Healing Hope
Chapter Forty
Memories
“Memories, light the corners of my mind...misty, water colored memories, of the way we were.”
Marvin Hamlisch
Mirkwood
Nárë continued his repetitious hefting of the leather bound rocks, his countenance as cold and hard as those of the stones with which he was presently working.
Thranduil watched him for a few moments before deciding that he had been patient long enough. “You know that patience is not one of my virtues, do you not?”
Nárë’s arm stopped in mid-lift as the elf looked incredulously at his friend and liege. “Thranduil Oropherion impatient? What could possibly make me think that?”
The king carefully schooled his features to hide the smugness he felt as Nárë once again began his repetitions. He would give the Noldo a few minutes of reflection before once more attempting to get the stubborn elf to open up to him.
Nárë studiously ignored Thranduil as he continued his workout. He knew, of course, what it was the king wanted to hear, for so great was their friendship and bond that they read each other far too easily at times. The arrival of the little dark haired adan had awakened painful memories...memories that he desired to keep at bay.
Thranduil surreptitiously watched the play of emotions on his friend’s face while he did his own sword practice. His precise movements were as graceful as they were powerful, and his muscles shone from the exertion.
Nárë tried to ignore Thranduil but he might as well have been trying to ignore a Mumak. He could sense that the subject was not going to go away...not this time. Almost unwillingly he let his mind journey back to the Dead Marshes.
Heat...he could feel the heat that settled cloyingly around him, even at break of day. It intensified the odors emanating form the marshes and made them all the more ghastly. He could also hear the flies buzzing around his head...or was that his own heartbeat pounding in his ears? He was not sure anymore. All he knew was the pain threatening to drag him into a void from which he might never emerge. His entire body had shaken with the fall of the tremendous sword stroke that had severed his right arm, taking his sword with it. The orcs had laughed then and pulled back, enjoying his reaction as he watched his arm fall seemingly in slow motion, the sword still grasped firmly in his hand.
Nárë did not remember falling and seemed surprised to find himself on his knees, the laughter of the orcs ringing in his ears. He glanced down at his own body with almost detached interest. A small shaft of pale, white bone was all that was left of his once strong sword arm. With each pump of his heart, blood spurted from the fissure in a precision that matched the pounding in his ears. He reached out clumsily with his other hand to detach his sword from the lifeless appendage lying in front of him. Using the sword as leverage he struggled determinedly to pull himself back to his feet and once more face his enemy.
His breath came in gasps now, and he shook his head in a futile attempt to clear his vision, only to find the edges of his sight darkening. Awkwardly holding his sword one handed, he lunged at the first orc that charged him, the bloodlust screaming from the being’s throat. Nárë plunged the sword deep into its belly, the shuddering effort taking almost all his remaining strength.
Behind his eyes, he could see the veil beginning to turn silvery and Veryo waiting to great him as the savage blades of his adversaries seemed to hack at him. Pain tightened his chest to the point that he could barely breathe, yet still he struggled to fight on. From somewhere hazy and far off his mind registered the roar of a familiar battle cry. Thranduil?
Nárë could no longer see anything but Veryo’s smile beckoning him, and he stifled a cry of agony as he attempted to focus on the beloved face of his little brother. His knees jarred as he hit the ground again, the jolt momentarily clearing his vision so that he could see Veryo’s body lying on the ground a few feet away. “I am coming, brother,” he gasped, even as he fell forward. With the last of his strength, he pulled himself towards the goal, his only thought to reach Veryo as darkness enveloped his senses.
“Will you never forgive me for saving you?” asked Thranduil quietly, relieved to finally say the damning words aloud.
Unaware of the tears streaking his face, Nárë was pulled from his reverie by the king’s words.
Imladris
Elrond tried to focus on the things in the room around him as Glorfindel tended his wounds. Abstractedly, he mused that he had forgotten how painful such wounds were. Pushing past the pain, the Elf Lord focused on keeping his countenance calm, for he was well aware that his sons were watching him intently. He focused on the twins now. Elrohir sat on the bed beside Elladan. Elrond made a mental note of how pale the younger twin looked and of how gingerly Elladan held his right arm. Behind him he was aware of Erestor hovering, and smiled slightly at the thought.
He was relieved that Arwen was downstairs now and not witness to this procedure. He was grieved at the concern and fear he had seen in her eyes when he and Celeborn first entered the healing rooms. As her father, it was his place to protect her from such distress. At least Estel was not here to be frightened by the sight of his father’s injuries.
