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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 7: Why does Nana cry?

Before Centhar had the chance to take one step he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning he could not hide his surprise quick enough, as he looked into the sweat and dirt covered face of Lord Celeborn. The sight increased his respect for the elf even higher, yet he lowered his eyes in near shame not having expected the Elf-Lord to actually participate in the clean-up effort. Interpreting the younger elf´s expression correctly, Celeborn chuckled until the healer looked at him again.

“I hope you are rested a bit,” he said; as always coming straight to the point. “We could need your help in the infirmary.”

Centhar gasped. The mention of the infirmary brought his attention back to his initial search. Easily guessing the healer´s thoughts, Celeborn gently steered the younger elf toward the house. Smiling slightly, Centhar bowed and quickly excused himself anxious to look after his patients, especially the three Elf-Lords.

With a suspicious look toward the main entrance now stabilized with thick wooden beams he nonetheless admired with awe the great amount of work already done. Many helpers were busy tearing down hopelessly burned beams from the front porch and the main door, as well as removing shutters and benches and inspecting and repairing other things still usable, like to Centhar´s surprise, a beautifully carved rounded arch at the bottom of the steps, which the fire had spared. Walking down the now cleared corridor leading into the healing wing he could barely believe that an inferno had raged here just a few hours ago.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the first re-established sickroom and saw Lady Celebrían cradled in her mother´s embrace crying. An icy hand tightened around his heart and he quickly looked toward the bed occupied by Lord Elrond dreading what he would find. After a few seconds of intent observation he clearly recognized the slight fall and rise of his Lord´s chest with relief.

His audible sigh drew the attention of one of his assistants. Raising from beside the bed the young healer joined him at the door. “I’m glad you are on your feet again,” he said softly, squeezing Centhar’s arm lightly.

“How is he?” Centhar asked equally softly.

With a careful look toward the two women, the other healer hesitated. Understanding the silent plea, Galadriel walked her daughter out of the room. Looking after them until the door had closed, Centhar redirected his gaze toward his colleague. “Well?” he inquired.

Taking a deep breath the young assistant looked back at him. “His breathing system is badly compromised. There were times that we feared he would stop breathing completely but what troubles me most is his prolonged unconsciousness. At first I thought it came from the head wound, but now I fear the brain may be damaged because of the lack of oxygen.”

Centhar paled, as his most feared worry seemed to have come to pass. They could handle many sorts of injuries, but this kind of hurt was beyond their skills. He looked rather helplessly at the pale figure on the bed. If Elrond died or was unable to rule Imladris any longer, then the future of the Valley lay in darkness. He knew there were a few elves that could take over Elrond´s duties for a while, but the charismatic Elf-Lord could never be replaced, nor would anyone want to.

Banishing these thoughts resolutely from his mind and knowing that he could do nothing at the moment but wait and hope for the best, Centhar nodded at the other elf reassuringly and quickly began caring for his patients until late in the afternoon.

Work really helped barricade against brooding, he thought, as he took a break and walked outside into the garden. The garden was slowly becoming the neatly arranged space it was before. As he rounded a bush, he spotted Lord Glorfindel sitting on the grass, his arms around the shoulders of the two distressed twins. Not wanting to intrude, but near enough to overhear the conversation, the healer sat on the stone bench, observing the scene before him.

“Shht, young ones,” the golden haired warrior soothed the sobbing children, “you cannot see your Ada right now. He is very ill and needs his rest. We do not want to disturb him, right?”

Two identical faces looked up and shook their little heads. Glorfindel sighed and stretched out on the grass, beckoning the two elflings even closer. As the boys bounced to the left and right of him, Centhar saw a grimace of pain flicker over Glorfindel´s face. The healer cringed inwardly, knowing full well that the warrior was far from healed.

“Ada will not leave us?” Elladan suddenly asked, raising anxious eyes at the Elf-Lord. The healer tensed and was fairly relieved not to be in Glorfindel´s position.

Glorfindel bent the small head to his chest and planted a kiss on top of the raven hair. “Why do you ask this, Elladan?” he whispered.

Elrohir answered instead of his brother. “Because Nana keeps crying. She always tries to hide it, but I have seen her many times. We haven’t seen her cry before.”

Rising on his elbows Glorfindel sighed, addressing both elflings. “Your Nana is tired and worried, yet your Ada will recover in no time, you will see,” he said so confidently, that a shiver ran down Centhar´s spine. Not looking really convinced the boys snuggled close to the warrior, their only anchor at the moment.

´I hope you are right, Glorfindel. I hope you are right.´ Centhar prayed and left the spot unseen. With quick strides he returned to the infirmary and slipped inside closing the door silently.

