116: Reactions

Glorfindel and Barahir returned with the healers about a half hour later, filling them in with what had happened along the way. As they drove past the gates, they saw Brethorn give them a wave before resuming his watch. Even before Glorfindel came to a complete stop, Randall was opening the side door of the van and leaping out with the other healers right behind. Glorfindel and Barahir followed at a more sedate pace.

Inside, Glorfindel determined that Daeron was resting comfortably, as was Finrod. The three kings and Turgon were watching over Daeron, while Findalaurë and his gwedyr were looking after Finrod. Elladan, when Glorfindel found him in the kitchen drinking coffee, told him that Daeron had come to just long enough to recognize where he was before Elladan sent him into healing sleep.

“What happened to the bullet?” Glorfindel asked, pouring his own mug.

“As far as I could tell, Finrod somehow dissolved it into its component parts so Darren’s body simply absorbed it. Then the damage caused by the bullet was healed as if it never was. The blood loss, however, is real enough, but when I asked Mir about it, he said they should hold off stimulating blood production for a day or so until Daeron is stronger. I guess the technique does hold some risk to the patient if he’s very close to death, as it puts a strain on the liver.”

“You did very well, young Elladan.” They looked up to see Vardamir at the doorway.

“I’m surprised you didn’t insist on taking over,” Elladan said, though there was no belligerence in his voice.

“You and your brother are very close to Daeron, anyone can see that. I imagine he sees you as his own sons on some level, though I doubt he would ever say so. At any rate, his fëa was more likely to respond to you than to me or the other healers because of your relationship with him, and being so close to dying, that level of trust was critical to you succeeding.”

“Uncle Finrod did all the work,” Elladan said.

“Do not discount your own contribution, son,” Vardamir said. “You were both needed to prevent Daeron from dying.”

“I know I said that we were all expendable,” Glorfindel said quietly, not looking at the other two ellyn, “but when I saw Darren… Damn!” He brushed away the tears that were threatening to fall and Vardamir took the mug out of Glorfindel’s hand and placed it on the counter before taking the ellon into his arms and offering him comfort. To Elladan’s everlasting amazement, he watched his captain break down and weep, something he had never seen him do in all the millennia he had known him. He was at a loss as to what to do. Vardamir, looking at him over Glorfindel’s head, just gave him a gentle smile.

The spate of tears came to an end after a few minutes and Glorfindel straightened, wiping a sleeve over his eyes. Elladan came out of his shock long enough to grab some tissues and hand them to Glorfindel, who whispered a thank-you.

“You’ve been holding a lot in lately,” Vardamir said solicitously. “I am not surprised that you broke down now, but Daeron is out of danger, and that is all that matters at the moment, is it not?”

Glorfindel nodded, picking up his mug and draining it before putting it in the sink. “Lord Námo said that Ingwë and the other kings should return to the encampment. I’d better go up and send them on their way.”

“I was going back there myself,” Elladan said, draining his own mug. “I can give them a lift.”

Glorfindel nodded and the two went up the back stairs with Vardamir following. They came to Daeron’s room to find it a bit crowded with Ingwë, Arafinwë, Olwë, Turgon and Melyanna watching over the minstrel, who lay there with his eyes closed, pale and unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“You look as if you’re all at a wake,” Glorfindel couldn’t help saying. “I think it’s time you got back to the encampment, Ingwë. Dan says he’ll give you a ride.”

“We are not leaving,” Ingwë said, never looking up, his attention fixed on Daeron.

“Yes, you are,” Glorfindel retorted with quiet authority.

Ingwë and the others looked up at Glorfindel with varying degrees of astonishment and annoyance.

“You dare?” Ingwë exclaimed.

“Knock it off, Ingwë,” Glorfindel said in a terse voice, “I’m only the messenger. It was Lord Námo who told me to send you-all packing. You have a complaint, take it up with him.”

Everyone reared back in surprise at the ellon’s tone, but Glorfindel wasn’t finished. “Dan will drive you over. Darren is alive and I’ve been assured that he will eventually recover. There is absolutely nothing any of you can do except get in the way of the healers keeping an eye on him. Now, I suggest you march yourselves out of here or I will call on the Maiar I can sense hovering about the place to do it for you, and do not make the mistake of thinking I won’t. I am totally not in the mood for games tonight.”

