Healing Hope

Chapter Fifty Two

To Control Our Fears

Hope is some extraordinary spiritual grace that God gives us to control our fears, not to oust them.  ~Vincent McNabb

Legolas thrust his knife into the heart of his opponent and turned just in time to see the arrow that pierced Falathar’s chest.  His eyes widened in disbelief.  No, not Falathar! He watched helplessly as the wounded elf was spun around by the momentum of the huge arrow and sank to his knees. As the prince started towards Falathar time moved as slowly as honey running down the side of a hive.  His normally nimble limbs felt weighed down and he seemed incapable of moving at the speed with which he needed to move.  He noticed a Uruk charging towards his friend swinging an axe and called out, “Falathar!” 

Legolas could see no indication that his friend heard his frantic cry, for the elf seemed simply to be watching the enemy charging him.  He made no move to defend himself, indeed, seemed incapable of any defense.  Legolas cried out his warning again, desperate to reach Falathar before the beast, but he knew he would not.  The distance was too great. 

Thranduil turned when he heard Legolas’ anxious cry.  For a moment his heart seemed to stop beating until he located his son and saw for himself that he was unharmed.  Then he realized where Legolas’ attention was centered.  Falathar! 

Leaning upon his sword, Falathar attempted to stand, only to sink back to his knees again.  Blood roared in his ears as he watched one of the massive Uruks running at him swinging a vicious looking axe, no doubt intending to take his head as a trophy, but even that thought danced around the edges of his foggy mind as his vision slowly began to close towards darkness.  His last sight before the blackness claimed him was of the flash of silver hair moving between himself and the towering beast. 

Thranduil moved with a momentum he would not have thought possible, intercepting the mighty swing of the Uruk’s axe with his own sword.  The jolt of the clashing weapons was thunderous, jarring the King down to his knees.  The strength of the massive beast was incredible!  Thranduil immediately knew he would not long withstand a fight with this one; for the Uruk’s strength and arm span were far superior.  But Thranduil knew that though these foul creations were vastly advanced physically, they were exponentially lacking in brain power.  They were, in short, created to be killers, not thinkers, and that gave Thranduil the advantage he needed.

The King grinned fiercely as he backed away from the beast, giving him a mock salute with his sword.  “Come and meet your doom, spawn of evil,” he taunted.

The Uruk growled but held his ground for a moment before charging. This was not the typical reaction of his prey. This Uruk was not one of the few created to be leaders. This one was a follower, so his reasoning ability was limited.  Were he not bred to be fearless, the confidence of his adversary would have lent him caution.  Unfortunately for the Uruk, he was too dim-witted to realize that he was dead from the moment Thranduil engaged him.

O-o-O-o-O

Glorfindel carried Sariboril directly to the healing wing on the first floor. This was the main healing center of the valley and here Sariboril reigned supreme.  The room 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. 

Walking over to the apothecary he paused in the doorway to lower Sariboril to her feet.  The healer muttered to herself about arrogant warriors while she rummaged through a jumbled mass of healing supplies and herbs. Glancing around the u-shaped shelves lining three walls of the pantry, Glorfindel shook his head in wonder.  He shuddered to think what Lord Elrond would think of such a mess.  “How will you ever find what you seek in this disarray?” he asked in dismay.

“You just watch, O Doubtful One, and you shall see,” the healer promised.  “This is my domain and I know where everything is kept.”

Glorfindel looked around in disbelief.  He leaned indolently against the doorframe as the healer lifted open the lid of a massive chest and disappeared to the waist inside.  After a moment she rose back up and closed the lid. 

“I take it you did not find what it was you were searching for?” Glorfindel asked drolly.

Sariboril just gave him a good frown and continued on to the nearest shelf.  This one was covered by all manner and size of small containers that the warrior assumed were some of the healer’s famed potions and antidotes.  Despite the general clutter, he could see that the area was kept clean and dust free – no small feat given the amount of disorder in the room. 

