elladan, too, was awake now, drawn instinctively by his brother’s soft sound of pain.  “What is it?”

“Attack on the border, El,” the twin replied.  “No,” he hurried to add, “do not even think about getting up.”

“You cannot go without me,” protested Elladan, “besides, I am not the one who groaned from pain just now.” 

“You are neither one leaving this room,” said Erestor with finality.  “I will see what is going on.”  Erestor did not say it, but the house seemed too quiet.  And where was Elrond?  Normally he would be the first one here to ensure his sons did not attempt what they were now attempting.  He forced himself to stop and stand straight, ignoring the dull ache in his arm. 

“But Erestor...”

“Sit!” he commanded.  Shaking his head, Erestor mumbled to himself, “Stubborn elflings.” 

“I believe you should all three obey that advice.”   The lady entered the room, as serene as ever.

“Lady Galadriel,” greeted Erestor, trying to look less like a patient and more like the distinguished Seneschal he was.   “I am needed.”

“You will stay in your beds until you are released by a healer,” said Galadriel, unmoved by his performance.  “I have just had this same conversation with Sariboril, and I weary of repeating myself.”   The lady’s tone brokered no argument.

“Where is Elrond?” asked Erestor, suddenly not wanting to know the answer.  He did not miss the slight glance she sent in the twin’s direction.

“My son is hunting this morning.”

“Ada?” Elrohir could not keep the alarm from his voice.  His grandmother’s attempt to explain Elrond’s absence only heightened his apprehension, for Elrond was not given to hunting of any form.  Suddenly the significance of the attack horns took on a decidedly ominous tone.  “Daernaneth, I must go!” 

Galadriel put her hands on his shoulders and gently, but firmly, sat the twin back down.  “You are not leaving this room, Elrohir.”

“Daernaneth, is Ada in danger?”  Elladan’s soft voice was laced with iron, but the look in his eye betrayed the love of a son fearing for his father.

Galadriel gifted him with her smile.  “Your adar has been a warrior for many centuries.” 

“Respectfully, Daernaneth, that is not an answer,” interjected Elrohir.  His sleep tousled hair reminded his grandmother of the elfling he had been.

Galadriel brushed back the strand of hair that had fallen over her grandson’s forehead. “Do not let fear rule your heart,” she replied enigmatically.  “He is not alone.”

O-o-O-o-O

As he fired volley after volley of arrows at the orcs, Haldir’s stony countenance belied the emotion roiling within him.  The elf had been horrified and then furious in turn when he discovered that his lord had ventured forth without a guard.  What was he thinking?  Seeing the blood streaming down Celeborn’s side only intensified his agitation. 

“I am going to take all four of them and I am going to lock them in a room,” muttered the more excitable Illuin beside him.  His supply of arrows exhausted, Illuin drew his sword and jumped down from the tree.

Haldir quickly followed suit.  He ran to Celeborn’s side as the warriors from Imladris and Lórien quickly fought off the remainder of the orcs, forming a protective circle around the four beleaguered warriors.  “My Lord, you are out early this morning,” he growled, grabbing Celeborn’s arm to help him remain erect.  “How careless of me to have missed the call to arms.”  The irony in his voice was not lost on Celeborn. 

“Do not start with me, Haldir,” growled the Elf Lord, though he allowed the Marchwarden to bear part of his weight.  The wound to his side hurt fiercely, though not quite so much as the wound to his pride at having received it.  And now he would have to soothe the fabled ire of Haldir.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow as Illuin approached him.  “What kept you?”

Illuin was too flabbergasted to answer until he caught the glint of humor in the commander’s eye.  The truth was, Illuin was still too shaken to do much more than nod back to the golden warrior.  He shuddered to think what could have happened had his guards not observed the Lord of Imladris leaving the grounds and signaled him.  As it was he was going to have to put up with that peacock from Lórien smirking about their defenses. 

“Or lack thereof,” drawled Haldir, as though reading Illuin’s thoughts.

Elrond turned on the young commander.  “I wanted a prisoner!”

Glorfindel’s eyebrow hitched a bit further, but he held his counsel, deciding to see how Illuin responded.

The young commander of border defenses drew himself up to meet his Lord’s eye.  “You and Lord Celeborn were wounded, my Lord, and your position overrun. My warriors had not the luxury of shooting to wound, nor were they particularly inclined to do so.”

Glorfindel nearly snorted.  “Well done, Illuin,” he clasped the elf on the shoulder. “Round up the horses, if you please.”

