Chapter XXXV: Healing Hands

The battle was over and the Enemy had fled, but the labours of the Council had only just begun. The able-bodied were swiftly divided into three contingents. The first, directed by Radagast and Glorfindel, set about the ugly task of sorting the dead. The fallen folk of the Elven realms could not be left to moulder in such an evil place, yet neither could they be borne far, for such strength as the company had left would soon be needed to aid the wounded in the retreat to the river. At last it was decided that they should be brought from the forest at least, and laid to rest under the open skies of the Wilderland. With them, of course, the dead soldiers of Saruman would be interred, though the remaining Men seemed less dismayed at the prospect of an expedient burial on the fields of war than were the proud Noldor and the merry Sindar and the reticent Galadhrim.

The second force had the grimmest task. Saruman resolved to search the tower, not only for lingering servants of Sauron, but for any prisoners still languishing within the deep dungeons. With them only the most courageous dared to go. In a remarkable show of selflessness, he had offered to do so alone, but Celeborn had insisted upon gathering a group to accompany him. Elrohir would have sprung forward to volunteer, had he only been conscious, and his bravado might have inspired others, but as it was the Lord of Lórien could muster only a dozen willing to enter that dread place.

Under the guidance of Galadriel the remaining warriors gathered up their wounded comrades and bore them as best they could to the shelter of the trees, as far from the shadow of Dol Guldur as it was possible to bring them. There hasty efforts ensued to separate the injured from the dying and those who could be saved from those who needed only consolation in the last moments before the sundering of body and spirit. The soldiers who knew only the rudiments of battlefield medicine were put to work dressing minor wounds, bearing water to the suffering, and sitting by the hopelessly broken as they died. Those who knew enough to stitch up a raggedly scored leg, or set a broken arm had work aplenty, and through their efforts the trained healers were freed to attend to those damaged beyond the scope of a warrior’s skill. There were dreadful wounds to seal, and arrows to pluck carefully from abdomens and shoulders. There were skulls in need of trepanation, and terrible burns to clean and dress.

Those of greatest skill were drawn aside by Galadriel to the foot of a mighty fir, where lay the victims of the Nazgûl. There had been eight on the plain, surging forth to hold back the enemy while their lord made good his flight. The Witch-King himself had not appeared, and no one could say whether he had come forth in the last moment, with his lord in the hour of his flight, or whether he was far afield, prepared to harbour and succour the dispossessed Necromancer in some dark, secret place.

Elrond cared not. As he raised his head and looked about at the devastation that the wraiths had wrought even without the leadership of their dread commander, he was filled with impotent anger. He had fought for hours to recall these folk from the grip of the Black Breath, and his strength and hope were spent. While his patients slept upon the hard earth, he had returned at last to the first body he had treated: that of his son.

Elrohir was as pale as death itself, lying naked beneath Elrond’s cloak. The wound in his side had snapped his floating ribs and dug deep into his flesh. Only the resistance of his torn mail had prevented the sword from nicking his bowel. It would have been a terrible hurt if inflicted by an ordinary blade. Coming as it did from the weapon of the Ringwraith, it had taken all of Elrond’s skill to halt the bleeding and seal the wound, and all of his strength to recall Elrohir’s ravaged spirit from death. In this matter he had enlisted the help of Galadriel, whose gift was little less than his, and Gandalf, who though he had little training in the arts physic had a will of iron and the authority of the Lords of the West.

In the end, having done all that he could, Elrond had turned to the others who had fallen under the spell of the Úlairí. Though half their number had descended upon Elrohir as he drew dangerously near to the tower, one had dared to assail Saruman whilst the other three had wreaked havoc upon the foremost lines of assault. There were many Men delirious with despair, and those of the Galadhrim who had succumbed were difficult to coax back to consciousness, for they were a gentle folk unused to such foes. Moving from one to the next, calling each by name, Elrond had wandered deep into darkness, leading spirit after spirit back into the living world. His store of athelas, gathered where it grew in wild abundance in the woodlands about Isengard, was nearly depleted, and with it his last shreds of endurance.

