112: Gurthalion’s Demons

Warning: The intensity of certain scenes may prove disturbing to some readers but there is nothing specifically graphic.

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Finrod was sitting in on a class with other apprentices that was being conducted by two of the Master Healers, a Vanyarin elleth named Calamírë, and his atar’s own Healer, Vardamir, who had agreed to remain in Lórien for a time and teach a class or two. They were lecturing on one of the basic mental healing arts that every apprentice had to master. For all that he himself was considered by many to be a master already, Finrod knew that was not true. He was puzzled by the way he had been able to call Edrahil back to himself. And then there was that healing incident with Aldundil during the tournament. Even though he knew he had had a little help from the Valar, much of what he had done was through his own powers, yet, he still did not understand how he knew what to do. Thus, these particular classes were of help to him.

He smiled slightly as he listened to Calamírë lecturing, remembering a time when he had resisted sitting in on any classes, especially the painting class required of all Reborn. He blushed slightly at the memory of his truculence, though he knew that his own emotional immaturity and insecurity at the time covered a multitude of sins.

Now, a century later, he was back in Lórien learning the ways of the Lóriennildi and ever so subtly influencing the manner in which his fellow healers related to the Reborn in their midst. Even as he was attending classes, he was teaching his own, a rare event for an apprentice. The classes he taught were Sindarin and the history of Beleriand, at least up to the War of Wrath. Admittedly, he had no personal knowledge of anything that occurred after his own death, but he had recruited others who did to help teach that particular class. He also was teaching a third class on the various cultures of the elves living in Beleriand. All this to help the Lóriennildi to understand why their charges acted as they did, said the things they said, and asked the questions that they asked. He hoped that in time, others would take over the teaching of these classes, freeing him to pursue his own studies.

He glanced around the grove, examining the class. Most of those attending were not particularly well known to him. He could only give names to a few. All, he knew, had been apprentices for many years, though none were yet ready to advance to journyeman status. Only he and Laurendil, who was sitting next to him, drinking in every word Calamírë said, were newcomers. Finrod was sure that eventually Laurendil would be asked by Lord Irmo to become his journeyman. His friend had an almost instinctual ability to see the sickness in a person’s fëa and heal it. That had certainly been true with Gurthalion. The ellon had responded to Laurendil from the beginning, trusting him where he trusted no one else. When the master healers had attempted to treat him alone, Gurthalion had become unresponsive. Not even Marthchall could reach him. Only when, out of desperation, they had reluctantly summoned Laurendil did the ellon respond positively. The masters had no choice but to acknowledge that this apprentice had a depth of compassion that was rare and more than one had commented to Finrod that they had no doubt Laurendil would someday make a great Master Healer. That pleased Finrod very much, for he had always seen that there was more to his friend than simply being a very good ranger.

And Manwen. Finrod felt himself smiling even more. She was definitely destined to become Lady Estë’s disciple. Indeed, he half suspected that she would be receiving her journeyman stripes sooner rather than later. Unlike many of the apprentices, Manwen already had extensive first-hand knowledge and experience in the healing arts which she had learned in Beleriand under the tutelage of Lord Elrond, Finrod’s own first cousin thrice removed if he had the genealogy correct. She was years ahead of the other beginning apprentices, though she humbly kept most of her knowledge hidden from them, pretending that she was as ignorant as they. Not that Lady Estë and Lord Irmo were fooled by it, but they understood her reluctance to ‘show off’, as she once put it to Finrod when he asked her. Yet, it was obvious to even the most casual observer that the elleth was a gifted healer of the hröa. Finrod suspected that the Valar were holding off promoting her to journeyman status for now to prevent feelings of jealousy among some of those who were close to becoming journeymen themselves and might resent someone who had only just come to Lórien joining their ranks.

A tricky situation all around. Finrod could sympathize. His own status as an apprentice was questionable given all that had happened in the last year. Some of the apprentices had actually looked at him askance when he came into the grove and sat with them for the lecture, no doubt wondering why he was even bothering to be there. He chuckled to himself, his mind calling up a memory of when he’d sat in this very grove listening to the same master trying to give some very reluctant Reborn students a history lesson. It had not gone well for any of them. At the time he had almost hated Calamírë, but now they were, if not friends, then respected colleagues and she treated him no differently than she treated any of the other apprentice Lóriennildi.

"Findaráto, would you care to share with the rest of us what you find so amusing?" Master Calamírë asked suddenly, interrupting her own lecture.