The absolute sincerity of his words caused more than one person to flinch. Turgon actually smiled, as if recalling earlier times with this particular ellon. Olwë appeared to be the most disturbed.

“He almost died because of me,” he whispered. “How can I desert him?”

Glorfindel’s expression softened and he placed a hand on the Teler’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “No, Olwë. The bullet ricocheted. It could have hit just about anyone, including me or even one of the Mortals. Yes, it would have hit you had Daeron not acted, but you would have done the same for him or anyone else if you had understood the danger you were in. Do not blame yourself. I know Daeron would not, nor do I. I am just grateful that we were able to save him. Now, I hate to be the bad host, but your presence here is no longer welcome. Go back to the encampment. I have a feeling those who are there might have seen the light show without understanding what was happening and will be concerned.”

Olwë reluctantly nodded and stood. Ingwë and Arafinwë joined him, neither one of them looking happy to do so. Glorfindel fished a set of keys from a pocket and handed them to Elladan. “Take the van. I won’t be needing it until tomorrow anyway.”

Elladan nodded his thanks and everyone began filing out except Glorfindel, Vardamir and Melyanna. The master healer stood over the bed, checking Daeron’s pulse, then picked up the stethoscope that lay on the night table to listen to his heart before using elvish scanning techniques to finish his examination. He straightened and looked at Glorfindel standing at the foot of the bed watching him.

“His vitals are normal and his body functions are optimal. There appears to be a slight irregularity to his heart beat but I can easily correct that when he’s a little stronger. At the moment, it poses no danger to him and I will alert the other healers so they can continue to monitor his condition.”

“I am glad you are using mortal techniques as well,” Glorfindel said.

“I have learned my lesson,” Vardamir said a little stiffly.

“And we’re never too old to learn, are we?” Glorfindel retorted with an easy grin. “The Valar know I usually need a few knocks around my head to allow new ideas in.”

Before Vardamir could comment, Melyanna spoke up. “What will you do with that statue?”

Both Glorfindel and Vardamir stared at her. “I would think you would be more concerned about Darren,” Glorfindel finally said.

“I am,” the elleth allowed, “but my beloved will recover in due time and I do not doubt that he will compose a ballad about this night worthy of his talents as a minstrel. Meanwhile, I am interested in knowing what you plan to do with the statue Lord Eönwë created out of the mortals’ weapons.”

“I have no idea,” Glorfindel said honestly. “I think it’s safe enough where it is for the moment. Perhaps I’ll have it moved to sit in one of the flowerbeds out front, then when people come to visit and see it, they’ll be reminded as to what it is and why.” He shrugged. “Something I’ll worry about later. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I wish to check in on Finrod before I retire myself.”

He moved around to stand near the head of the bed and bent down to plant a kiss on Daeron’s forehead, stroking his hair, then he straightened, gave the other two a slight bow and exited, heading down the hall to Finrod’s room. He knocked lightly before opening the door to find Finrod wide awake though still lying in bed with Amarië cuddled up beside him seemingly aleep. Findalaurë was sitting in a chair while Calandil and Elennen stood off to one side. They all looked up when Glorfindel entered.

“I thought you would be sleeping,” he said as he came all the way into the room and settled in the one other chair the room could boast.

Finrod shrugged. “I seemed to wake up after a bit. I am fine, though I suspect I will eventually seek the Path of Dreams again soon. I heard some commotion outside just a while ago.”

“Ingwë and the others,” Glorfindel said with a nod. “I sent them back to the encampment with Dan.”

“How is Daeron?” Findalaurë asked.

“Sleeping. Mir and Anna are watching over him at the moment. How are you three holding up?” He addressed the question to Findalaurë and his gwedyr.

“We are fine,” Calandil answered with a shrug. “We have one last exam to take on Thursday and then we will pack our things and return here for the summer.”

“It seems a waste to move out for a few weeks just to move back in when we return to our studies.” Elennen commented.

“We were thinking of finding an apartment,” Findalaurë said. “It will be very crowded if we move back here.”