Exhausted though he was he bent now to inspect Elrohir’s wound, lifting the thick pad of linen that would have to be strapped down before his son could be moved. The silk thread that held the ragged edges closed was crusted over with cruor, and red ridges of inflammation were spreading from the neat stitches, but the bleeding had stopped at last. Elrond replaced the dressing with care and laid a hand upon his son’s brow. The sleep that lay upon Elrohir was not natural, but it was induced by pain and near-exsanguination, not by the evils of the Nine. Elrond bowed his head almost to Elrohir’s chest and exhaled heavily. His son had recovered from more grievous hurts than this, under less attentive care. Surely he would live.

‘It will be hours, perhaps days before he wakes,’ a gentle voice reminded him. A slender hand gripped his shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught sight of a glimmer like the Morning Star. Galadriel. ‘You have done all that you can. Have a care now for yourself.’

‘I am unscathed,’ Elrond said heavily. ‘I will go and see if I can help those wounded with more common weapons.’

He tried to rise, but he stumbled, falling back to his knees. His vision was momentarily eclipsed with blotches of darkness, and when it cleared Galadriel was kneeling beside him. Her breastplate was sullied with the filth of the battlefield, and the tails of her delicate linen tabard were stiff with blood. Her hair was in disarray, tendrils of silver-gold clinging to her temples and her cheeks. She, too, looked weary, but she was smiling sadly upon him.

‘Not quite unscathed, I think,’ she said. ‘Neither in body nor in spirit.’ She took up his right hand and held it before his eyes. The fingers were glossy with burns, and there were blisters scored open by the thread with which he had stitched his son’s wound. He stared at the hurts in puzzlement for a moment, until he remembered how he had come by them.

‘When I caught up the brand from the embers,’ he murmured vaguely.

Galadriel had already produced a wooden basin of water, and she was washing his hand with care. ‘It is the best of fortune that your sleeve is of wool and snuffed out the sparks that caught it,’ she said, pointing one long finger at the singed fabric. ‘Else you might be burned to the shoulder.’ She produced a little pot that had once been filled with salve, and applied the last scrapings to the worst of the burns, then with strips of linen that were nearly clean she bandaged his fingers one by one, careful to keep the dressing loose enough that it would impair his dexterity but little. ‘There,’ she said when she was finished. ‘So much for your body.’

‘There is no cure for that which ails my spirit,’ Elrond said, and the words came out with unwonted bitterness. ‘We have fought a hopeless battle to buy a brief respite from darkness. My son may yet perish. Far away my land is laid bare to the machinations of the Enemy. What hope is there, lady, in which I may take comfort?’

Her eyes were sad and gentle. ‘You are under the influence of the Shadow, Peredhil; else I know you would not speak thus. You felt as much as I did the weight of the Enemy’s hatred when he hastened forth from his fortress, and now you have laboured long driving forth the Black Breath from the hearts of others. It is little wonder that you are so pained.’ She motioned with her right hand, and one of her soldiers who had been bathing the afflicted came forward with a camp-kettle filled with steaming water. Galadriel thanked him and drained her basin of its fouled fluid, filling it with fresh.

Knowing well what she was about to do, Elrond shook his head. ‘There is so little left, and it will be needed ere we reach the river. Do not squander it upon me.’

‘You, too, will be needed ere we reach the river,’ Galadriel reasoned. Taking up a leaf of athelas she crumbled it into the water, and the pungent fragrance filled the air. She produced a delicate cambric handkerchief, surprisingly unsullied by the perspiration of battle, and wetting it she proceeded to bathe Elrond’s face and brow.