Finrod looked up with a start, acutely aware of all eyes on him and blushed, only just realizing he hadn’t been paying as close attention to the lecture as he should have. Both Calamírë and Vardamir were waiting for his answer, the latter looking amused more than anything. He could see Laurendil giving him an unsympathetic grin and cleared his throat. "I was remembering a certain Reborn sitting in this same grove resenting a certain Master for her insensitivity to his pain."

Calamírë, to her credit, reddened slightly, though her eyes glittered with amusement. "And you found that amusing?" she asked.

Finrod gave her a lopsided grin. "Now, I do, but at the time...."

Calamírë nodded. "We’ve both managed to survive those days, haven’t we?"

"Just barely," Finrod replied with a laugh and Calamírë grinned. The other apprentices had bemused expressions, trying to understand what wasn’t being said, but before anyone could comment, there was the confused sounds of someone yelling in the distance which drew their attention.

"What on Arda...!?" Vardamir started to exclaim but stopped when someone came stumbling into the grove.

"Master!" Vorondil screeched when he saw Finrod, his eyes wide with terror, tears running down his cheeks. His right hand was clutched ineffectively at his left shoulder as blood poured out. Close on his heels came another. It was Gurthalion, waving a long knife, its silver blade crimson with blood.

"I’ll kill you, you damn orc! I’ll kill you!" the ellon screamed, his face contorted with rage.

"Laurendil!" Finrod yelled but the former ranger was already moving to intercept Gurthalion. He was too late. Gurthalion leapt and tackled Vorondil and the two rolled on the ground. All the while Gurthalion was screaming threats while the poor elfling was simply screaming in abject terror.

Finrod and Laurendil were on them almost immediately with Laurendil pinning Gurthalion’s arm so he could no longer wield the knife while Finrod forced him off Vorondil. Gurthalion never stopped struggling and screaming.

"I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!"

Calamírë and Vardamir were right behind them, going to Vorondil, who was still screaming in terror and at first tried to fight them off when they attempted to succor him. "We need to stop the bleeding," Vardamir yelled even as he and Calamírë managed to subdue Vorondil enough to examine him.

Meanwhile, others were rushing into the grove. Marthchall was the first, followed by Eärnur and several other Lóriennildi. There was no sign of any Maiar about. Marthchall went to where Finrod and Laurendil were attempting to hold a still screaming and writhing Gurthalion down.

"It’s not the blood trance," Marthchall called to them as he skittered to a halt, falling to his knees to take Gurthalion in his arms, his expression one of deep pain and remorse. "It’s not the blood trance."

"What is it then?" Laurendil demanded, handing the long knife to one of the other apprentices who took it with great reluctance. Everyone else from the class was simply standing about with expressions of fright and dismay on their faces, not sure what they should be doing.

"I don’t know, I don’t know," Marthchall replied, nearly weeping. "He was fine one minute and then all of a sudden he...."

Gurthalion suddenly stiffened in their grasp, gave a strangled cry and collapsed, his expression completely blank, his breathing slowing to nothing. Marthchall screamed as he held his friend close to him, rocking the body. "No! Gurthalion! Don’t die, please don’t die!"

"He’s not going to die," Finrod said decisively. "Not if I can help it." Without thinking about it, he grasped Gurthalion’s head between his hands and stared deeply into the ellon’s eyes. He blocked out all thought and all sound, steeling himself against the pitiful moans of his thrall lying only a foot away where the two Master Healers were busy tending to him. He could not think about that now, or what he would tell Aldundil if Vorondil did not survive. In the brief second that he had before he went after Gurthalion he had seen Vorondil’s wound gushing blood and suspected that the knife had perhaps sliced an artery. It would be a miracle if the ellon did not die from blood loss.

But he could not think about that right now. Gurthalion needed him. Calamírë and Vardamir were Master Healers. Calamírë was one of Lord Irmo’s best healers and Vardamir had extensive experience as a battle surgeon. Between the two, Finrod had every confidence that Vorondil would pull through. Finrod blinked and took a deep centering breath and then somehow plunged into a different world: the world inhabited by the fëa, specifically, Gurthalion’s fëa. He still did not understand how he was able to do this, travel only with his fëa in this manner, but he did not stop to question it.

