Healing Hope

Chapter Fifty-Four

Weary in Worry

“Lay down your sweet and weary head.  Night is falling; we have come to journey’s end.”

Nárë looked from the sentry to Thedin.  The healer’s eyes widened until white could easily be viewed around the pupils, and the blood drained from his face.  Thedin immediately looked down at Estel and started to pick up the child.

“What are you doing?” demanded Nárë, placing his hand on the healer’s arm to stop him. 

“I am taking Estel to an alcove,” exclaimed Thedin frantically, as though it was self evident to even the simplest dolt.  At the Sword Master’s raised eyebrow he hastened to add, “I can care for the child just as well back there.”

“Out of sight, you mean,” snorted Nárë, with censure, and a touch of gallows humor.  “Would you lie to your King, First Healer?”

Thedin bristled.  “I would never tell my King a falsehood!”  After a moment, though, his bluster left and his shoulders sagged.  “However, delayed truth is no falsehood.”

Nárë almost smiled, for a large part of him would also delay the explosion that was to come, but instead he sighed.  “Continue your care of Estel, Thedin, for the responsibility is mine to bear, not yours.”

Thedin’s eyes showed compassion as he met those of the Sword Master.   

O-o-O-o-O

Aradol hummed a soft tune as he stepped into the stall to speak to Celos.  He stroked the stallion’s side, speaking softly to him. “See, your brother is home as I said he would be.”  Carefully, the Stable Master ran his hand over the healing wound on Celos’ chest, checking it for any undue warmth. “How are you today, Celos, my beautiful Flowing Snow?”  Pleased to find no undue fever around the disfigurement, he scratched the steed between the eyes.  “You like to play the brute, but you are as gentle as a lamb with Estel,” he chuckled.  At the sound of Estel’s name, Celos lifted his head and gave it a great shake.  “Ah, I miss him too,” agreed Aradol.  Celos bobbed his head and scented the pocket of Aradol’s work apron looking for the treat he hoped would be there. Aradol chuckled lightly and pulled out a carrot to offer for his beauty.  He gave the horse a pat on the rump, and moved next door to Celon’s stall.  

Celon wasted no time in begging for his treat too, and was quickly rewarded for his effort.  While the twin white chomped on the carrot, Aradol retrieved a brush from a shelf on the wall and began to brush down the stallion in steady, long strokes.  Normally Elrohir saw to his care, but after the long ride, Celon was not about to complain about being fussed over by the stable master. He actually leaned into Aradol as his strokes reached the horse’s favorite spot, causing the stable master to grunt and shift his weight to compensate.

For his part, Aradol reveled in the task almost as much as Celon. He needed this, needed the routine of what he was used to doing, to take his mind from his worry about Elladan.  He hoped that Elrohir had returned with something that would aid Lord Elrond in finding a cure.

Finished with the brushing, the elf retrieved the pick with which to check the hooves. Celon obediently hefted his leg and leaned again into Aradol while Asfaloth waited patiently for his turn.

O-o-O-o-O

“Ada, hurry!” Elrohir cried, as Elladan’s eyes closed and his breathing became more ragged.  Fear such as he had never known seared his mind and he felt as though a fist was squeezing his chest.

At the sound of Elrohir’s distressed cry, Elrond and Erestor’s eyes met.  “Time is against us,” acknowledged Elrond.  “We must make haste.”

“I have completed the herbal brew,” commented Erestor. “I will administer it to Elladan while you complete the anti-venom.”

“I have determined the species,” the Elf Lord replied.  “The question will be whether or not there is a sufficient amount of the potion to counteract the poison.”  He picked up the phial on which he was working.  “I will take this down to compare it with Sariboril’s potion.”  

Erestor carried his brew into the next room.  

Elrohir looked up as Erestor approached the bed, and the Seneschal could easily read the pain and fear in the twin’s eyes.  “He is getting worse.”

“Hold up your brother, Elrohir,” Erestor said calmly, glancing at Glorfindel and receiving a reassuring nod.  He knew that it would help the twin to assist with his brother’s care.  “We must get him to drink this.”

As gently as he could Elrohir slid his arm around Elladan’s shoulders and pulled the twin up to where he was propped up slightly.  He looked anxiously from Glorfindel to Erestor.

“That is good,” replied Erestor as he began spooning the potion to the twin’s lips.  It was slow going, for Elladan was so deeply unconscious that even his swallowing impulse was retarded.  Ever so gently the Seneschal would spoon a bit into his mouth and then softly stroke his throat to stimulate the reflexes.  As the process was completed, Elrond and Sariboril entered the room.

“Ada, do you have a potion?” asked Elrohir anxiously, as he eased his twin back onto the bed.