“And of course, not as much fun,” Glorfindel said with a knowing grin. “You would need to support yourselves, though. I won’t do so and neither will anyone else here.”

“Yes, we know that,” Findalaurë responded with a nod. “I have been looking into it. The college has its own landscaping department and they are in need of people over the summer to help maintain the lawns and flower beds. We can easily do that. We just need… ah… references. The money is not much, but we would be able to afford the rent for a small apartment and feed ourselves.”

“Well, I will be happy to give you a reference and you should ask Alex and Derek for one as well.”

“Thank you. We will do so,” Findalaurë said with some relief and his gwedyr looked equally relieved as well.

“What about Nell?” Glorfindel asked Finrod.

“She will return here,” Finrod said. His tone was uncompromising and Glorfindel did not argue. Instead, he changed the subject. “I’ve been thinking we should induct Daeron into the Warrior Society.”

Finrod gave him a considering look. “You wish to induct him fully with the braiding ceremony?”

“Yes. Oh, I know we generally have the ceremony to commemorate a warrior’s first kill, but there have been other instances where we’ve done it for deeds of valor above and beyond the call of duty. I think the events of this past night qualify.”

“I do not disagree, Brother,” Finrod assured him. “I am just not sure Daeron would accept the accolade. I fear he will be another Sador in that respect.”

“Possibly. Probably. I just know that we need to do something more besides giving him a hearty handshake and a gold watch. He almost made the final sacrifice. He would have done so if not for you and Lord Námo. I know I don’t have that level of skill. That was just too close for comfort, my comfort, at least.”

“Well, there is time to discuss it later,” Finrod said. “I would wait on the ceremony until he is strong enough to endure the emotional stress. And besides, I’ll need time to fashion a sigil-en-hereg.”

“Unless you ask Lord Námo or one of the Maiar to go fetch yours,” Glorfindel said with a grin. “Do you still have it?”

“Oh, yes, and had I been thinking, I would have brought it with me, but I did not see the need for it here. As it is, I have kept it locked up in the royal vault for safekeeping for so long I doubt anyone even knows where to find it amidst all the other treasures. It would take time to hunt for it.”

“Well we can always improvise. The knife is merely a symbol. Laurendil was willing to blood Sador with his own knife before you produced the sigil-en-hereg.” He stifled a yawn and rose from his chair. “I think I will go rest for a while. Brethorn was manning the gates when we drove in. Someone should relieve him.”

“I asked Legolas Greenleaf to order the watch for the night,” Finrod told him, naming Glorfindel’s fellow Elf from Gondolin.

“Fine. Then I will bid you goodnight.” Glorfindel gave them a brief bow and saw himself out, heading for his own room. Within a short time he was slipping onto the Path of Dreams wondering what the morning would bring.

****

Elladan parked the van and everyone got out. The short drive over had been done in silence. As usual, Mánatamir was guarding the gate. Without a word he unlocked it and let them through before relocking it and returning to his post.

“It is very quiet,” Olwë commented softly as they made their way around the bleachers. “I do not hear any singing.”

Ingwë nodded in agreement. “I do not like this.”

“But the Maia at the gate would have said something if anything were amiss, wouldn’t he?” Elladan asked.

No one bothered to reply to that and as they approached the encampment they saw the guards, who saluted them and let them through the perimeter. Ingwë stopped to speak to one of them asking if anything untoward had happened.

“There was a disturbance on the other side, Sire,” the ellon told them, “but I was not involved, so I cannot give you details. I only know that the Maiar handled it.”

“Why is there no singing?” Turgon asked.

Ingwë shook his head. “Let us not waste time with questions,” he said and after thanking the guard, strode into the camp with the others trailing and headed for the main pavilion where they found everyone apparently holding quiet conversations. At their approach, everyone inside the pavilion stood. Besides the Valinóreans, and those of Wiseman who had come to visit, the ap Hywels were also there.

“Are you all right?” Celeborn demanded. “What has happened? We have been unable to get a straight answer from any of the Maiar when any of them have deigned to show themselves.”

“Wine,” Ingwë said tersely as he claimed his chair and a couple of the servants came hurriedly to fulfil the High King’s command, bringing wine for them all. Ingwë took a long sip before he spoke again. “Sit,” he commanded and everyone did so. “Tell me what happened here first.”

