Healing Hope
Chapter Seventy-Six
Berio Estel!
“If we survive danger it steels our courage more than anything else.” Reinhold Niebuhr
The landscape was awash in the silvery light of Ithil, lending it an air of peace which was belied by the cloud shrouded mountains where the thoughts of all resided. The stars twinkled like adamants arrayed for the elves’ viewing pleasure as Eärendil made his way across the night skies, and a breeze carrying the promise of autumn softly fluttered the curtains along the outer walls of the Hall of Fire in the Last Homely House.
“Do you think the pea soup will be served again?” questioned the flutist, glancing conspiratorially around.
The cello player beside him paused his tuning and glanced disdainfully at the elf beside him. “Will you please give it a rest? I rather doubt that we will ever again see pea soup served in Imladris.” He grimaced before adding ruefully, “And I liked it, too.”
“You would,” pouted the flutist, with a flip of his raven tresses.
With an exasperated sigh, the elf beside him once again paused in the tuning of his cello. A survivor of the sacking of Ost-in-Edhil by Sauron in the second age, he had followed Elrond here for the founding of Imladris and resided within the refuge ever since. Now he sighed heavily again. Honestly, some days it did not pay to be a musician. Why could he not have been a cook or an artisan? Anything but a musician! “What is that supposed to mean?”
The flutist harrumphed self-righteously. “It means that I had to clean pea soup from my instrument for days after the last...incident.” He lovingly stroked the mithril instrument at which he excelled. It was said that he created the most beautiful music in Arda, and his ego was rivaled only by his prissiness.
Before the cello player could respond, a shadow fell over the two, and they halted their conversation to glance up.
Tall and stately, Sariboril stood staring down at them, eyebrow arched elegantly. “I would get on with your tuning, if I were you, and leave the meal planning to me.” After giving the two one of her no nonsense looks, Sariboril turned her back to them and once again gave her attention to the seating arrangements.
With a last glare at the flutist, the cello player once again bent his head to his instrument and began the long, loving strokes that brought it to life and filled the room with its rich, warm tones.
Her mind already off of the instrumentalists, Sariboril stalked the room considering each detail. She wanted every facet of this evening to be perfect, from the flowers, to the music, to the wine choices. Healer she may be, but she would make sure the family – her family – had a soothing way to pass the night other than worrying. Her mind traveled back...
Two days before...Imladris
“The news is not good, Elrond,” Glorfindel stated grimly, as he entered the family healing rooms, where Elrond was sitting with his son and Sariboril.
Elrond, Lord of Imladris, blanched slightly. Glancing at Elladan, who sat up straighter in bed listening intently, the Elf Lord forced his expression into a more neutral one. “Go ahead, Glorfindel.”
“The forward scouts report that they can see snow falling on the upper passes.”
Sariboril could not stop the gasp that escaped her lips. “But that means...” Elrond cleared his throat, and Sariboril caught herself before she finished the sentence.
“I am taking as many warriors as I dare with me,” Glorfindel continued resolutely. “We will keep the passes open if I have to dig them out myself. You have my word on it.”
It had been many years since Elrond had seen the Balrog Slayer look this determined, and it warmed and quieted his heart.
“Adar?” Elladan questioned. “If they are trapped in the passes...” He could not continue as he imagined orcs sweeping down upon his brothers, just like they had his mother. He tried to rise, “I am going, too.”
Elrond frowned at his eldest, “That is out of the question.”
“I know your heart, young one,” Glorfindel said quickly, “but you would slow us down.” He sat on the edge of the bed and gathered the warrior into his arms as he had often done when Elladan was an elfling. “That is hard for me to say, but in your heart you know my words are true.” He pulled back and looked in Elladan’s eyes. “Trust me to bring home your brothers.”
Elladan nodded as Glorfindel rose. His emotions were such that he could not speak. Fear for his brothers was ripping his heart, and frustration at his own weakness was threatening to pull him into despair.
Elrond saw Elladan clenching and unclenching his right fist and easily read the fear and anger on his son’s face. Gently, he placed his hand on the twin’s shoulder. “Ion nín,” he said softly...soothingly, “I trust Glorfindel.” He faced the Golden Warrior. “Go, my friend... Go and bring them all home.”
