Healing Hope

Chapter 39

Nárë

“What cannot be changed must be borne.”  Boromir, as written by Evendim

Estel and Legolas lay side by side on a fletnestled high in the branches of an ancient oak.  The pair had their faces turned towards the anor as though to seek the last bits of warmth before the colder months of Rhîw moved in.  They had come straight here after the break of fast, and Legolas had instructed Estel to crawl onto his back and hold tight while he climbed the tree.  The flet was relatively small, due to its extreme height, but it was one of Legolas’ favorite spots to retreat for contemplation. 

Enjoying the soft breeze, Legolas closed his eyes and sighed deeply.  He had been telling stories to Estel for some time, until the boy seemed to grow drowsy.  The child had not rested peacefully during the night, as Legolas could easily attest, for the prince has been bumped more than once by the bulky cast as the child tossed and turned fretfully.  At least there had not been a recurrence of the night terrors that left the child gasping for breath, and for that Legolas was extremely grateful. 

When Estel giggled beside him, Legolas opened his eyes to peer at the boy.  A smile lit his face.  A butterfly had landed on the child’s nose and Estel was currently staring cross-eyed down his nose at the graceful creature.  .

“Look, Legolas!” the boy whispered excitedly, “a bur-der-bly!”  At his spoken word the butterfly took flight.  Giggling, Estel rolled after the insect, trying to catch it with his unrestricted hand.

“Dartho, Estel!” Legolas cried, grabbing for the boy as he rolled off the flet. 

O-o-O-o-O

The air whooshed as the blade sliced through it at impossible speeds.  Again and again the blade slashed back and forth, over and under, its burnished surface gleaming.  The flickering torches blurred into one continuous line as the elf whirled, his rapidly beating heart and panting lungs bearing witness to the ferocity of his exertion.  Faster and faster he went, pushing himself until he reached the very limit of his endurance and still he pushed for more.   The blade now acted as an extension of his body, as though hand and metal had been melded through some fiery crucible. 

“Enough,” panted Thranduil, “I concede!”  Stepping back, the king touched his sword to his forehead and dipped his head while his breath fought to return to normal.  “Were you sparring with me or some unknown enemy, my friend?” he teased.

Nárë’s breath hitched slightly as he forced his body to stand down from the fevered pitch to which it had been forced.  Thranduil was closer to the truth with his question than he might have realized, but Nárë did not want to visit that thought now.

Sobering, Thranduil elegantly arched an eyebrow.  Nárë’s silence confirmed his statement.  Aware of his friend’s discomfort, the king changed the subject as he sheathed his sword.   It was normal procedure for these two to retreat to Nárë’s private den for sword practice every morning after the break of fast.  Had a casual observer happened into the room, which was not possible since it opened from Nárë’s personal chamber, it would have seemed he had fallen into some type of weapon filled nightmare. 

The room was circular, as were most of the private chambers of Mirkwood.  Thranduil had commissioned this suite of rooms built to his specifications as a personal gift to Nárë.  This was where Nárë worked his muscles and honed his skills privately, away from prying eyes.  The walls were lined with swords and spears of various sizes.  Numerous daggers - from the Elven to that of the Haradrim – were mounted in niches carved into the stone walls.  Torches ringed the room providing all the light the elf might need. 

Thranduil sat cross legged on the floor as Nárë moved to a rack of smoothed stones slung in individual leather pouches.  Almost with a vengeance, the elf began hefting one of the larger stones to strengthen his arm.  The king watched in silence for a few moments, warring with himself as to whether or not to broach the subject they were both avoiding...always avoiding.

Nárë worked out with as much intensity as he always had, since the days that he and his brother had determined the only way they would be accepted by the Silvans was to best them at everything.  The brothers had taken it upon themselves to become the most proficient warriors in Greenwood, and they had succeeded.  Nárë was the undisputed champion of the bow and Veryo the master of the sword; both finally winning the respect of their fellow warriors and the attention of the king. 

Thranduil had befriended the pair from the very beginning, finding in them the camaraderie that was more difficult to find with those who had always seen him as the heir to the throne.  The three had become inseparable as they worked together to become the best warriors in the kingdom...the brothers for acceptance, Thranduil because he felt it was the only way he could earn his father’s respect.  It was inevitable then, when Oropher led his forces to war that Nárë was named his Herald and Veryo his Chief Commander.  If Thranduil was hurt at the apparent slight by his father, he never voiced it, and his loyalty to his friends never wavered.  