“We actually have no idea,” Celeborn said with a grim smile. “We were all here enjoying the evening. Amroth was telling us about Mortal politics as it pertains to Wiseman and how it works when all of a sudden we heard this strange booming noise.”

“Something blew up,” Amroth interjected, “and then there was the brief sound of gunfire.”

“We tried to see what was going on, but Maiar appeared and ringed the encampment, refusing to let us pass,” Galadriel added, giving them a sour look of disapproval.

“And then it became very quiet,” Vorondur said. “The Maiar only just left perhaps ten minutes ago without any explanation. Lord Eönwë appeared just long enough to assure us that all was well and to remain here ‘for your own safety’ were his words. And now you are here.”

“What happened, Ingwë?” Celeborn asked.

Ingwë closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking a sip of wine as he did so. No one else spoke, waiting for the High King to answer the question. The silence stretched. Ingwë started to take another sip then snarled a vicious oath as he stood up and flung the goblet into the fire, the wine sputtering and hissing as it struck the flames. Before anyone else could react to the unexpected move, Vorondur was up and out of his seat and standing before the Ingaran.

“Ingwë,” the Noldo said softly.

The High King’s breathing became shallow and ragged and he started shaking. Arafinwë and Olwë both stood to go to him but Vorondur held up a hand, stopping them, never taking his eyes off Ingwë.

“He’s hyperventilating, Ron,” Elrohir said clinically as he, along with Elladan and Elrond, joined Vorondur before Ingwë.

Vorondur nodded but did not move, his attention solely on the High King. Then he reached out slowly and took Ingwë into his embrace, at which point, the ellon broke down completely, nearly screaming as Vorondur held him tightly.

“Hysteria,” Elladan announced. “We need to get him calm.”

“I have athelas,” Elrond said. “Someone bring a bowl of steaming water,” he ordered even as he ran out of the pavilion. Sérener and the other two guard captains came running along with some servants, but Olwë dealt with them, ordering them back to their posts, assuring them that everything was under control. Elrond returned just then, shouting for the hot water which was brought.

“Your brother should be here to do this,” he said to Elladan and Elrohir, “for he seemed to have the Gift, but we will do as we can.” He pulled out a couple of leaves from the pouch in his hand, murmured something soft as he breathed on them and then crushed them into the water. Almost immediately, the air became filled with a clean scent and tensions began to ebb. Elrond thrust the bowl toward Ingwë still in Vorondur’s arms and as the athelas did its work, the High King’s weeping and shaking subsided and he became quiescent.

Vorondur continued to hold him. “What happened, Dan?” he asked quietly.

“Darren was shot,” Elladan replied baldly.

“Shot?”

“Is he all right?”

“Who shot him?”

“How—?”

The questions came fast and furious from all sides with people rising to their feet in shock. Elladan lifted both arms and the babble of questions ceased.

“Daeron is alive thanks to Finrod and Lord Námo,” he said, and then went on to explain the events at Edhellond. “We left Daeron in Mir’s capable hands, Finrod is resting comfortably, and Loren, I believe, is asleep by now, and frankly, I’d like to join him but I think I’ll have more wine instead,” he ended his narrative and went to where he had left his goblet and took a long gulp.

Silence settled over them with only the sound of the flames from the fire crackling and hissing to disturb them. Somewhere in the distance was the sound of sirens and closer they heard the rustle of grass as an arctic hare scampered toward the woods. Finally, Vorondur pushed Ingwë from him far enough to see his face. “Do you want to go somewhere and talk privately about this?” he asked gently.

“What about the rest of us, Ron?” Amroth asked in a slightly sardonic voice. “Don’t we rate a counseling session with you as well?”

Vorondur turned his head, giving Amroth a bright smile. “One at a time, please. You can take a number. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

“But my appointment was for two hours ago, nurse,” Gwyn said in an aggrieved voice and the Wiseman Elves, at least, chuckled knowingly, some of the tension they were all feeling dissipating.

Ingwë raised an eyebrow at the byplay and glanced over at Arafinwë and Olwë. “You do not appear as upset by this as I,” he said almost accusingly.