Hall of Fire...Present time
Sariboril sighed and sat down on the edge of the table, nibbling absentmindedly on her thumbnail. For two days they had watched and waited, the strain growing with each passing hour. For the most part, Elladan and Elrond remained upstairs together. She rather thought the Elf Lord half feared his son might attempt to ride out after Glorfindel if left alone.
It was then that she had the idea to plan a soothing evening of soft music, good food, and miruvor. After all, she reasoned, it was better to have them as engaged in a light meal and good company rather than fretting alone together upstairs. For what must have been the hundredth time, she found her gaze pulled towards the mountains. She could not even see them from here, but that mattered not, for she could see them in her mind’s eye. “Bring them home, Glorfindel,” she murmured, “and be safe.”
O-o-O-o-O
Yrch!
All thoughts of rest and warmth on the cold and snowy night were lost at the alert from the sentry. The elves flew into action as the guttural sounds of the attacking orcs filled the air and the beasts burst from the darkness coming at them from all sides.
Estel was awakened by the horrific screeching of the orcs and the chaos taking place around him. His eyes grew round with fear, and he threw his arms around Erestor’s neck. “Restor?”
The Seneschal could feel Estel’s panic, but did not dare delay action. As calmly as he could, Erestor placed the child inside his shelter. “Stay here, tithen pen, no matter what you hear. Do not leave the shelter. Promise me!”
Estel was afraid, but he nodded his understanding to the Seneschal, and crawled as far back in the shelter as he could. His fingers felt the silky folds of Thranduil’s robe and pulled it up in front of him as though it were an impenetrable shield that would protect him from the horrors taking place outside.
Erestor smiled reassuringly at the child. “We will keep you safe little one.”
The Seneschal rose to his feet and fluidly drew his sword. Dressed for travel, in breeches and tunic rather than his customary robes, he was much better able to fight. “Come, if you will,” he said softly. “You will not have my little one.”
The Mirkwood warriors were the best archers. Led by Legolas, they arrayed themselves strategically to cover the area with their arrows. The warriors from Imladris, led by Elrohir, were the inner shield of defense, the razor sharp edges of their swords reflecting dangerously in the firelight.
As arrows flew at the tide of evil streaming towards them, Elrohir looked to make sure that Estel was safely ensconced inside his sanctuary. He was reassured to see Erestor standing resolutely before the shelter, his sword raised and ready for battle. Elrohir could see the fierce gleam in the Seneschal’s eyes. Erestor would die before allowing any harm to come to Estel.
The twin decided to give him some help. Turning towards the trees, he called, “Celon, Celos, Berio Estel!” The stallions’ head’s came up at the sound of Elrohir’s voice. As one, they trotted into the middle of the battle and took up places on either side of the shelter that was Estel’s refuge. Celos’ ears were lying flat on his neck, and his teeth flashed menacingly, as the great stallion dared any to come near. Celon tossed his head, his nostrils flaring dangerously and the whites of his eyes showing, as he pawed the ground, ready to charge any orc that thought to approach.
Elrohir turned as two orcs rushed his position. A swing of his sword connected with the first as he sliced downward and turned to face the second threat only to find the orc staring at him with uncomprehending eyes. The orc lowered his head to look at the arrow protruding through his chest. Almost slowly the beast sank to his knees and fell over. Elrohir looked up and saw Legolas firing arrows with deadly precision. The prince paused only long enough to give him a fierce grin and quick nod of the head.
O-o-O-o-O
Elrond sat with his son in the cozy atmosphere of his study. The shadows of night had long since stolen the remaining warmth of the day as the pair sat on opposite sides of Elrond’s highly polished writing table. A finely crafted, mithril candelabra holding six flickering beeswax candles sat on one end of the table, providing an inviting circle of light in the darkened room. Scrolls and parchment littered the normally immaculate surface, bearing testament to Elrond’s troubled state of mind.
His elbows resting on the tabletop, Elladan was absentmindedly twirling a quill through the fingers of his left hand, while his chin sat nestled in the palm of the other. Occasionally, he sighed deeply.