During the battle of the Dagorlad, Oropher’s closest ally Malgalad and his host are cut off and driven into the Dead Marshes.  Oropher dispatched Veryo and a number of his elves in a last ditch effort to support the beleaguered elves, but it was for naught, and Veryo was slain along with Malgalad and most of his forces.

On the Cirith Gorgor side of the plain, Oropher, Nárë, and Thranduil battled furiously, horrified to see the decimation that was happening to the Elven host opposite them.   Nárë, in particular, was torn between rushing to his brother’s aid and staying to protect his king.  In the end their efforts at reaching Malgalad were repulsed and they were driven back, finally retreating to their camp, bitter at the apparent lack of aid by Elendil and Gil-galad.

When an enraged Oropher had banished all his advisors, save Thranduil, from his tent, Nárë seized his chance.  The Noldo could not bear the thought of his brother’s body lying in the swamps and stole from camp. He could not face his parents or live with himself if he did not at least try to bring Veryo from that vile place.  Stealthily, he made his way through the enemy lines until he reached the reeking area where so many bodies lay, some already beginning to rot in the heat.  Steeling himself against the sights he would see, Nárë began the search for Veryo, a full ithil aiding his effort

Thranduil endured his father’s wrath until the King finally wore out.  It wasn’t that Oropher blamed Thranduil so much as it was that Thranduil was someone onto which the King could vent his anger, grief, and disillusionment.  Weary beyond words, Thranduil listened and accepted all the vitriol pouring from his father while his mind fretted over his friend.  No one knew Nárë as well as Thranduil, and the heir to Greenwood knew that the longer he sat there the more likely it was the Noldo would do something stupid.

When at last Oropher dismissed his son, Thranduil went directly to Nárë’s tent and found it empty, as he had known in his heart he would.  “Damned stubborn elf!” he raged.  Quickly, Thranduil chose four of his most loyal warriors and set out to follow the Noldo, praying that he would not lose both his friends in the same day.

It was becoming dangerously close to dawn and the time that Nárë would be forced to withdraw, when he found Veryo’s battered and butchered body.  Choking back a sob, Nárë gently lifted his brother into his arms, burying his face against the beloved chest for a moment as the grief he had kept at bay throughout the long, horrific night finally wracked his body.  Nárë gave into the grief for only a moment before his discipline reasserted itself.  It would be suicide to be caught out alone like this behind enemy lines when the anor appeared.  

Nárë was just gaining the outer edge of the marshes when the enemy fell upon him.  The orcs must have been hiding in wait and anticipation of an easy meal, for the elf had not even seen them before it was too late.  Nárë could have made the move to save himself, but he would not leave his brother to be fodder for these evil beings.  So be it, he would join Veryo in the Halls of Mandos.  He laid his brother down and stepped in front of his body.  “I will be along soon, brother, but not before I dispatch as many of these foul beings as I can.”  Nárë drew is sword and charged.  “You shall be avenged!” 

O-o-O-o-O

Imladris

“Ada!” Elrohir sat up as quickly as his reeling head would allow when his father entered the room still bloody from battle.

“Peace, Elrohir,” soothed Elrond, “I am well.” 

“Ada?”  Tears burned Elladan’s eyes as he beheld his father’s wounds.

Elrond’s heart was stricken by the reaction from the twins.  He had decided to come upstairs to his own healing rooms because he knew that the twins and Erestor would be alarmed by the commotion coming from downstairs.  He had thought to spare them this fear by coming straight here, but it seemed that he had done just the opposite.  Indeed, it seemed that many of his decisions of late were suspect, and the Elf Lord sighed tiredly.  With Erestor and Galadriel looking on, he stepped between the twin’s beds and simply held open his arms for his sons to step into his embrace.   Holding them both, he surrounded their fäer with as much comfort as he could even as he bestowed a kiss of blessing and love upon their heads.

“Do you not know that we are the ones who are supposed to come dragging home looking like this?” sniffed Elladan, embarrassed by his emotions.

Elrond rested his cheek against the older twin’s head for a moment before pulling back to look them both in the eye.  “I am well, as is your grandfather.”

“What were you thinking?” sputtered Erestor, finally able to gather himself from the shock of seeing his Lord in such a state.

Elrond gave his Seneschal a wry look, “That does seem to be the question of the morning.”

“I am glad to see that you have not lost your sense of humor,” said Galadriel.  “Since things are in hand here, I shall go see to my husband.”  She stopped as she drew even with Elrond and lovingly cupped his face with her hand for just a moment before withdrawing.