“Yes, my lord,” the elf responded, with a small bow of his head.

“Illuin,” said Elrond softly.

“My Lord?” the elf immediately responded, love, and devotion clearly mirrored in his eyes.

“Forgive me; I spoke out of turn,” the Elf Lord apologized.

“You had my forgiveness before even you asked, my Lord.”  With a small smile, he turned to follow Lord Glorfindel’s command.

Elrond sighed deeply.  “I ask your pardon as well, my friend.”

“It is not necessary,” replied Glorfindel.  He took Elrond by the shoulders, looking him over carefully and assessing his wounds.  “I have been waiting for you to vent your emotions for some days now.” 

“I cannot afford to allow my emotions to control me,” Elrond agonized, angry with himself.

“You cannot continue to bottle them all up, either,” responded Glorfindel earnestly, squeezing Elrond’s shoulders in support.  “You have been under a tremendous strain; it is well past time that you allow those who love you to share some of that load.”

O-o-O-o-O

Arwen’s eyes sparkled with mirth.  “Mistress Sariboril, you must stay down.”

“Nonsense!” argued the feisty healer.  “You heard those horns as well as I.”  She fixed Arwen with a mock glare, for she loved the child too much to truly glare at her.  “There may be wounded arriving; I will be needed!”

“You are still wounded yourself,” Arwen reasoned, “and I am beyond being intimidated by your frown, so do not try it on me.”  She softened her words with asmile, before growing serious again.  “Allow your healers the chance to impress you.”

Sariboril stilled and gave Arwen a considering look.  “When did you become so wise?”

Arwen’s musical laugh cheered them both.  “Not so wise, I think; I simply come from a long line of stubborn elves!”

“That you do, child,” agreed the healer, “that you do.”

“Now lay back,” Arwen urged.  ‘I will sit with you.”

Sariboril beamed with pride as she watched her healers quickly and efficiently prepare to receive casualties.  “I will deny it if you tell them, but they are quite good, are they not?”

Arwen gave Sariboril’s arm an affectionate squeeze, “They were trained by the best.”

Noise coming from the front hallway, interrupted their conversation, and Sariboril started, “There are wounded coming in!”  Instinctively, she moved to rise, every fiber of her being trained for healing, but a slight pressure from Arwen’s hand stilled her again.

Haldir entered the room supporting a pale Celeborn.  Immediately behind him came Elrond, Glorfindel and Mithrandir. 

“Ada!”  Arwen rose in alarm.  “Daeradar!” she cried, more shaken than she cared to admit.  She had never seen her father or her grandfather injured in any way.

Elrond waved away a healer and went instead to his daughter, taking her smaller hands in his own.  “They are only scratches, daughter.”

Her fearful eyes went towards Celeborn, 

“The wound to your Daeradaris not fatal,” he assured her, “only painful.”  

“It should be painful,” snapped Sariboril.  “What were the two of you thinking?”

“That is something I would like to know, as well,” said Haldir.  He had stepped back against the wall when the healers took Lord Celeborn into the surgery, and was now looking quite pointedly at Lord Elrond.

Arwen bristled at his tone, but Elrond’s eyebrow simply arched elegantly.  “I am not accustomed to asking leave of my warriors before I act within my own valley, Marchwarden.”

Haldir reddened slightly, but held his ground.  “With respect, my Lord, your warriors cannot protect you if you do not allow them to do so.”

Glorfindel coughed and Mithrandir chuckled, only to receive a frown from Haldir.

“You forget yourself,” warned Glorfindel, softly, stepping in front of Elrond as though to shield him from the Marchwarden’s ire.

“Relax, young one,” soothed the wizard. “We are not so decrepit as we look,” he added with another chuckle.  “I may appear to be old, but I assure you I am quite capable of keeping up with even you.”

Before Haldir could sputter, Arwen wrapped her arm through the crook of his elbow.  “Come, Haldir, let us leave before you create even more of an incident,” she bantered, though the lightly spoken words could not completely mask her worry.

Haldir’s look went from Arwen’s concerned countenance to the bleeding gashes marring Lord Elrond’s arms and shoulders and his heart softened.  The look on Lord Glorfindel’s face was also a factor, and the elf realized he had badly overstepped the bounds of courtesy towards his host.  “My apologies for the harshness of my words, my Lords.  If you will excuse me?”  He led Arwen from the room, trying to salvage as much dignity as he could. 