“Here it is!” she exclaimed, grabbing a jar from the back of the shelf.  “Now just let me check my notes here...”  The healer’s voice trailed off as she pulled out a rather large tome and began flipping through the pages all the while talking to herself in excitement, her finger tapping the edge of the book as she did so.  Glorfindel could see that she had made numerous entries in the book, and typically for Sariboril, all of them appeared to be scribbled, random, and jumbled.

Despite his show of nonchalance, Glorfindel’s curiosity was peeked.  Finally he could contain his interest no longer.  “Well,” he asked exasperatedly, “have you found something to help Elladan?”

Sariboril closed the book slowly and turned around with a triumphant look on her face.  “Yes, Golden One, I believe I have.”

O-o-O-o-O

Seated at a table in the throne room, Nárë sighed as he listened to the latest report.   A husband and wife living furthest from the palace had been slaughtered by the orcs before his warriors could reach them.  Setting aside his grief, the elf determined to redouble his efforts and preparations.  Almost all of the elves living outside the palace caverns had now been relocated inside, and the remainders were even now being escorted to safety.  Now the Sword Master had only to see to the myriad of problems that arose when so many beings - of any race or species– suddenly found themselves crowded together in uncertain circumstances.

Turning from the messenger, Nárë surreptitiously rubbed at his weary eyes before quickly squaring his shoulders once more.  He still had several more petitions to hear and then he would begin going over the list of provisions he’d ordered assembled.  Baskets of foods brought in with the outside dwellers were also stacked around the corridors waiting to be catalogued.  Valar, he growled to himself, he was no accountant!  He should be at Thranduil’s side, not counting loaves of bread and settling disputes! 

“Enough of this!” he shouted, pounding his fist down onto the table in front of him.  All the chatter in the throne room ceased at the uncharacteristic display of temper.  He stood up so quickly that the chair behind him turned over, and glared at those in the room for a moment before sighing in resignation.  “Forgive me, friends,” he said softly. 

Coming to a decision, Nárë dismissed the remaining petitioners, promising to hear their complaints later.  For now, he was going to check on his smallest charge, Estel. He needed time and space to think through this chaos, and besides, the child was likely confused by all the unusual activity as well as the absence of Thranduil and Legolas.  He would not have him frightened.

Nárë walked down the corridors towards where Thranduil, Legolas, and he had suites of rooms. He opened the door to Legolas room and came to a halt.  A frown creased his forehead at the sight of the tangled sheets on the empty bed.  He noted that no lanterns or candles burned either.  For a moment his heart sped up until he reminded himself that Estel was in the care of Lariel, and besides, it was not as though the child could have gotten outside of the palace. 

O-o-O-o-O

Erestor entered the family healing room as the morning light was just beginning to chase the shadows from the valley.  Throughout the long watch of the night Elrond had refused to leave his son’s side as he and Sariboril applied the antidote she hoped would be effective on Elladan’s unusual symptoms.  For the past few hours they had waited and watched for any sign that the contagion was responding.

The seneschal stopped by a bed to pull up the coverlet over the shoulders of Sariboril, who was napping.  Glorfindel had left well before the rise of Anor.  Unable to stand the inactivity of waiting, the warrior rode out to help Elrohir and Beling in their search.  Elrond sat in Estel’s rocking chair.  His eyes were closed, but his hand rested on the twin’s arm, and Erestor knew that any movement from Elladan would garner his father’s attention. 

With a soft sigh, Erestor picked up the sunshine blankey and gingerly covered Elrond, who immediately opened his eyes.  “Elladan?”

“No, my Lord,” responded the seneschal, “take some rest.”  He sat down on the bed Elrohir had used when still a patient here.  “I will watch over Elladan.”

“Has his condition changed?” asked Elrond, sitting up to glance at his son’s grey face.  Despite Erestor’s protest, Elrond stood up and pulled back the dressing to observe the wound.  Disappointment at the lack of response to the antidote washed over his features and his proud shoulders sagged in reaction. 

Any other being save for Glorfindel would have missed the telling motion, but Erestor had served his Lord for many years.  Still he had to ask the question...had to hear the words for himself. “There is no change then?”