While he was checking on the first patient, he felt like he was being watched and he turned around. Joy lit up his face, as he saw Erestor awake, sitting in his bed. “How do you feel?” the healer asked softly, quickly crossing the distance to the bed. Erestor groaned. “Like a roasted chicken,” he tried to jest and shook his head in mock indignation, but regretted his movements instantly, as a sharp pain shot up his back and a fit of coughing overtook him.

Centhar smiled. Erestor could be as annoying as Glorfindel, if not worse, when being confined to bed. However, he felt sympathy when he saw Erestor wince in pain. His burns were still raw and far from healed. When Erestor´s coughing fit had eased the healer pressed him gently back on his pillow.

“Don’t move too much. The burns need time to heal.”

Erestor snorted again, but suddenly went grave. Looking directly at the healer he asked. “How is Elrond?”

Centhar sighed knowing that the councillor too would not back down until he had his answer. “He’s unconscious and shows no sign of waking any time soon.”

Catching the undertone of desperation not expressed by the healer and looking into the worried eyes, Erestor was intelligent enough to know what this meant. He had worked with the Elf-Lord for much too long and had his words about head wounds clearly in mind. If a patient with a severe head wound did not wake within 48 hours, then his chances of waking at all would wane with every passing minute.

 

……………………………………

Galadriel was sitting on a low wall surrounding the terrace with the little human boy Arahel in her lap. The splinted foot dangled over her knee and the child did not seem bothered by it any longer. Thankfully, the inhaled smoke had not done great damage to the young one´s lungs. He coughed occasionally and was a bit breathless, but given time this would heal without lingering effects.

Together they chased bugs over the rough stones, until they disappeared into the many crevices between the stones. The boy giggled as an ant crawled over his knee. Galadriel looked up, as she heard hoof beats nearing the courtyard.

“Someone is coming,” she whispered into the boy’s ear, earning a bewildered look. “I can hear nothing,” the boy stated. “But I can!” Galadriel smiled. “Come let us see who it is.” Scooping the boy up and into her arms, she walked toward the gate, awaiting the oncoming riders. She had detected that the riders must be men; they were much too noisy to be elves.

As the group of men came into sight, the boy’s face lit up and he wriggled in Galadriel’s arms, demanding to be set down. “Baradon, Baradon,” the boy cried, limping toward the first rider.

Instantly the men stopped and a sturdy grim looking man dismounted and quickly gathered the child into his arms. Glorfindel had joined Galadriel at the main gate.  The two golden-haired elves smiled at the reunion and stood patiently waiting to greet the men.

“Arahel, what happened?” the man cried, lifting the little boy from the ground.

“I broke my ankle and then the house burned and I could not get out and then….” The last words were lost in sobs. Alarmed the man first looked at the injured child and then wide-eyed at the chaos still surrounding the house.

With a grim face he stared back at the two elves, the sobbing boy still in his arms. “What happened here?” he grumbled looking straight at Glorfindel. Feeling the anger of the royal councillor was mostly coming from his worry; the golden haired warrior ignored the accusing tone and inclined his head.

“Welcome back, Baradon. “As you can see, we experienced a serious fire a day ago.  Although Arahel is injured, the sprain of his ankle occurred the evening before the fire started while he was playing in the garden.”

Before Glorfindel could continue the man grabbed his arm; painfully unaware of the still healing burns. “And then you forgot him in the house, huh?” the man snapped.

Unimpressed by the angry tone, Glorfindel wrenched free of the painful grasp and sighed. “You are right. First we had forgotten about him in the chaos, but then we went back in and were able to rescue him. No harm was done. Don’t worry. He’s fine.”

The man’s eyes were on fire now. “Oh, how gracious. I entrusted him to your care and you left him in a burning house!”

Sensing the anger building up in Glorfindel at the man’s accusation, Galadriel stepped forward and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You should calm down now. No harm has befallen your charge. It was a tragedy; no one is to blame.”

Snorting the man stormed past the elves, followed by his men. “I want to speak with Lord Elrond, now!” he said over his shoulder and was out of sight, before the elves could say another word.

Glorfindel glared angrily after the men and Galadriel said softly: “Don’t be angry with him. His anger is not directed at you. It is born out of concern and fear of losing the child he has been entrusted to take care off. He lost his wife three years ago and this child, though not his own, is the only joy left to him.”

Knowing that Galadriel was right Glorfindel relaxed a bit. “I know. Let us return to the house, before he, in his fury, destroys what the fire has left.”

Galadriel smiled. Glorfindel was on the mend, when he could jest again.

To be continued……………………..





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