Estel. Elrond forced himself to focus on thoughts of his youngest child as Glorfindel deftly worked. His mind wandered down a path to a night two years previously.
Elrond had been in his study preparing a parchment to be delivered to King Thranduil in Mirkwood when he heard a commotion coming from the front hallway. Sadly it was a familiar, if not completely welcome, sound. With an inward groan he carefully laid down the quill with which he had been writing and leaned back in his chair. Tiredly he rubbed the bridge of his nose as he wondered what trouble his twins had found this time. His hand moved from massaging the bridge of his nose to the taut muscles on the back of his neck as he sought relief from the sudden tension the return of his sons brought.
Oh, he loved his children more than anything else in Arda, but the pain and utter helplessness of seeing his sons being slowly torn apart by their grief and vengeance was becoming almost unbearable. More than anything, he wished that he could help them to understand that their mother’s need to sail to the gray haven was not a rejection of them or their family. Of course they understood that on an intellectual level, but inside their hearts had broken the day that they had rescued Celebrían from the hands of the Orcs and brought her battered and broken body home to Imladris, and it appeared to the Elf Lord that each new sunrise brought him closer to losing his sons as well. The bright, mischievous young elves who loved to play pranks had been replaced with two battle hardened Elven warriors who had made it their life’s mission to seek out and destroy every orc in Middle Earth.
Elrond would have embraced that mission as well if it would have brought them peace, but he knew it would not. As an elf many centuries old, he understood that the path they had chosen would only lead his sons into more darkness, but, it would seem, he was powerless to make them see that fact. The evil that began so many years ago was still as active today and threatened to destroy his entire family, for his beloved daughter Arwen had chosen to live in Lothlórien with her grandparents rather than remain here where her mother’s memory only caused her regret.
Standing up tiredly and pushing back from his desk, Elrond walked from his study to see what he could salvage from this latest trek of his sons. He only hoped their injuries would not be too terribly serious this time.
Entering the hallway he was pleasantly surprised to see that both of his sons appeared healthy and uninjured, though they were both covered in orc blood. However, Elrond could also see red blood mixed in with the black, foul blood of the Yrch.
“Ada,” Elrohir greeted him. “We have news. The ranger’s camp was attacked yesterday. There were many deaths, including that of Arathorn.”
Elrond closed his eyes and absorbed the dreadful news. He shook his head sadly as he looked back to son. “These are evil tidings, indeed; the line of kings is severed then.”
“Not quite,” declared Elladan, as he walked over to reveal a tiny bundle to his father.
“This is Arathorn’s son, Aragorn. His mother is ill and has been taken to the healing wing.”
Elrond looked at the little boy trembling in his son’s arms. Large, soulful eyes looked out from the blanket in which he’d been wrapped and Elrond could see that his dark hair was a mass of unruly curls. He placed his hand on the baby soft hair and smiled sadly at the two year old. “You are all that is left of the line of kings, little one; that is a huge mantle for one so small.”
Elladan continued to soothe the child in his arms. “He saw his father fall, Ada, and has not spoken a word since. Will you see what you can do with him? Elrohir and I do not know what to do with a child such as this.”
“Of course, ion nín,” Elrond affirmed, as he took the shivering child into his arms. “He is in shock,” the elf lord remarked almost to himself, for his mind was already at work on the best course of action. “Has he any injuries?”
“No,” answered Elladan. “He was kept safe during the attack.”
“Good,” nodded Elrond. “Now, let us see what we can do for you, little one. Elrohir, will you bring me another blanket, please? Elladan, ask Erestor to prepare some warm milk with cinnamon in it. That should help him to relax.”
“Yes, Ada,” the twins echoed as they left in different directions.
“And sons,” the elf lord added, stopping them both in their tracks, “I suggest you bathe and don fresh clothing once you have completed your tasks, for your appearance would frighten even one many years older than this child.”
The twins ruefully looked down at their bloodied tunics and nodded their assent.
“There,” said Glorfindel, “that should do it.”
“Let me see,” insisted Erestor. “Did you disinfect all the cuts? It would not do to have one become infected.”
Glorfindel gave the Seneschal a long look, bringing a chuckle from the twins.
Lake-town
Thedin forced himself to remain calm. He was presently waiting at the Guard’s Hut giving the remaining sentry a look that would cause most men to quake. The other guard had crossed the Great Bridge to seek the council of the town fathers. “Really,” Thedin muttered to himself, “one would think that the Elves of Mirkwood were an enemy rather than benevolent protectors of this lot.”