Arwen laughed lightly, “You really are a sight when you are angry!”

Haldir bit off the reply he could have made because he did not wish to alarm the Undómial.  In truth, the Elf Lords and the Wizard had been close to being overrun, for all their banter and overconfidence. He could not fault their skill or their courage, but he would certainly question their judgment.  His Lord’s safety was his responsibility, and he took that extremely seriously.  

O-o-O-o-O

Dressing Estel in the clothes he wore as an elfling was no small matter.  In fact, it required both the king and Legolas working in tandem before the task was complete, with the prince spurred to hurry as the growls emanating from Estel’s middle became more insistent.

“Adar, we must hasten,” urged Legolas, as he pulled the soft blue top over Estel’s head.  The prince had no idea just how long he actually had once Estel’s stomach growled, but he did not want to take any chances on something bad happening because of so simple a thing as lack of food.  He hoped that Thedin would be able to answer such questions when he returned from Lake Town.  His father’s words interrupted his reverie.

“That will not work,” frowned the king.  “The injured arm must go in first.”

“You are correct,” sighed Legolas, pulling the shirt back up over Estel’s head.

“Ouch,” cried Estel. “You pulled my ear!”

“I am sorry, tithen pen,” apologized the prince. “I am unused to dressing young ones.”

“Here Legolas,” offered Thranduil, with a chuckle, “let me try.”  The king, at least, had experience in the dressing of a squirming child.  He slipped the bulky cast through the sleeve and then held the opposite opening.  “Here, child, put your other arm through here and then we will pull it over your head.”

“Whew,” Estel sighed, when the tunic was in place.  “I never knew it was so hard to dress as a Wood-elf.”

“We are only half way through, child,” laughed the king, “unless you intend to spend the rest of the day with a bare backside.”

Estel frowned at the idea, shaking his head thoughtfully.  “My ada would not like that!”  He sat on the bed and held up wiggling feet for the prince and king to slip on the green leggings.”

“Hey,” objected Estel.  “You did not give me any braies to wear under them!”     

“We do not wear other clothing underneath our leggings,” explained Legolas. “The fit would be too tight if we did.”  He pulled the material up over Estel’s knees.  “Stand up so I can pull them up.”

Estel scooted off the bed and allowed the prince to pull up the pants. “What about my beets?”

“Your what?” asked the puzzled king.

“Your feet, Estel,” corrected Legolas.  He had noticed Estel slipping back to the old speech pattern after they had arrived at Mirkwood...a sure sign that the child was insecure, even if the boy did not understand that fully.

“I have these,” said the king, holding up a pair of brown suede boots. “They look to be around the same size.”  He sat one down beside Estel’s foot. “There are others if these do not fit.”

Estel’s stomach gave a particularly insistent growl.  “Are we almost binished?”

“Yes, young one, we are,” affirmed the king, grunting slightly as he tried to pull the boot onto the squirming foot.  “Are you hungry?”

“Um hum,” nodded the child.

“If you will stop wiggling your toes the boots will go on quicker and we can dine all the sooner.”

“Oh,” faltered Estel, biting his lower lip. “I am sorry.”  He pointed his foot, and it slid nicely into the boot.  “Can we eat now?” he asked, immediately brightening.

O-o-O-o-O

Like so much else in Mirkwood, mealtime was a formal affair.  Opening from the throne room was a smaller area where meals were taken.  All the elves living within the cavern and many from the surrounding telain, gathered there waiting for the king’s entrance and his leave to begin.  A table carved in an ivy motif and elevated upon a dais was draped with the finest of cloth and served the king and his entourage.

In happier days Thranduil had envisioned filling the seats at the head table with cheerfully chattering offspring.  After the death of his wife, however, he knew that Legolas would be the only elfling that would grace his life and his table.  Now Nárë dined beside the king, and before his death, Silad, the adar of Falathar and previous chief of guards, had also shared meals at the king’s table. 

The soft hum of conversation died as the king entered the room and all present dropped to a knee in welcome.  Legolas walked behind Thranduil, holding Estel’s hand.  The prince could feel the tension in the air as the elves were given leave to resume their seats.  From all around the room he could feel their eyes following him.Word had certainly spread that the king returned with a human, for the room was even more full than usual and many were stretching their necks to catch sight of the child.

Nárë was settling into his seat as Legolas and Estel arrived at the table. 

