Ephemeros

Ch 6: The Long Way Home

The mood around the campfire that night was solemn and introspective. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but none of them could find it within themselves to be lighthearted after the events of the afternoon. So they sat around the fire, staring into the dancing flames, each deep in his own thoughts.

Legolas felt utterly dreadful. As he saw it, the trip had come to such a pass because of his actions. He had been out of sorts the whole evening, even though his friends had tried to convince him that they did not fault him in the least for not taking the shot, and in fact, had commended his compassion. But that was not all of it.

It was just that in those few moments when the stag had turned to look in their direction, those dark, regal eyes had seemed to see right through to him.

Do you want to be the one to bring my end to me? …they had said.

In those eyes, he had seen an image of Estel reflected back at him, a vision of Estel in the near future, crowned and bearing the Sceptre of Annúminas. How like were the two in grace and nobility. How stately in accoutrement, with a fine air of distinction about them. Both were kings in their own right. One was the imperial sovereign of all noble beasts of the Wood, somehow strayed from his forest realm to wander the Hidden Valley; the other, the last of a line of exiled Númenorian kings who roamed with the Dúnedain far to the north.

Both were very mortal.

Only recently had he become acquainted with the true nature of mortality. Thoughts of Estel’s impending doom now weighed heavily upon his every step and haunted his every waking moment. The thought that he was about to deal death to one such as this had horrified him beyond compare. How could he possibly bring himself to needlessly end this poor creature’s life? It would have gone against the very fibre of his being. No, he just could not do it. With trembling hands and raging turmoil pounding within him, he had lowered his bow, willing the stag to flee, to live.

----

A sudden movement in the thicket across the fire startles him out of his dismal reverie. Legolas is on his feet in an instant, with an arrow nocked and aimed at the disturbance. How could we have been so careless?

The others react within moments of his alert, swords drawn and battle-ready. All four of them become swiftly aware of the multitude of glittering eyes surrounding them. They have been caught unawares by a full pack of wolves on the prowl.

The pack closes in, steadily circling the small clearing, razor-sharp fangs bared in vicious snarls. The three swordsmen pull flaming logs from the fire, brandishing them against the foe but the incessant press of starvation has rendered these usually reticent creatures unfearful of the conventional deterrent. When they do not desist, Legolas reluctantly releases a swift series of arrows into the first ring of attackers, felling four with trademark accuracy before the battle is brought too near for the long-range weapon to be of use. It is then smoothly exchanged for two sleek, ivory-handled longknives with a ringing flourish.

The four of them pair up at opposite ends of the fire, using the blaze to shield as much of themselves as possible in a double triangle formation. A savage dance plays itself out as the feral beasts hurl themselves mindlessly at the foursome in hunger-driven fury, eyes wild and claws out for the kill; whilst blades whirl and flash in the firelight before sinking into fur and soft flesh, bringing ruin to a half dozen wolves before the rest of the pack slinks away in defeat.

The victors remain amidst the bloody carnage, breathing heavily, eyes bright, as the battle fever drains swiftly out of them. They take in the remains of a once splendid hunting pack, dead by their hands, and now reduced to the mangled carcasses strewn about the clearing. All four know that as long as the Yrch infestation persists in the Misty Mountains, game stocks would continue to dwindle, forcing the natural predators out of the hills and into the valleys. This sad reality was not lost on any of them as they gathered up the dead wolves and set the pyre alight. Solemnly, they offer up a prayer for the spirits of the slain creatures, acknowledging that this attack was not one of evil intent.

They can no longer remain at the camp site, for the stench of battle which has infused the ground would likely draw other unwelcome visitors before the night was out. They would also need a clean place to treat their wounds; for while the battle may have been brief, it was hardly lacking in violence. Legolas and Elrohir had stayed mostly uninjured, but Estel and Elladan now sported large, gaping gouges where vicious teeth and claws had managed to penetrate their defenses. Estel’s injury was to the right arm and side and Elladan’s was on his upper left leg. The bleeding had not slowed much and both would probably need stitches.

Well-trained by Lord Elrond, none of them had left the house without a small stock of basic healing supplies. Fortunately also, the horses had escaped unscathed and had returned upon hearing their masters’ call. At the new site a fair distance away, Legolas had set quickly to making a fire to boil water and prepare bandages. His combat experience told him that the injuries sustained were minor but his heart had leapt in fear when he had seen the red blossoming on Estel’s sleeve and side after one of the large grey wolves had sprung upon his friend. Mortal bodies were far more susceptible to injury and vulnerable when damaged. Fortune had smiled upon them this time, but warriors could not afford such lapses. He should have sensed their assailants long before he had. Self-reproach coursed through his veins.