He found himself in a strange landscape. There were mountains ringing a vast plain, a plain devoid of any life. Bones of trees stood desiccated here or there, their trunks a dead white, blending into the greyness of the ground and sky. There was a sound, faint and indeterminate, a pulsing vibration that seemed to come from somewhere before him. He followed the sound, an almost subliminal noise, and found himself climbing into the mountains. Now the sound was louder and he thought he recognized it: the sound of a hammer or pickaxe. But there was yet another sound, softer yet more evil in its tone and Finrod could feel his fëa turning cold with rage as he recognized that sound as well.

He hurried through a jumble of rocks, climbing a defile that led into a cave. It should have been dark and yet somehow he could see every detail. The sound of a pickaxe grew louder as did the other sounds, sounds of whips and screams and curses in a foul tongue. He rounded a spur of rock and beheld a horrific sight.

Gurthalion was there, wielding a pickaxe, striking the rock wall all the while screaming in agony as an orc stood over him, whipping his flesh to shreds. The whip, seven strips of leather with shards of glass wrapped around their tips, never stopped, and neither did Gurthalion.

"Work, you maggot!" the orc yelled. "The Master won’t be happy at yer shirking. Work, snaga. Work and die!" The orc laughed obscenely even as he continued plying his whip on the ellon’s back, shredded and bloody beyond recognition. Gurthalion screamed with every bite of the cruel instrument and he faltered in his task but never stopped, never dared to stop, for to stop was to die.

Finrod took it all in in a second and suddenly he found himself armed with a sword and giving a yell of rage he leapt upon the orc, beheading him before the monster even had a chance to turn to face him. The head rolled across the floor of the cave into the darkness and the body slithered to the ground. Oddly enough there was no blood, but Finrod did not stop to examine it. He flung his sword away and went to Gurthalion who never stopped working, though his screams had muted to whimpers of pain.

"Gurthalion! Gurthalion!" Finrod cried, grabbing the ellon and turning him around. "Stop. It’s all right. You don’t have to do this any more."

Gurthalion just stared at him, his gaze uncomprehending. He shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I have to work... I have to work or I die... I want to die... please I want to die... but I have to work... I have to work...."

He was weeping even as he lifted the pickaxe to resume his work but Finrod grabbed the implement from his hands and threw it away.

"Look at me, Gurthalion!" he demanded. "Look at me! Oh, mellon nîn. Why are you here? Come back with me. I promise, no one will hurt you."

But Gurthalion just stood there weeping abjectly. "Please let me die... let me die...." he pleaded over and over again. "I can’t do this anymore... I can’t... I can’t...."

"Oh, Valar!" Finrod whispered as he took the ellon into his embrace and held him, careful not to touch his back. He wasn’t sure just how their fëar could feel so solid to one another but he remembered how it was in Mandos. He started to say something when he felt Gurthalion stiffen in his arms.

"Look out!" the ellon cried, pushing himself away, a look of absolute terror mingled with despair on his face.

Finrod had just enough time to turn to see the orc, its head back on its shoulders, as it raised its whip to strike him. He ducked, though the tip managed to score across his back and fire lanced through him. He moaned in pain and stumbled, trying to reach the sword he had thrown away. "Gurthalion! Fight him. It’s your only chance," he called out.

Gurthalion however only stood there shaking his head. The orc laughed as it wielded the whip again, striking Finrod more fully, the sharp glass biting into his flesh. He screamed in agony and tried desperately to get away, but the orc was too much in control.

"Interfere will ya, snaga?" it demanded as it continued whipping him. "Garn! I’ll learn ya to not interfere with yer betters, ya maggoty slug." It laughed evilly. "And when I finish with ya, I’ll do the same to the other sniveling snaga."

"Gurthalion!" Finrod cried even as he continued to writhe, trying to avoid the whip-thongs. At first he couldn’t understand how the orc had returned to life, but then realized that everything he was experiencing was within Gurthalion’s mind. Only Gurthalion could defeat his own demons. "Fight it! It’s your only chance of being free. Fight!"

"Oh no!" the orc laughed as he continued plying his whip. "That sniveling snaga won’t fight. He’s too much my pet. He’ll stand there and watch ya die and then he’ll go back to his work like a good little snaga and if he don’t give me no more trouble I might even let him... entertain me." His leer was obscene and salacious.

Gurthalion moaned and started backing away but the orc saw and turned on him, whipping him. "Garn! Try to run, will ya, snaga? Oh no, my pet. Stay and watch the fun. What I do to yer friend ain’t nothin’ like what I’m gonna do to ya." The orc laughed again as Gurthalion huddled in a ball, a mass of torn flesh. Then it turned back to Finrod, who in the meantime had reached his sword. Even as the orc turned toward him, Finrod slashed up, ignoring the fire that was spreading across his hröa, even though he really didn’t have one. He was too far away to actually stab the monster, but he managed to knock the whip from its hand as he staggered to his feet.