“Stop sputtering, Erestor,” teased Elrond.  “I requested hot water be sent up here, and I hoped that you would bind my wounds before Glorfindel gets up here to do it.” 

“Too late,” drawled the golden warrior from the doorway.  “You only thought you could escape me.”

“You have the healing touch of a Mûmakil!” groaned Elrond.  “I would rather be tended by Erestor.”

“Over my dead body,” deadpanned Glorfindel, leading the Elf Lord over to the empty bed.

Elrond gave a quick wink to Glorfindel.  Their banter had diverted the fears of the other three, as they had known it would. 

“Now,” drawled Glorfindel, as he helped Elrond removed his tattered tunic, “where shall I begin.”

O-o-O-o-O

Miraculously, Legolas managed to catch hold of the back of Estel’s tunic when the child rolled off the flet.  Estel was now suspended over the edge with only the prince’s grasp of his tunic preventing him from falling, but rather than be afraid, he seemed delighted to view things from his new vantage point. 

“Look, Legolas!” Estel exclaimed, with complete faith in the prince’s ability to keep him from harm. “We are up so high!” 

Pulling the child back onto the flet, Legolas rolled onto his back with Estel grasped securely across his chest while his heart attempted to settle back into a normal rhythm.  “Good, Legolas,” he muttered to himself. “Some protector you are; you almost let him fall to his death on his first day here!”

Suddenly the prince gasped, and rolled to look off the edge of the flet. 

“What is it, Legolas?” asked Estel.  “Did you see another bur-der-bly?” he asked hopefully, positioning himself beside Legolas to peer over the edge.

Almost vibrating with shock and anger, Legolas sat up back on his heels, shaking his head to answer the question while he gathered his wits again.  Keeping a firm hold on the child’s tunic, he looked closely at Estel’s face.  From his joyful expression, it was certain that the boy had not heard the words, for they were apparently too softly spoken for his human hearing.  Legolas had heard them without mistake though, as he was obviously meant to, and they echoed ominously in his mind.  “You should have let the human fall.”

The prince had looked quickly, but was unable to see where or from whom the voice originated.  Shaken, he suggested they go back inside the fortress.

Estel’s face lost some of its animation.  “But we have not been outside for very long, and I wanted to look for ba-lowers.” 

“There are not so many flowers remaining in Mirkwood,” responded Legolas absentmindedly.  He did not believe the vile words had constituted a direct threat against Estel, but the very thought that one of his own kind had uttered such a sentiment filled him with disgust and disquiet. 

“Legolas...can we not stay outside a bit longer?”

The prince could not resist the eagerness in the plea and smiled wistfully at the boy.  “You are not comfortable inside yet, are you?”

Estel bit his lower lip and dropped his head before looking back at the prince.  “I liked being able to see the stars from your bed,” he offered hopefully.  The tenderhearted child would not have hurt his friend’s feelings for all the world.  His wide silver eyes blinked solemnly.

Legolas smiled and hugged the child to him.  “We will spend the entire day outside if that is what you wish, tithen pen nín.”

O-o-O-o-O

As he watched Nárë’s repetitious lifting of the stones, Thranduil was reminded of the sight that met him the morning he followed Nárë to the marshes.   The Noldo was surrounded by orcs, blood flowing from where his arm had been severed and from numerous other wounds.  How the elf was even on his feet was beyond Thranduil.  He and the Greenwood warriors engaged the orcs and defeated them.  As Thranduil pulled his sword from the last orc he turned back to find that Nárë’s great strength had finally been spent.  The Noldo had managed to crawl over to where Veryo’s body lay before giving out...his one remaining arm draped across his brother, as though in a final embrace of farewell. 

Thranduil’s heart lurched as he ran to the pair and sank to his knees beside them.  Gently pulling Nárë into his arms, he rejoiced to see that his friend still lived.  There was just enough of Nárë’s sword arm left so that Thranduil could tie off the blood flow and keep him from bleeding to death right there, but   even with that accomplished, none of them knew whether or not the great Noldo would live to learn of their efforts on his behalf or whether he would instead join his brother.  Swallowing his grief and fear, Thranduil sent one of the elves rushing back to camp to alert the healers, and he himself carried Nárë.  Reverently, another wrapped Veryo’s body in a cloak and brought him.

 “How long are you going to refuse to talk to me about it?” asked Thranduil, finally shaking himself from his reverie?  

TBC

Translations:

Anor: sun

Rhîw: Winter

Dartho: Hold, stop

Tithen pen nín: my little one

Ithil: moon