The Elf Lord sighed and shook his head.  “The tissue continues to deteriorate.”  Elrond had to force down his fears lest they overtake him.  He had never seen this type of reaction so rapid in its increase and so resistant to treatment.     He gently laid his hand on Elladan’s head, stroking his son’s forehead with his thumb as he thought through the ramifications.  For millennia he had practiced the healing arts and now, at this most desperate need, he was unable to find a cure for his own child.  “What must I do,” he asked softly to himself as much as to Erestor.

 “Sometimes the wisest course is to do nothing, as you have so often said.” Erestor placed his hand on Elrond’s arm and squeezed lightly.  “Elrohir is yet to return,” he offered.  “We must trust that he has found what you need to solve this riddle.”

Elrond nodded.  “My heart tells me to try something...anything, but my head urges caution.”

“Then listen to your head, my Lord,” said the seneschal.  “Rest now, and allow me to watch over Elladan.”

Elrond nodded again and sat back down in the rocker.  “Alert me as soon as Elrohir returns.”

Erestor smiled as he picked up the blanket that had fallen on the floor when Elrond stood.  “If you sleep, I will awaken you, but in the mean time, hold onto this bit of hope.”  He placed the blanket in Elrond’s lap.  “It still carries his scent.”

Elrond grasped the blanket to his chest closing his mind to the thought that Elladan was to be next in the long line of those he lost.

O-o-O-o-O

Estel woke slowly.  With a soft sigh he snuggled next to the warmth of the one beside him until his mind became awake enough to realize that he was not beside his Ada.  He had been dreaming that he was home, in his Ada’s bed, where he was sometimes carried after a particularly bad night terror.  Estel always loved the feeling of absolute love and safety that he associated with his Ada’s bed, Quenthar not withstanding.

The child sat up with a start looking quickly around at the unfamiliar surroundings. 

“Estel?”

Estel blinked several times in the direction of the voice as his eyes attempted to adjust to the extremely dim light.

“All is well, child,” calmed Pendan, observing that the boy seemed unsure.  “You fell asleep while telling me stories.”

“I did?” Estel said, still trying to come fully awake. 

“You did,” Pendan confirmed.  “You told me stories about Celos and Celon and all the adventures you have had.”

Estel smiled at the mention of the faithful pair.  “Celos saved me from the boar.”

“Is that when your arm was injured?” asked the elf softly. 

Estel nodded.  “I fell in the river, but Dan found me.”  He face clouded.  “I miss my gwedeir.”

“I am sure that they miss you too, little one.”  Awkwardly, because of his numerous injuries, Pendan pulled the child into an embrace, thinking to comfort him.  The action caused pain, but he reasoned that the child was in need of the comfort.

Lariel rounded the corner of her brother’s alcove in time to see him grimace and grunt softly in pain.  Her eyes grew large as she realized that the human was leaning over her brother hurting him.   “Oh, you....” she cried, striking out at Estel as hard as she could.  “Get away from him!”  Lariel struck the side of Estel’s head with the back of her hand knocking him off of the bed.  The force of the blow split his lip, but it was the fall to the floor that did the most damage.  The cast shattered, re-injuring his healing arm and his head struck the leg of the side table giving him a black eye and cracking the bone surrounding the eye socket.

Pendan was horrified at the turn of events and struggled to sit up.  One moment he was cuddling the child and the next Estel was lying in the floor unmoving.   Worst of all, his sweet, gentle sister was about to kick the child.  “Lariel!” he cried as her foot made contact with Estel’s back with a sickening resonance.  “Stop!” he screamed, struggling to get off of the bed to reach the boy.

Lariel was panting from fright and anger.  Her breath came in gasps, and the haze of hatred she felt began to dissipate as the sound of Pendan’s voice penetrated her mind.  Staring back and forth from Pendan’s face to Estel’s crumpled form the realization of what she had just done struck her with the force of a slap to the face.  “What have I done?” she said softly.

Estel moaned as Nárë walked around the corner seeking him, having come to the Healing Rooms and learned from Thedin of the child’s nighttime visit. 

TBC