To Lose Hope, is To Give Up

Disclaimer:

The caracters, places, and events are creations of J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit was or will be made from this story. It was written solely for entertainment.

 Author’s note:

Hello, I´m still new to this site and this in only my second try at fanfic, this time with a more-chapter-story. Don´t flame me, English isn´t still my first language. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. Many thanks on my wonderful beta. Lai

 Summary:

great despair settles over the peaceful valley of Rivendell, as a tragedy strikes the Last Homely House and leaves the Lord of Imladris badly wounded.....

Rating:

PG-13

Title:

„to lose hope is to give up"

 Author:

 Laikwalâssê

Chapter 1: Roots and Mud Puddles

Elrond looked over the rim of his book and smiled as he watched his four-year-old twin sons chase Arahel, King Valandil´s second son and younger brother to the Crown Prince Eldacar, around the garden. Closing his eyes and leaning back in his comfortable chair, the Lord of Imladris enjoyed the last rays of the evening sun listening to the young boys squeal in delight as they rolled on the grass.  Picturing the expression on his wife’s face, he grinned inwardly, for the lawn was wet and muddy from a downpour the day before, and now the children’s clothes were utterly ruined.  Knowing that Celebrían watched them from the balcony above, he sent a calming thought towards her, bringing the smile back to her face.

The Lord of Imladris was very glad to see the young human boy so carefree and healthy. He shuddered, thinking back to the time nearly four months ago when Baradon, the right hand of the King and caretaker of his sons, arrived at the door of the Last Homely House late at night with a very ill boy in his arms.  Elrond was shocked by the extreme state of exhaustion that the Councillor was in.  What shocked him even more was the barely alive boy wrapped in a blanket tightly clutched to Baradon´s chest.

The Elf Lord still had not identified what had ailed the boy. He was near death when he had arrived in the valley, pale and barely breathing, dehydrated and totally unresponsive. The entire royal family had been as clueless as he, because no one had seen any harm that could have befallen the boy. 

In finding no wound or any other indication on the little boy´s body Elrond postulated the possibility of poison, but whether the poison was taken by accident or administered on purpose to the boy, he was unable to discover.  What made it worse, he had absolutely no idea what kind of poison could bring a healthy child to this pitiful state he was in that night. The symptoms were so uncharacteristic and the Elf-Lord had no clue how to begin to find out what possible poison had been given to the child. 

Knowing the royal family well since he had fostered Valandil, he could make a pretty good guess about the grief that had befallen them when assuming that someone may have tried to kill the boy the second in succession to the throne.  After calming down a totally desperate Baradon who loved the boy as if he was his own, Elrond had started the tedious task to find out what had made the boy ill and, much more importantly, what would cure him. 

For many long days and nights he feared he would lose this battle because the boy’s state deteriorated with every passing hour. Much time had already been lost until the boy had arrived here, but the Elf-Lord was not named the best healer in Middle Earth for nothing. In the end he was able to cure the boy but the real reason for the poisoning or the type of the poison used or taken remained hidden.

He heard Arahel cry out again, and he opened his eyes quickly and banned these dark times to the back of his mind. This time the cry was not of joy, but rather of pain.  His sons sat unmoving on either side of Arahel, watching him with wide eyes as he clutched his leg and sobbed.  Elrond rose hurrying down the steps of the terrace and into the garden to kneel in front of the little boy and look into his tear-streaked face.  “Arahel, are you injured?” he asked gently.

Big silvery eyes looked back at him and with a quivering lower lip the child nodded.  “I stumbled over this stupid root and fell,” he hissed angrily, gesturing toward the obstacle. “And now my leg hurts…a lot!”

Despite his worry, the Elf-Lord smiled at the boy, as he asked softly: “The root has always been here.  Perhaps you were not looking where you were going?”

The boy lowered his eyes.  “Maybe,” he confessed, though he continued to look accusingly at the root.

Carefully taking the small leg into his hands, Elrond asked: “Where does it hurt?” Arahel pointed to his ankle, and the Elf Lord rolled the boy’s trousers up to reveal an already swollen ankle.

Curious, Elladan leaned over Arahel, blocking his father’s view, as he asked: “Is his leg broken, Ada?”

“This I could tell you if you would let me have a proper look, my son,” Elrond responded with a sigh.

“Sorry, Ada,” the older twin murmured as he moved back a bit, barely enough, to let his father work.  Elrond flexed the leg slightly, but stopped when he saw new tears welling up in the boy’s eyes.  Curling his hand carefully around the swollen ankle and closing his eyes briefly, he let out his breath in relief.  He could not detect a break.  Looking back to the anxious face, he smiled.  “Though your ankle is not broken, it is badly sprained.  Unfortunately, this hurts more than a break.”