Watching him, Elrond knew that his son’s mind was far away...knew, in fact, exactly where it was, for his lay in the same place.
“Adar...”
The Elf Lord smiled when his son’s eyes found his own. “Yes, son,” Elrond responded, pushing aside the scroll he had been attempting to concentrate on, quite unsuccessfully, for some time
“When El and I were little, we were afraid that you would leave us like your father left you.”
If he was surprised by this revelation, Elrond did not show it. He steepled his long, narrow fingers before his face as he gathered his thoughts. The Elf Lord was glad to see the normally more reticent Elladan opening up to him and sharing what lay hidden in his heart. “That is not an abnormal fear for young ones, especially given the circumstances.”
“We said we would be there for each other...”
‘Even if I was not,’ Elrond finished silently. His eyebrow rose fractionally as he considered his son’s words. Indeed, they explained much about his eldest. “You have always been your brother’s most steadfast ally, and he yours.”
Embarrassed and fearing he had opened an old wound for his father, the twin rose and walked out onto the adjoining terrace. Unmoving, Elladan stood silhouetted against the night sky, his hands gripping the railing. The sound of the Bruinen cascading through the valley would normally be a soothing one, but tonight it only served to remind him of how far away his brothers were and how cut off from them he was.
A cold disquiet settled on Elladan’s heart, and he knew that Elrohir was in mortal danger.
A warm, familiar hand grasped his shoulder, and he turned to look at his father as Elrond stepped up to the railing beside him. “Adar?”
Elrond’s face was inscrutable, but a slight quiver in his voice betrayed his concern. “I feel it too, Elladan.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
Elrond turned to his eldest. A furrow ran deeply between his eyebrows as he gazed into Elladan’s eyes. Gently, he cradled his child’s face and surrounded his feä with his own, binding them together so that the younger elf felt enveloped in a cocoon of love and giving him all the strength and assurance he had. “Trust Glorfindel, Elladan.”
The twin opened his whole heart to his father, his eyes awash with unshed tears. “I promised to be there...”
O-o-O-o-O
Just after firing his last arrow, Alma caught sight of two orcs overpowering Beling. His Noldo friend was fighting valiantly, but he could not last much longer. Immediately, Alma pulled his sword and leapt from the boulder from which he’d been firing down upon the attackers. As he rushed across the clearing towards Beling, an orc bashed into his side sending him crashing to the ground. His head impacted a rock with a sickening thud.
Celeg was fighting with the skill that illustrated why he was one of Thranduil’s Elites. He shoved his sword into the back of an orc and immediately kicked sideways into the stomach of another one charging him. The being fell back, giving the elf time to pull his sword from the dead orc. Celeg saw Alma as he was tackled. Pulling a knife from his belt, he threw it into the beast just as the fiend was moving to cut the unconscious Silvan’s throat.
With a growl, the orc Celeg had kicked in the stomach jumped on the elf’s back. Knocked to his knees, Celeg reached over his head and grasped the orc with both hands while quickly rolling forward. The unexpected move used the momentum of the orc against it. The Elite ended up on top of the orc with his knee at the beast’s throat. From his boot, Celeg quickly pulled a golden dagger, the symbol of Thranduil’s Elites, and ended the orc’s life.
As Celeg jumped to his feet to scan the battlefield for his Prince, he saw Beling fall. The Elite charged the two orcs scrapping over the fallen Noldo. The first he dispatched with his dagger. Immediately he rolled to the side to avoid being skewered by the second, grabbed Beling’s fallen sword, and rammed it under the chin of his attacker. The orcs put down, Celeg pulled the badly wounded Beling towards the center of the camp...the most protected area. Then he repeated the process with the unconscious Alma. Only then did he again turn his attention towards Legolas, to assure himself that the Prince fared well.
The Prince of Mirkwood was doing a macabre dance of death with his twin knives. His skill with them was legendary, surpassing even his considerable ability with the bow. Legolas seemed to be taking on two orcs at a time. Each time one fell, another seemed ready to take its place. A last foe downed, the Prince thought he might have a moment’s reprieve to scan the battlefield and assess the situation, but an orc jumped onto his back, knocking him forward. They both tumbled down the boulders from where Legolas had been fighting, sending his knives flying in opposite directions.