"Gurthalion, you must fight," he cried out. "It’s your only chance of ever being free."

"And what if the little snaga don’t wanna be free, heh?" the orc sneered, turning away from Finrod to grab Gurthalion, holding him in his arms while the ellon whimpered in pain and shame. "What if he enjoys being my pet, my darling?" The creature gave Finrod another leer and ran his hand over Gurthalion’s body in an obscene manner. Gurthalion shuddered and moaned again. "Oh no. My little snaga won’t give up being that. He enjoys it too much, don’t ya, my precious?"

The orc bent down and licked the blood from the ellon’s face before throwing him casually into the wall as he advanced on Finrod. "Go ahead. Try to kill me," it snarled. "I can’t die. Ya can’t get rid of me that easily." The creature lunged at Finrod, ignoring the sword that pierced its belly, grabbing the elf into a bone-crushing hug. "I can’t die, but maybe ya can, huh, snaga?" It crushed him harder and Finrod could feel everything go black. He wondered idly as his eyesight dimmed if he could indeed die in this state and what would Lord Námo say about it. Then, all of a sudden, he felt the orc’s hold on him lessen and, gasping for breath, he pushed himself out of its embrace in time to see Gurthalion raise his pickaxe from the orc’s back and swing it a second time and then a third. The orc never uttered a sound but simply stood there as Gurthalion continued to assault him and then between one swing of the pickaxe and the next the monster was gone as if it had never been.

Gurthalion staggered as his pickaxe met only air and then he was dropping it to run to Finrod, falling into the prince’s arms, weeping.

"Shhh.... it’s all right, Gurthalion," Finrod crooned. "You’re going to be all right. I’m very proud of you."

"P-please let me die... I just want to for-forget... the pain...it’s too much... please...I’m just not st-strong enough anymore...."

"Oh, child. Death isn’t the answer," Finrod said quietly. "You’ve come so far, and you’ve begun to face your demons and conquer them. You’re stronger than you think, Gurthalion. As painful as this has all been, you’re stronger for it."

"B-but at least in Mandos I can forget," Gurthalion whispered. "I want to forget."

"I know, I know," Finrod answered, rocking the ellon gently. "But if you go to Mandos now you’ll miss Marthchall’s wedding. You wouldn’t want to do that now, would you?"

Gurthalion pushed himself away to look at Finrod, his expression quizzical. "How do you know Marthchall will get married?"

Finrod chuckled. "I saw the look on Meluiwen’s face. That ellon hasn’t a chance of escaping her. Oh no, my friend. Marthchall will be wedded soon enough and I know he and Meluiwen would be heartbroken if you weren’t there to witness it."

The ellon sighed, looking around at the cave. "I hate this place," he growled.

"Then let us away," Finrod said. "Let us return to the land of the living. You belong here no more than I, Gurthalion."

But the ellon hesitated. "I... I think I did something terrible," he said, frowning as he struggled with his memories. "I... there was an elfling and I...."

"It’s all right," Finrod assured him. "You were lost in your memories and didn’t realize what you were doing. Vorondil was injured but two Master Healers are working on him. No one will blame you. Do not fret."

"How do I leave?" Gurthalion asked plaintively. "I don’t remember the way back."

"I do," Finrod answered as he held out his hand. "Take my hand and I will lead you back to the light."

For a second longer Gurthalion hesitated and then he grasped Finrod’s hand tightly. Finrod mentally thought himself and Gurthalion away from the cave and then there was a sensation of swimming up or perhaps down. There was a queasy, lurching feeling and then he was back in his hröa staring intently into Gurthalion’s eyes. Even as he blinked and started to move away, the other ellon gave a shuddering gasp, his body arching slightly and then he was breathing again. His eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. Marthchall was still cradling him, now weeping tears of joy. Laurendil grabbed Finrod to steady him.

"Vo-vorondil," Finrod managed to gasp as the universe began doing a slow spin. He struggled to rise, to go to the elfling, but Laurendil held him down.

"He’s still with us, aranya," Laurendil assured him. "He’s still alive."

Finrod nodded, then gave a brief sigh before allowing the darkness to drown him and he knew nothing more.

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Snaga: (Black Speech) Slave.