The guard was unimpressed.
Were his mission not specifically ordained by his king, the first healer of Mirkwood would turn on his heel and leave the dust of this edain holding far behind. He had no wish to be here.
Presently the first guard returned and beckoned the healer to follow. They crossed the Great Bridge and entered the city through the gate. Despite his agitation, Thedin was fascinated by what he was seeing. Compact as it was, the city on the lake, with the anor light sparking on the waters and beaming overhead, stood in stark contrast to the underground cavern of the Silvans.
Numerous two-storied dwellings were laid out in close quarters, as though to take advantage of every bit of space the small man-made island city afforded. Narrow openings ran between each dwelling allowing for access and passage. To his right was a larger building, and it was to this place that the guard accompanied him, explaining that he would be greeted in the Town Hall by the leaders of Lake-town.
The guard opened the great doors to the Town Hall and bowed respectfully to Thedin before withdrawing. The healer took a deep breath and steeled himself to seek the aid of the edain. His head held high, Thedin began walking down the central aisle to where the lake men awaited him. He was vaguely aware of the curious glances he was receiving from the people gathered in small groups inside the hall.
A large man rose from his chair and greeted the healer. “The men of Lake Town bid you well come, Master Elf.”
“Master Healer?”
Thedin started as the voice shook him from his waking dream. He had retreated to a curtained off area at the rear of the largest of the healing tents and sought refuge for a few moments. “I must have fallen asleep,” me mused, gathering his wits.
“We have more wounded arriving.”
Thedin nodded his head wearily and sighed as he rose stiffly to his feet. His healer apron was sticky with blood but he had not found time to change it. His heart lurched as a keening sound of grief echoed from the throats of several elves outside the healing tents.
Hurrying through to the main area, Thedin’s heart sank when he caught sight of the golden armor and even more golden tresses of his king, both now stained dark with the monarch’s blood.
“The edain king withheld his forces and allowed our columns to be cut to shreds,” charged a wounded warrior bitterly. “We stood not a chance alone.”
Thedin place a calming hand on the wounded elf’s arm. “Rest now, and let us care for out king.”
“Master Elf?” repeated the adan, confusion clearly written on his face.
Mirkwood
Legolas sat lazily with his back against a beech tree. Estel’s head rested in his lap. The boy’s eyes drooped as Legolas methodically carded his fingers through the soft dark locks of his hair. Legolas was fascinated by the curls, repeatedly pulling them out straight and then watching them spring back once they were released.
The pair had spent much of the afternoon in this most serene of places looking for flowers and butterflies. This area Legolas favorite location within Mirkwood, for it hearkened back to the time of Greenwood the Great and belied the evil that permeated so much of his homeland. The secluded spot included a pool fed by a small waterfall. The constant mist of the waterfall encouraged the surrounding ferns and flora to flourish
Estel had chased butterflies until he grew tired, and Legolas had enticed him to rest with the promise of a story. Now the child’s dark eyelashes batted against his pale cheeks and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest became deeper as he dropped into a peaceful sleep.
Legolas smiled as he watched the face of the child relax, and continued his soothing motions through the boy’s hair. With Estel asleep, he could relax his guard somewhat and allow his mind to wander back to the subject he had been assiduously avoiding...that of the disembodied voice wishing harm to the child.
For the tenth time, the prince berated himself for not being quick enough to see from whom the voice had come. Legolas knew as well as any the reasons that his kind had for distrusting and even disliking the humans, but this innocent had no part in that.
He thought back to when he first learned of Estel’s existence.
Legolas and Falathar were just entering the border of Rivendell when three arrows landed on the path directly in front of Legolas’ mount, startling the horse and causing it to buck wildly.
“Halt!” called the simultaneous command.
Legolas was shocked by the act, but Falathar was furious. Pulling his sword form its sheath, he quickly maneuvered his horse protectively in front of the Prince, who was struggling to control his skittish mount.
Immediately, three Elves landed on the path in front of them, arrows notched and aimed directly at Falathar’s heart.
Too angry to be intimidated, Falathar was fairly sputtering with outrage. “How dare you fire on the Prince of Mirkwood?”
The elves didn’t back down.
Finally gaining control of his horse, Legolas jumped off and placed himself between Falathar and the Noldor Elves holding up both of his hands. “Peace, good Elves, we are no threat! I am Legolas of the Green Wood and this is my companion, Falathar. I ask pardon for attempting to enter your valley at night, but I seek information from your Lord. Obviously this was a mistake.”