Legolas landed on his stomach, with the orc on his back. The impact knocked the wind from the prince and momentarily stunned him. Grabbing a handful of the Prince’s golden hair, the orc pulled up the elf’s head to severe it as a trophy. As the beast raised his lethal weapon, arrows bearing the colors of Mirkwood slammed into his chest from where the two Silvan archers still fired. With the weight of the orc off his back, Legolas quickly rolled to the side, kicked the body off of his legs and moved to take on the next foe.
Elrohir was fighting with a slight disadvantage. Always he fought in tandem with his twin, each able to anticipate the actions of the other. Without Elladan at his back, Elrohir felt somewhat vulnerable, though his skills were still unsurpassed. He had, after all, been trained by Glorfindel himself, who insisted that both twins be able to defend themselves alone, even though they preferred to fight together. Jumping sideways, he narrowly missed what would have been a death blow. The twin pivoted, slashing down with his sword to sever the arm that would have killed him.
Erestor saw Elrohir parry an overhead blow with his sword. The two blades slid along each other with the more powerful orc managing to catch the twin in the temple with the hilt of his weapon. The Seneschal gasped as the twin sank to his knees, obviously dazed. For a horrible second, Erestor was torn between his desire to protect Estel and the need to save Elrohir. In the end, he had no choice. Without his intervention, Elrohir would be killed. With a growl, he ran towards the twin.
Estel whimpered when he saw Erestor leave. The ongoing sounds of the battle were scary and he wanted to run after the Seneschal, but Erestor’s words stayed in his mind. ‘Do not leave the shelter.’
Seeing his chance when the elf left his position, the orc leader raced towards the shelter. He had observed the elves attempts to defend it at all cost, so the wily beast knew it must hold some great treasure. Blade drawn, he charged, yelling his most vile threats. Though fierce and undoubtedly menacing, the orc did not anticipate the defense of the stallions. Celon charged the orc, knocking him onto the ground in front of the shelter.
Estel screamed as the orc reached for him.
With a supreme effort, Erestor reached Elrohir before the orc could finish him. With the strength and skill that he displayed as one of Gil-galad’s greatest warriors, Erestor battled the orc away from Elrohir as the twin was attempting to stagger back to his feet. As he finished off the orc, Estel’s scream reached Erestor’s ears. His heart pounding, the Seneschal raced back towards the shelter.
Before the orc could reach Estel, Celos’ great hooves crushed the bones of his arm. The beast howled in fury, and rolled onto his back in time to see the hooves descending on him again.
Estel began to shake uncontrollably as he watched the “monster” being pummeled by the horses. The sight and sound of it was horrible, and he pulled King Thrandue’s robe up to cover his eyes, trying to shut out the images as blood splattered the silky material.
Erestor reached the shelter as the stallions were finishing off the orc. Kneeling before the shelter, the Seneschal was staggered when he saw the bloody robe. Inadvertently he got too close to the still agitated stallions, and one of the hooves caught him on the head, sending him into blackness.
Legolas ran over to steady Elrohir, as, unbelievably, more orcs poured from the darkness. They must have camped practically on top of a lair! Pulling the stunned twin with him, the Prince called for the warriors to pull back into a more protective circle. There just weren’t enough of them to hold off these numbers. The defensive perimeter was steadily shrinking as the overwhelming tide washed against them. Already Legolas could see that Alma and Beling were down. Three more of the Imladris guards had disappeared into the darkness ...their bodies’ dragged away by the foul beings. He was not sure how much longer they could hold out against such numbers.
The outcome looked bleak when a great cry rent the night, causing even the orcs, caught up in their blood lust, to pause. Turned towards the source, the orcs found themselves being charged by a host of mounted elves riding down from the higher passes, led by a golden haired warrior issuing a mighty battle cry. As the thunder of the hooves shook the earth, the orcs began to scatter in disarray.
TBC
Translation:
Berio: Protect
Tithen Pen: Little one
TBC