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to lose hope is to give up  by Laikwalâssê

To Lose Hope, is To Give Up

Disclaimer:

The characters, 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 is only my second try at fanfic, this time with a longer chapter-story. Don´t flame me, English isn´t my first language. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. Many thanks to my wonderful beta Erulisse. 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 5: Tragedies

After he had finished tending his patients Centhar was finally able to leave the tent. His worry for the Elf-Lords drew him toward the still burning house where he paced before the main door watching anxiously for their return. He should not have allowed them to enter the building again.  

“Allowed…,” a bitter laugh escaped him at the thought. How could he have forbidden his Lord to go back in? But, he told himself, he should have tried harder to convince them not to do so. By so doing, however, he would have doomed the human child to certain death. He shook his head, angry at his failure. If he had not forgotten about the boy, none of this would have happened. 

With every passing minute, he knew their chance of survival decreased, and from the look in Lady Celebrían’s eyes as he turned to her, she knew it as well. After delivering her children to the care of their nurse, she too had arrived at the front door, nearly out of her mind with worry for her husband. 

They heard a loud crack, and the healer quickly grabbed her, pulling her further back as a large piece of wood from the porch roof came down sending glowing sparks in every direction. Holding the terrified Lady in his arms, he briefly closed his eyes. Now there was no hope left that any one could escape this inferno. He felt sure that the three elves had been gone for too long by now. ‘Please, let their deaths be swift,’ he thought despairingly. Celebrían turned and bowed her head as she too seemed to realise that this tragedy would change their lives forever. 

At that moment, the two elves heard a shout and turned quickly back to face the house. Centhar could not believe his eyes. Erestor stumbled through the main door clutching a bundle tightly in his arms. The dark haired councillor had accomplished the seemingly impossible: he had found the boy. With a few long strides the healer hastened up the steps and managed to catch the elf before he could hit the ground.  

He carefully removed the little boy from Erestor’s death-like grip and placed him into the outstretched arms of a helper, who turned at once and hurried toward the healing tent. Centhar did not even have the time to discover if Arahel still lived but, knowing that the boy was safe, he turned back to his patient. He could not help but grimace at the sight of Erestor’s face and hands, which were badly burned.  

Lowering his ear to Erestor’s chest, Centhar was relieved to detect regular, if laboured, breathing. He was in no immediate danger of dying, and though the healing process would be most painful, given proper care, in time the burns would heal. Centhar helped to place the elf onto a litter in order to carry him to the healing tent with minimal jostling. Just as he was about to lift the litter, however, he heard another cry and within moments he once again had reason to doubt his senses.  

In the open door now stood Glorfindel swaying dangerously, Lord Elrond’s unmoving body in his arms.  

Ensuring that Erestor was taken care of, Centhar once again sprung into motion and raced toward the two bodies that now lay unmoving on the ground. 

As he knelt down, he gasped, knowing that his skills as a healer were inadequate for what was needed here. Glorfindel was badly injured, his breathing laboured, his face and the visible parts of his body showing severe burns. Lord Elrond looked far worse. Besides the equally bad burns, his right hand was severely damaged and blood trickled thickly through a dirty, makeshift bandage wrapped around his head.  

However, what really caused the healer’s heart to miss a beat was the recognition that the Elf-Lord was not breathing. Fully focused now on the patient in most dire need, he entrusted Glorfindel’s care to his colleagues, and he placed his lips upon Elrond’s, trying to force the breath back into his Lord’s lungs with his own. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Celebrían, seemingly overcome with shock, kneel next to him as he continued with his desperate ministrations. Paying her little heed, Centhar pulled his head back slightly to study Elrond’s body for any signs of breathing. Seeing none, he tried again to press air into the tormented lungs of his Lord. Horrible moments passed while Centhar tried to detect any signs of life in his patient, but much to his dismay, the second attempt also achieved no result.  

“Please no!” he heard Celebrían cry and, feeling her pleading and desperate gaze upon him Centhar´s actions grew more frantic. How long had it been since the Elf-Lord last drew breath? Was this all in vain, was Elrond already beyond aid? What other option did he have but to try again? 