‘You are valiant and bold, child of Elwing,’ she said softly as she worked; ‘but ever do you pay too much mind to the suffering of those around you whilst belittling your own hurts. Such generosity of spirit becomes you, but it is not without its dangers. If we should lose you to the shadows, then who would watch over Eriador? Who would protect the precious treasure that you guard even at the cost of your good repute? You must rest, and forget for a while your griefs and the burden of your foresight.’

Elrond submitted himself to her gentle ministrations, and it seemed that her words and the herb of Númenor each soothed his spirit. Some of the despair lifted away, and the lines of care that marred his ageless face grew less pronounced. Then Galadriel took his left hand, too, and bathed it in the athelas-water, and she reached to brush the blood-crusted hair away from his face. She smiled.

‘There, my son,’ she said softly. ‘That is better, I think. Now why do you not lie down and sleep a little? At dawn we shall begin our withdrawal, and there will be much work for you.’

‘I am not yet ready for sleep,’ Elrond said. ‘And when Saruman comes forth I may be needed to tend to the captives he has freed.’

‘That you will not,’ a grim voice said. The two Elven monarchs turned to see Gandalf, leaning heavily upon his staff, come striding towards them across the bloodied grass. ‘I have just come from the hill. There are no captives left to tend. They were slain at the last by the orcs: the dungeons are a bone-yard of broken corpses. Not lightly does Sauron yield up what he has won.’

‘Then your claim to be the only one to escape his prisons remains unchallenged,’ Elrond said heavily. ‘Save long ago by Beren Erchamion. The torments of the Enemy are terrible. Mayhap the poor wretches were glad of the release.’

‘Mayhap,’ sighed Gandalf. ‘I did not come to speak of that. My lady,’ he said; ‘I must beg of thee a boon.’

‘It is granted, whatever it may be,’ Galadriel said. ‘How could I deny the one who has led us to this bitter victory? What does Mithrandir desire?’

‘The use of the horse that bore me hither,’ Gandalf told her. ‘I have many leagues to cover, and I fear I shall be hard-pressed to reach my destination in time to be of any use. While our struggle here is over, there are powers perhaps less terrible but little less dangerous on the move in the North. The birds have brought rumour to Radagast of strange deeds beside the Long Lake.’

‘Your dragon-slayers,’ Elrond murmured, comprehension dawning slowly through the shroud of fatigue. ‘So from driving forth the Enemy you must turn your thoughts to the destruction of Smaug. How do you hope to achieve it?’

‘I do not,’ Gandalf said; ‘but I have no hope of doing anything at all if I cannot reach the Lonely Mountain swiftly.’

‘Take the horse, then, and with my blessing,’ Galadriel acceded. ‘May it bear you safely to whatever great deeds await you.’

Gandalf reached down to grip Elrond’s shoulder. ‘May you come safely home again,’ he said. ‘If all goes well I shall be passing your way in the spring, and if I do not find you once more secure in your haven I shall be most displeased.’

For the first time in many days, Elrond smiled. ‘And if I learn that you have been toasted alive by dragon-fire, you shall be hard-pressed to endure my wrath,’ he promised. ‘I shall expect a full accounting of your triumphs when next we meet.’

Gandalf snorted appreciatively. Then he bowed low to Galadriel. ‘My thanks, good Queen,’ he said. Then he looked down at Elrohir’s grey-hued form. ‘Sleep long and deep, valiant son of kings,’ he murmured. ‘But in the end you must awake. There are great deeds that yet await you.’

Then, with a last long look at Elrond, he turned and was gone.

lar

Estel awoke abruptly. He had not meant to fall asleep! The morning sun was bright behind the curtains, and as the drowsiness cleared from his eyes he realized that he was lying on Elladan’s bed, and that nearby grave and gentle eyes were watching him. He turned towards their gaze, and was startled to see Erestor sitting by the bed, his long hands folded serenely in his lap.

‘Why are you here?’ the child asked, perhaps too abruptly. He flushed a little, ashamed of taking such a disrespectful tone with his teacher. ‘I ask your pardon,’ he said. ‘I merely meant...’