“We do, Elrohir,” replied Elrond serenely.  His very presence calmed the twin. 

Elrohir, Erestor and the Balrog Slayer moved aside to allow the two healers to work more efficiently on Elladan.  Within a matter of moments they had administered the potion both as a draught and in a poultice applied to the wound site.  As they settled the twin back onto the bed and straightened the covers, Erestor and Elrohir moved back to the bedside.

Elrohir looked expectantly at his Adar.  “How long until he is better?”

Elrond could feel and hear the anxiousness within his son and yearned to allay his fears.  “We should know within a few hours whether or not this potion is sufficient.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elrohir, stricken at the level of doubt inherent in that statement. “I thought that you identified the poison from the arrow?’

“The arrow supplied us the identity of the serpent from which the poison was derived, but that does not mean that we have enough of the venom to craft an adequate antitoxin.”  He smiled as reassuringly as he could, placing his arm around the twin’s shoulders.  “Peace, Elrohir, do not anticipate failure.”  He pulled his son into his embrace, looking pointedly at Glorfindel over the twin’s shoulder.

Glorfindel saw all he needed to see in that gaze.  Nodding his head to his Lord, he excused himself and left the room.

“Now, sit with your brother while I speak with Glorfindel.”  Elrond released Elrohir.  “I will return shortly.”

Elrohir nodded distractedly, his mind with his twin.

Elrond met Erestor’s eyes and nodded towards Elrohir. 

“I will remain here as well,” picked up Erestor smoothly. “I would like to see how well my potion relieves his breathing difficulty.”

Elrond nodded his appreciation and stepped into the corridor, where Glorfindel waited.

“You do think that you have enough venom,” the warrior concluded.

“No, I do not,” Elrond shook his head sadly. 

“What can I do?”

“Ride for the Grey Havens, Glorfindel; we must have one of the sea snakes found there.”

Glorfindel nodded.  He knew, as Elrond did, that Círdan would have every elf there aid in the search, if necessary.  “I will leave immediately.”

“Glorfindel,” Elrond hastened to add, “Ride hard.”

O-o-O-o-O

Two guards acted as escort preceding the King of Mirkwood and clearing the way for the swiftly moving Monarch and Prince. Thranduil ignored the baskets of foodstuffs cluttering the corridors as he followed Legolas, who was carefully carrying Falathar, to the Healing Rooms.  If the fact that all the Silvans had been summarily summoned within the walls of the cavern fortress did not attest of war to all the assembled elves, the appearance of their fastidious King would. 

For a being that prided himself on his bearing and demanded the strictest adherence to court protocol, Thranduil was, in his own words, a mess.  His golden leaf armor was stained with blood – his and odious others, and his normally pristine silver hair was dusty and tangled.  Even the intricately woven battle braids hung limp and disorderly.   And did he care?  Not one whit! 

The King’s complete attention was on his gravely wounded Chief of Guards as his entourage swept down the passageway leaving all present kneeling in its wake.  Only those elves who had been warriors in the Battle of the Last Alliance had ever seen their King so...disheveled!   It was almost as disconcerting as the siege conditions under which they now found themselves!

Nárë turned as the escort entered the room, kneeling only after he was certain that it was not his Liege that Legolas carried.  All in the room, save for the wounded – of course – and those working on them, immediately took a knee. 

“Clear the room,” the escort called loudly, signaling that all the visitors and anyone not directly associated with the healers should leave forthwith.  Those family members of the fallen quickly bowed and followed the orders, no doubt shaken and angered by the abrupt pronouncement.  However, none dared to argue.  It simply was not done.  The King’s word was law in Mirkwood, and no one cared to test the ire of the mercurial Monarch.

“Thedin, attend!” commanded Thranduil as Legolas placed Falathar onto a nearby assessment table. 

The healer cleared his throat and glanced at Nárë as he turned and motioned an assistant to assume his place with Estel.  Thedin wondered how long it would be before the King noticed the child as he hurried over to where Falathar lay.  It grieved the nestron to see that it was the son of his dear friend, for Thedin had watched Falathar grow up.  It was one of his proudest moments when the young elf assumed his fallen father’s position as Chief of Guards.

Thedin grimaced as he cut away the armor and tunic to reveal the elf’s chest.  The shaft of the arrow was actually undulating with each beat of the elf’s heart!  “It was wise of you not to withdraw this arrow, young one,” he exclaimed.

“Nay,” admitted Legolas immediately, “It was my Adar that stayed the action.”

“Well done, Hîr Nin,” decreed Thedin, motioning for litter bearers. “We must take him directly to the surgery.”  

“Will he...” Legolas faltered, and could not finish the question.