With a desperate prayer, he tried once more to give Elrond breath and much to his delight and amazement, finally the Elf-Lord responded with a violent cough. The joy left quickly, however, as Elrond remained unconscious, not showing any other signs of life. Nevertheless, the immediate danger had passed and the healer gave Celebrían a reassuring nod. 

After watching the laboured breathing a little longer, Centhar removed the bandage carefully to take a closer look at the head wound. He saw that he had underestimated the injury at first. There was a deep gash over the left brow, and as he carefully lifted the eyelids to peer at the pupils, he saw no immediate reaction. Maybe it was too dark to gain a proper reaction; he tried to reassure himself, not wanting to think further about any possible implications. 

As Celebrían touched his forearm to gain his attention, he quickly hid his emotions, not wishing to upset her further.  “How is he?” she whispered, barely able to steady her voice. 

Centhar swallowed, not wanting to lie to her. “His condition is bad, but we must wait the rest of the night, then I can say more. By morning light, we may realize that it looks worse than it actually is.” His words sounded hollow even in his own ears and judging from Celebrían’s expression, they sounded hollow to her ears as well. 

Unable to look at the Lady’s red-rimmed eyes any longer, the healer sighed and carefully lifted the Elf-Lord on the litter brought by two apprentices. Followed by concerned stares and an occasional gasp, the procession reached the healing tent and Centhar placed his Lord right next to Glorfindel and Erestor. 

Now able to treat Elrond’s wounds properly, he cleaned the head wound and pressed a thick patch of linen over the gash to lessen the blood flow. This wound also required stitches to close it properly. After placing healing herbs over the gash he bound a bandage into place. With a wet cloth he gently wiped the blood and dirt from the pale face, while under the critical observation of Celebrían.  

With a thankful nod, he took a bowl filled with water, richly smelling of athelas, from Amaril, a young apprentice. Directing a pleading gaze toward Celebrían, his Lady understood and rose. He did not wish for her to witness the task of bathing Elrond’s burns. With a light kiss to her husband’s forehead, she walked toward the tent’s entrance where Lindir was waiting for her. 

Sighing with relief, Centhar carefully grasped his Lord’s abused right arm and began removing the blood and dirt from the ugly looking burns. Quickly looking around, he was relieved to see that Erestor and Glorfindel were also in good hands and being properly cared for. Returning to his dreadful task he felt that his hands trembled slightly, never knowing, if he removed a piece of skin, cloth, dried blood or simply dirt. He was very grateful, that the Elf-Lord was so deeply unconscious, because he knew how painful burns could be, especially while being tended to. After what seemed like an eternity he had cleaned all of the burns and applied a thick layer of healing salve. He washed his hands and covered Elrond with a light blanket.  

He leaned back and listened to Elrond’s breathing, which came in short, laboured gasps due to the great amount of smoke he had inhaled. Wetting a cloth in the athelas-saturated water, he pressed it gently over his Lord’s nose and mouth. After a while the painful intake of air eased somewhat but remained frighteningly uneven. Unable to do any more for him now, Centhar turned when he heard a moan behind him. He was surprised to see Glorfindel well on his way back to the waking world.

He wiped Glorfindel’s sweat-covered face with a wet cloth, careful of the many blisters and other injuries, and waited until the golden-haired warrior had managed to open his eyes. Immediately, though, Glorfindel squeezed them shut again and gasped in pain, trying to cope with the many hurts of his body.  

As he opened his eyes once more, Centhar quickly shifted to block his view of the dark haired elf lying next to him. Not fooled so easily despite his state, Glorfindel tried to rise. “How is he?” he croaked hoarsely. 

Gently pushing the warrior back to the pillows, Centhar sighed, pouring him a glass of water mixed with pain relieving herbs holding the glass to his parched lips. Glorfindel refused the drink, and groaned as he tried to lift his head. Centhar knew that Glorfindel would not back down until he had his answer.  

“He is gravely injured. I do not know if he will survive this night.” 

To be continued……………………..





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