Arafinwë shrugged. “I have seen warriors fall, Ingwë. I have had some of them sacrifice themselves to save me. What happened tonight was shocking, but not anything I haven’t experienced before.”

“And I watched my city burn,” Olwë said quietly.

Ingwë closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I saw him lying there in a pool of blood and all I could see was Ingil,” he whispered.

Arafinwë and Olwë exchanged grimaces and Arafinwë took Ingwë by the arm. Ingwë opened his eyes. “Why don’t the three of us go to my tent and talk,” Arafinwë suggested quietly.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Vorondur said approvingly, stepping back.

For a moment, Ingwë hesitated, but Olwë took his other arm, giving him a sad smile. “We all lost sons,” he said, “but by the grace of the Valar, they have been restored to us.” He and Arafinwë drew Ingwë gently away and the High King allowed them to do so.

“Bring us some wine,” Arafinwë ordered one of the servants as they left the pavilion and headed for Arafinwë’s tent. For a moment or two those in the pavilion remained silent, then Vorondur turned to face them, giving them a wide grin. “Who’s next?”

****

Dave Michaelson was switching off his computer, about to call it a day and head home when he was aware of someone standing before him on the other side of his desk though he had heard no one enter. He looked up to see a man dressed in blue jeans and a white turtleneck sweater. He looked vaguely familiar but Michaelson could put no name to him. In spite of his pure white hair that hung in a single braid down his back, the man had youthful features and was what Michaelson had begun to think of as ‘elven fair’, possessing a beauty that no Mortal could hope to emulate. Yet, in spite of his youthful looks, his silver-grey eyes told a different story and Michaelson knew himself to be in the presence of Power. It was veiled, true, and the Mortal was glad for that, for on some instinctual level he knew he could never survive it were it to be manifested fully. Yet, the stranger simply stood there in a nonthreatening manner, waiting.

Michaelson glanced behind his visitor to see that his door was closed. He looked back at the man who wore a faint smile on his face.

“May I help you?” Michaelson finally asked, evincing nonchalance, though all the while wondering how he would take the man down if he proved dangerous.

The smile on the stranger’s face broadened. “David Michaelson, I am Eönwë of the People of Manwë and I am bid by my lord to give you this.” A piece of paper appeared in his hand which he held out to the police chief who took it somewhat gingerly, as if afraid it would somehow turn on him. It was a list of names.

“What is this?”

“The names of all those who attempted to attack Edhellond earlier this evening with the intention of either driving away or killing those inside it.”

“What?!” Michaelson shouted and he wondered why no one was at the door demanding to know what the problem was.

“There was an altercation and the one you know as Darren Harper was shot.”

“Darren shot? Is he—?”

“He lives, but he was gravely wounded and would have died had it not been for Prince Findaráto and Lord Námo. Even so, you may wish to investigate the incident. The people involved have been warned not to attempt to flee.”

“And this list is accurate?” Michaelson scanned the names, recognizing a few.

“Yes,” came the terse reply and Michaelson looked up to find that he was once again alone. He looked at the list again. “Well, crap,” he said and sighed. Then he stood up and went to the door, flinging it open. “Okay, everyone, listen up,” and every officer there stopped what he or she was doing and gave the captain their attention. “I need to bring some people in for questioning. Lopez, Nayokpuk, Reynolds, take this list and start rounding these people up.”

“Now, Chief?” Reynolds asked in surprise. “It’s almost midnight. I don’t fancy dragging people out of their beds in the middle of the night.”

“Well, at least it will be easier to find them,” Michaelson retorted. “You have your orders.” He handed the list over to Lopez and went back inside his office, closing the door. He returned to his desk and reached for the phone, dialing a number.

“Hi, honey… Yeah, I was just on my way out when something came up. I’m afraid I’ll be a while… Sometimes I think I really should have become a shoe salesman… I love you, too.” He replaced the phone in its cradle and sighed, running a hand through his hair as he rebooted his computer.

****

Sigil-en-hereg: (Sindarin) Blood knife. Made of silver and mithril, this ceremonial knife was created solely for the purpose of initiating new warriors into the Sindarin Warrior Society by ‘blooding’ them with the blood of the two oldest warriors present at the ceremony.