When he saw Nárë, Estel smiled shyly. He could not have put into words why, but it comforted the child to see an elf like his father and brothers.  Estel was not completely at ease amongst so many blonde elves.  Visions of Quenthar still lurked in the darker corners of his mind, threatening the boy with his fears, even as he clung to Legolas’ hand. 

Legolas sat Estel in the chair between himself and his adar.  “Well, this will not do!”

Estel’s chin barely peeked above the surface of the table, and he looked up helplessly at the prince.  “It will be all right, Legolas,” he said hesitantly.   In truth, he rather liked being able to hide behind the table cloth because he was acutely aware of being scrutinizedby the many elves in attendance.  

Sizing up the situation, Thranduil reached over, picked up Estel, and sat him onto his lap.  “Here, Estel, you may eat with me.”  An audible gasp was heard when the gathered elves witnessed the act.  Thranduil quickly silenced the throng with a glance.  “We shall have a special seat made for you before the next meal, child.” 

The silence in the room was deafening as the meal was served and consumed.  Perched on the king’s lap and surrounded by Legolas and Nárë, Estel began to relax, though he remained aware of the numerous eyes watching him.

Nárë observed the child surreptitiously.  He remembered how it felt when he first arrived in Greenwood as a stranger and a Noldo in the world of the insular Silvans.  He and Veryo were definitely on the outside and it took long, difficult years for them to find their place amongst the Wood-elves.  The memory brought a small smile to his face as he remembered those bitter-sweet ages.  It was the friendship of Thranduil that got him through those hard times…and the worse ones that were to come. 

Estel frowned at the mithril chalice full of milk in front of him.  It was beautiful, shining and set with dark blue gems, but it was too large for his small hand.  His eyebrows furrowed as he pondered the problem.  His ada taught him to think problems through before taking action, and he was very proud of himself for remembering that lesson.  The trouble was that he could not think of an answer for this particular dilemma.

The solution presented itself for him in the guise of the Noldo warrior.  “Might I be of assistance, Estel?”  Reaching over, he grasped the goblet and helped the boy to drink. 

“Ah,” sighed Estel, “that was good.”  He smiled at Nárë through a milk mustache and then reached up to wipe his mouth with his sleeve.

The elf’s eyebrows hitched, reminding Estel of his ada, and he immediately arrested the motion.  “Do not wipe my mouth with my sleebe?”

Nárënodded approvingly.  “That is correct.”  He picked up the napkin from where it had fallen onto Estel’s chair when the king had picked him up and handed it to the child.  “Use this.”

Estel smiled and daintily wiped his mouth.  He turned to look proudly at the prince.  “Look, Legolas, I used my napkin and not my sleebe!”

“Very good, Estel,” praised Legolas.  “Now, if you are finished with your break of fast, would you like to go outside?”

“Yes!” cheered the boy, for he was anxious to go outside and see the sky again.

“Come then,” smiled the prince. “I have a wonderful tree for us to climb!”  He knelt before his father.  “Maywe have your leave to depart, Adar?”

Thranduil gifted his son with a smile that softened his eyes and brought joy to Legolas’ heart.  “You have my leave.”

Estel took his hand and slid from Thranduil’s knee.  “Thank you for my break of bast, King Adar.”  He glanced shyly over to the Noldo.  “Thank you for helping me, Lord Nárë.” 

The room had gone deathly quiet when Estel referred to Thranduil as King Adar, and now there was a hiss of conversation as the elves discussed this affront, as many saw it, coming not only from a human, but from a so-called son of Elrond.  Some in Mirkwood were too willing to hold onto their grudges.

Thranduilwatched Legolas lead the child from the room, reeling somewhat from Estel’s guileless slip of the tongue.   He sat back with a sigh.  Love for his Greenleaf kept him going through the grief of his wife’s death, and it gave him strength when the burden of leadership weighed down his heart.  He was proud of his warrior son, but also remembered the sweet elfling he had been.  Thranduil had believed he would never again hear a child call him Adar.

“It is nice to have a youngling in residence again, is it not?” 

The king glanced over at Nárë.  “Is my countenance so easily read?”

“Only to one who knows you so well,” responded the Noldo.

 “You begin to scare me, my friend,” chuckled Thranduil.  “You know me too well.”

“Not all will welcome him.”  The smile faded from Nárë’s face.  “I remember what that is like.”

Thranduil nodded thoughtfully. “I was your friend then; I will be his friend now.”

Nárësmiled.  “He could have none better.”

“He already does,” said Thranduil.  “He has my son.” 

TBC