The boy nodded and looked again accusingly at the offending root.  “Will you have to amputate my foot, like my uncle Aralon whose leg was crushed in a rockslide?” he asked fearfully.

Trying to cheer up the little boy, the Elf-Lord shook his head and chuckled.

“No, little one, your ankle is only sprained and I believe I can repair it without an amputation. I will bandage and splint it to give it the proper rest it will need to heal.”

“Oh good,” the boy said, relieved, “because I will become a great warrior, like my father.”

Still smiling, Elrond carefully lifted the child into his arms and started toward the house as the boy snuggled closer to his chest. “That you will, young one, that you surely will.”

Casting a brief glance over his shoulder at his sons who remained still kneeling on the ground, he asked:  “Elladan, Elrohir are you coming?”   The boys didn’t react, and he turned to look at them.  “Well?” he tried again.

Eventually Elrohir raised his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Ada. It was my fault. If I had not chased him, he would not have broken his ankle!”

The Elf-Lord sighed.  “Elrohir, his ankle is only sprained, not broken, and it was not your fault, it was an accident. Will you come now and help me splint this leg?” he asked, knowing full well how eager the twins were to learn everything about the healing arts.

“Oh yes!” two identical voices cried as the twins raced toward the house, lightly jumping over the root.

“I’m a better healer than you!” Elladan cried, hopping around his scowling brother.

Elrond rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “Valar, help me!” he pleaded, quickly following his offspring.

He placed the boy on the examination table in the healing room and opened the top drawer of a nearby chest to retrieve the supplies he would need to splint the leg.  Centhar, the head healer, stifled a chuckle when he saw his Lord nearly stumble three times over his sons, who kept getting in the way and were constantly disarranging the items the Elf-Lord had piled near the edge of the table.

Finally Centhar took pity on him.  “Boys,” he called, “come with me into the herb garden. “I have something to show you”.

Torn between the wish to stay and the chance to discover something new, the two elflings looked at each other, communicating silently.  The beckoning of the healer finally won out and Elrond sent a grateful smile toward his friend, as the little boys raced out through the side door Centhar was already holding open.

At the same time the main door opened and Celebrían walked inside, having seen the incident from the balcony.  She smiled at her husband and then looked at the human boy.  “What happened, sweetling?” she asked as she wiped the boy’s tear and dirt streaked face.

“I tripped over this stu…., this idiotic root and sprained my ankle”, he explained, still upset over his clumsiness.

“I do believe that I am able to mend this.”  Elrond chuckled.

Arching an eyebrow, Celebrían looked at her husband and asked in mock seriousness:  “Really? Without amputation?”

The Elf-Lord smiled, having discerned what his wife carried behind her back.  As the boy looked agape at her, she quickly slipped a honey cake into his mouth. Reflexively, the boy closed his lips and smiled, savouring the sweet taste.  Elrond sent a mental thank-you towards his wife for distracting the little boy.

After he had cleaned the little leg of the mud that covered it, he applied a thick layer of healing salve over the swollen ankle. Then he arranged two wooden splints around it and wrapped a bandage carefully, yet firmly, around the foot to fix the wooden sticks in place.  All the while, Arahel watched closely. When Elrond had finished his ministrations, he looked in the now slightly flushed face as he spoke:  “If you put no weight on this foot, then I believe it will be healed fully by the end of this week.  Now, child, you should rest to aid your body in this effort.”

“But I don’t feel sleepy at all!” the boy protested, looking longingly at the garden.

“You soon will.” Elrond smiled and placed a cup full of warm tea into the boy’s hands.

“But, what if Baradon comes to see me and…” the boy asked anxiously.

“Then,” Elrond interrupted, “I will send him straight to you.”

The little boy nodded reluctantly and drained the cup with an expression of distaste upon his face.  Celebrían quickly slipped another cake in his mouth and kissed the slightly warm forehead as she carried him to a nearby bed.

Elrond covered Arahel with a light blanket, and the boy was asleep within a few minutes.

Wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist, he whispered in her ear:  “Thank you for your help. But now, I think we should rescue Centhar, before your sons drive him mad.”

Celebrían arched an eyebrow.  “My sons? I think you are the one to blame!”

The Elf-Lord only laughed and they slipped silently from the room, leaving the sleeping child to his rest.

To be continued……………………..

A/N: don´t worry – disaster will still strike in chapter two