One of the Noldor separated himself from the others and approached the Prince. “Prince Legolas?”
Legolas lowered his head in a bow of acknowledgement. The Noldo who had addressed him appeared very young, and was not a warrior that Legolas remembered.
“Forgive me, my Lord, we did not recognize you.”
Falathar snorted from behind Legolas. “It is hard to see an Elf’s face when you are busy shooting arrows at him.”
Legolas threw a silencing frown at his friend. Something unusual was going on here and he wanted to know what it was, for he had never seen the defenses of Imladris on such a high state of alert. “What has happened?”
Falathar dismounted and stood beside Legolas, ready to defend his Prince if these obviously crazy elves posed any threat.
At a motion from the sentry, the other two elves climbed back up the trees to resume their look out. When they were out of sight, the sentry turned back to speak to the Prince. “The whole valley is in an uproar, Your Highness. Lord Elrond’s son has been stolen and Lord Erestor badly wounded.”
Alarm and relief shot through Legolas at the same time and he took a small step towards the elf. Obviously the twins, or at least one of them, were alive and still in Middle Earth. “One of the twins taken?”
“Oh no, my Lord, not the twins…it is the younger Elrondion.”
Now Legolas was completely confused, for the sentry had said “son” and only Arwen was younger, but before he could ask any more questions, a rider approached and the nervous Elf beside him was once more on guard.
“Halt,” the young Elf called out, notching his arrow and aiming it at the new intruder.
“Beling,” growled Glorfindel from atop Asfaloth, “You are supposed to be guarding the valley from outside forces, not inside.” The golden warrior leapt from his horse and strode over towards the trio; his magnificent mount followed him, nickering softly when he recognized Legolas.
If the earth could have opened up at that moment and swallowed him, Beling would not have been happier. As it was, he was grateful for the darkness hiding the furious blush that had just overtaken his fair cheeks at the reprimand.
“Your pardon, my Lord,” he stammered. “I…”
“No,” interrupted Glorfindel with a sigh; “I ask your pardon.” The commander took pity on the astounded young warrior, knowing that this was his first assignment, and on a night that had seen the valley responding to a threat it had not faced for centuries. It was bound to have the young one on edge. “The events of this night have proven stressful for all of us.”
“Will somebody please tell us what is going on?” appealed Falathar from where he was standing behind Legolas.
Glorfindel turned to face the two Silvan Elves, as though seeing them for the first time. “Prince Legolas…and Falathar, isn’t it? You pick an unfortunate time to appear at our border.”
Any other time Falathar would have been thrilled beyond measure that his name had been remembered by the legendary Balrog Slayer, but at the moment he was still far too aggravated that his Prince had been fired upon to be flattered. After all, the King had entrusted Falathar with the duty of protecting the Crown Prince, though of course Legolas did not know that, and here he could have been killed by a bow-happy novice sentry! “And it is a fine welcome we received as well! Your sentries fired at the Prince. He could have been killed!”
From the other side of Glorfindel, Beling reddened again and cleared his throat nervously.
“Falathar, please,” entreated Legolas, glancing back at his friend. “All is well, young one,” the Prince soothed the sentry, who looked as though he were only a few years younger than Legolas himself.
“Resume your duties, Beling,” Glorfindel instructed the Elf. “And Beling,” he added for Falathar’s benefit, for though he understood the being’s irritation, these were his warriors and he would not allow them to be berated before him, “continue to keep a sharp eye. We still do not know the full scope of tonight’s threat.”
Falathar snorted softly, but Legolas smiled, knowing exactly what Glorfindel was doing and approving of the display of loyalty.
“Yes, my Lord!” breathed Beling with gratitude. He turned and sprinted over to the tree and sped up it with a speed and agility that impressed even the Wood Elves.
Glorfindel watched the Elf scamper up the tree and turned back to the Prince and Falathar with a tired chuckle. This night was proving to be full of more surprises than he cared to think about. “Follow me, young ones. I will escort you so personally so that there are no more mistakes. I will clarify the situation to you on the way back.”
“Legolas?”
The prince glanced down at Estel and was surprised to see tears glistening in his silvery eyes. “What is it, little one?”
“Im aníron Ada,” sniffed the child, as one crystalline drop traced a path down the plump cheek. “I want my Daddy.”
TBC