“Time will tell, my Prince,” answered the healer, “but you have given him the best chance he has by getting him back here so quickly.”

“My Liege,” Nárë whispered.

Thranduil turned, only now realizing his friend was beside him.  “Nárë, what....”  His words ended as his eyes fell upon the table where Estel was being attended, and he looked quickly back at Nárë.  “What has happened?” 

At the tone of his Adar’s voice, Legolas pulled his gaze from the backs of those taking away Falathar.  His eyes widened in shock as they fell on Estel.  “Estel, no!” he cried. He heart nearly splintered at the sight of the battered little form as he ran to the tableside where his father already stood.  No more, his mind screamed, for his spirit was greatly wearied by worry for Falathar.

Nárë stood silent, allowing his King to see for himself the child’s condition.  He watched Thranduil’s eyes sweep over the little form cataloging each injury from the shattered cast and the cuts even now being stitched by the healer to the black and grossly swollen eye, before coming back to meet his own. Thranduil knew these injuries could not all have been accrued through some random fall.  “Tell me his condition,” he demanded.  He had to know that first of all.  Blame, and retribution would come next...swift and terrible retribution. 

The healer swallowed noisily as he faced his King.  “The child’s cuts have been stitched, and I will next splint and secure his arm.”

“Was the bone re-broken?” asked Legolas, unable to wait for the healer to continue.

No, my Prince, but there does seem to be some trauma to the shoulder,” he ventured, turning gratefully towards Legolas.  Anything was better than facing the wrath he beheld in his King’s eyes.

“You will address me!” snapped the king, pulling the healer’s attention back to himself with the reprimand. “What of the injury to his head?”

“Your pardon, Sire,” the elf stammered.  “We will not know the full extent of his head injury unless he awakens.”

“Unless?” Thranduil roared, leaning towards the healer menacingly.

“Until!” sputtered the healer, “until the child awakens, my Liege.”  He swallowed nervously again.  “He also appears to have been kicked in the back,” finished the elf lamely.

Legolas could not help the groan of grief that escaped him at that last word.

Thranduil’s eye glittered with fire, and he was shaking with fury.  His little Estel had been harmed when he should have been safe and coddled. 

“Who did this?” he roared. 

Momentarily stunned by the outburst, the healers in the room fell silent.  Most exchanged quick, furtive glances with each other before continuing their work as quietly as possible.  None cared to draw the King’s attention to himself.

In that moment, the Sword Master knew that Lariel’s life literally hung in the balance, and he would attempt to deflect the King’s anger, for Thranduil’s sake, and for Pendan’s...not for Lariel’s.  Deliberately, Nárë knelt before his friend.  “The responsibility is mine,” he decreed.

From where he lay in his alcove, Pendan heard the King’s bellowed question.  As gingerly as possible, grunting and holding his injured sides, the warrior slipped from the bed and made his way forward into the main healing room.  His faltering progress was virtually unnoticed until he practically collapsed at Thranduil’s feet.  Panting, he drew himself into as small a ball as possible, his forehead on the floor in supplication.  He knew he was his sister’s only hope, and prayed that all his faithful service to the King might be weighed in his favor. “Mercy, My Lord!”

“Ah, Pendan,” sighed Nárë.  He really had hoped to spare the warrior this ordeal, at least until he was better recovered, and until Thranduil’s initial ire had had the chance to cool and allow reason to again reign.

A cold fury spread through his veins as he realized the warrior’s meaning.  “Mercy?” he jeered.  “As this innocent was shown mercy?”

“I repeat, Hîr nín, the responsibility is mine.” 

Nárë might just as well have not spoken as Thranduil’s pent up fury boiled over.  Before the Sword Master could even react, the King grasped Pendan’s tunic and pulled the messenger up to look him in the eye.  Nárë did not miss the gasp of pain that escaped Pendan’s lips, but the wounded elf did not flinch before his King’s rage. “For whom to you beg mercy, surely not for yourself, so for whom?”  

As quickly as he could Nárë rose, attempting to place himself between Pendan and Thranduil. Around the room shocked healers looked on.  “Thranduil, listen to me,” he said softly. “Pendan is innocent.”

“Think you that I do not know that?”  Thranduil’s ire evaporated as he looked into Pendan’s face, seeing the pain reflected in his warrior’s eyes.  He grasped the elf to himself for a moment before turning to summon a healer to take the warrior back to his bed. 

Legolas released his breath, still too shocked at the turn of events to take it all in.

Thranduil took a deep breath, gathering and calming his thoughts.  Deliberately, he looked at Nárë.  His voice was icy. “Tell me all of it...now.”

Before Nárë could speak they were interrupted.

“King Adar?”

TBC