Meanwhile, Elrohir was fussing over his injured brothers with his usual meticulous care and concern, drawing various protestations from the unhappy patients. The chief objection appeared to be “But it’s only a scratch” and was accompanied by identical glares and much hand-swatting. 

“Will you two behave like the warriors you are and let your brother treat those ‘scratches’ before infection sets in?”

Three sets of silver eyes spin around to look Legolas’ way. Two appear duly chastised and the third smiles gratefully at him. Elrohir turns back to his recalcitrant patients with a sardonic grin.

“Yes. Heed Legolas’ advice, will you? And start coming up with a story to explain to Adar why you will be requiring his services yet again.”

----

When Elrohir checked the injuries the next morning, the gashes on Elladan’s leg had already knitted neatly together, with the inflammation all but gone. New pink flesh had appeared and the injury was well on its way to full healing, thanks to the wonders of Elven regenerative ability.

Estel’s wounds on the other hand, were still red and puffy and very tender to the touch, though he claimed otherwise. Infection seemed likely, though his wounds were of similar severity to Elladan’s and the same care had been afforded to both patients. Mortal bodies just were unable to handle injury as well as Elven ones. To Legolas, this was just another reminder of Estel’s fate and he sadly watched his friend mount his stallion stiffly, refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. For all his outward confidence, Estel had never truly shed himself of the insecurities of a mortal child growing up amongst Elves.  It had been so very hard accepting that he would never be able to hear Arda’s song; that he would never be as swift, as keen-sighted, as graceful, or as immune to the elements; that much Legolas had gathered from their correspondence over the years. Estel would never admit weakness, not if he thought it meant lessening himself in their eyes and Legolas grieved that Estel should view himself in such a way. He wished he could make Estel see that there was no shame in being mortal, and that mortality was supposed to be a gift to the Secondborn. But how could he, when he found he could scarcely believe it himself, now that the stark reality of Mortal Fate had been revealed to him?

----

Elrond glanced out the window from his favourite seat in the library. It afforded him a commanding view of the valley, and also let him keep an eye on the eastern path into the city, upon which he knew his sons and Legolas would be returning on, hopefully soon. They had been gone some days and were due to arrive (safely) back home anytime now.

The words upon the parchment in his hands faded away as he contemplated their homecoming.

Perhaps they saw their stag. Perhaps the outing had turned out as well as they had hoped for and it would be a jolly night when they returned with happy stories, stories untouched by the sadness and sorrow which fueled their other expeditions – the patrols, the tours with the Rangers, the yrch hunts which took them through one devastated settlement after another. Well, a father could dream, couldn’t he?

A ripple at the edge of his consciousness brings him back to awareness and in the distance, he sees the four figures he has been waiting for. No doubt the sentries have already noted their presence. At least all four seem to be riding in on their own strength.

He put the scroll away, and made his way down to the courtyard to receive his sons.

Standing upon the weathered stone steps as he had done countless times before, he watched them ride in through the gates, and as they near the house, various bandages make themselves apparent. No extra game sacks or fantastic rack of antlers are visible, so there would probably be a story behind that too. They all seem to be in good spirits, and the injuries did not seem life-threatening. He supposed he should be thankful for that at least. Perhaps it was just too much to ask that they might come home entirely unscathed.

The four dismount and come to stand before him, sheepish smiles upon their ruddy faces. His sentiments must have shown rather clearly upon his own visage because Elladan met his eyes for just a second before sighing dramatically.

“We have a fantastic story about trolls and mysterious mud swamps, Ada, but I don’t think you want to hear it, do you?”

“No, probably not,” Elrond grins affably back. “Go on inside, clean up and then I want to see you,” looking pointedly at Elladan, “and you,” swivelling to Estel, “in the healing chambers.”

“Yes, Ada.”

Elrond gazes fondly at them all, a warm smile lighting up his eyes.     

“Welcome home, my sons...”

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A/N: Thank you to alibi girl, eliza61, Legolass, an exquisite elfling, IwishChan, Slayer3, grumpy, KawaiiWhiteWolf, QueenofFlarmphgal, Athena and Ceriadara for taking the time to review the last two chapters. Hope I didn’t miss anyone else…. It is always wonderful to hear from you!

Slayer3: Your eh-hem…methods of persuasion… seem to have worked. Hope you liked the new chapter.

Athena: I just couldn’t see Elves as trophy hunters either. And yeah, these four seem to see much abuse at the hands of many fanfic writers! I hope I did not disappoint you by including the wolf incident. I’m not out to torment our favourite elves and ranger needlessly!!  Thank you again for the lovely long review.