‘Where are your mother and the son of Elrond,’ Erestor said sagely. ‘Your mother, I think, has arisen at last and is tending to the crippled Dúnadan, whose tenacity is only matched by his good humour. As for Elladan, it is my fond hope that he is resting, for he has sorely taxed his strength, and he is much troubled. As for why I am here,’ he added with a hint of amusement; ‘whether you remember it or no, it was I upon whom Master Elrond laid the charge of your care, and I intend to keep an eye upon you.’

Estel sat up, looking down at his rumpled garments. No one had troubled to undress him, which meant that they had been afraid to wake him. He remembered huddling in his mother’s arms while the afternoon sunlight reflected off of the distant mountains, but after that... He looked sharply at the window, confirming his suspicions. ‘Did I sleep the whole night?’ he asked, hardly daring to hope.

Erestor nodded gravely. ‘It seems that exhaustion conquers even such evil as that which haunts you,’ he said. ‘Be thankful. You had sore need of rest.’

Estel hung his head. ‘I dreamed. Even in daylight I dreamed. And I cried out,’ he confessed miserably. ‘I did not mean to, but when I awoke and saw Elladan beside me, when moments before he was in my mind as men were slaughtered around him... I did not mean to.’ It seemed so inadequate: this paltry justification of his cowardice. ‘I have brought nothing but pain to Elladan and to my mother.’

Erestor regarded him silently for a moment, then got up from his chair and sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up Estel’s hands, clasping them in his own. ‘Son of Elrond, listen to me,’ he said soberly. ‘You have done nothing to earn the suffering you have endured in recent months, nor should you feel guilt for your natural and justifiable fear. You cannot heal all the hurts of this world, nor can you be blamed for them. It is naught but vanity to pretend otherwise.’

Estel considered these words, and they seemed very wise. They sounded, indeed, very much like something that his father would say. ‘Erestor,’ he said softly; ‘what will become of me if Atarinya does not return?’

‘You need have no fear of that, little one,’ said the lore-master, smiling a little and shaking his head. ‘Elrond will return. He knows it would be too cruel to abandon me here to face your impossible questions alone for all eternity.’

Estel ventured a small smile at the familiar jibe. It had been a long while since any of the adults had felt jovial enough to poke fun at his insatiable curiosity. It was oddly comforting.

His expression was not lost on Erestor, who released his hands and clapped him fondly on the shoulder. ‘What say we find you some fresh clothing and go out into the gardens?’ he proposed. ‘Too long has it been since you last walked in the sunlight, and winter is upon us. Soon there will be snow in the Valley: you should enjoy the last golden days while you may.’

Eager assent sprung to Estel’s lips, but he hesitated. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘No, I would like to go and sit with Elladan. He is much troubled, and I should not want him to wake up alone.’

Astonishment flickered faintly across the lore-master’s face, but he schooled his features swiftly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You have a generous spirit, and that should not be discouraged. He lies next door in his brother’s chamber, but I would still like to see you in clean garments first. You are beginning to smell like a Ranger.’

Estel sniffed experimentally. ‘That is unfair!’ he protested with a laugh. To his delight, Erestor smiled. The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps I do need to wash,’ he admitted.

Twenty minutes later, cleaned and freshly clad, he slipped into Elrohir’s room. Elladan was lying in his brother’s bed, leaden eyes closed. His face was taut as if with pain, but his chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythms of sleep. Very quietly, Estel drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed. He studied the face that had so frightened him upon his last awakening.

He wondered what battle he had seen, where the Men of the North and the sons of Elrond had fought so desperately. Imprinted upon his mind was the harsh brutality of the encounter: limbs severed by orcish steel, men rammed through the breast with cruel spears, Elrohir’s cloak rent from his back by a flailing scimitar. He could see the tall, dark man cast his gaze from the enemy as he tried to shield a fallen comrade, and then the explosion of bone and blood and clear fluid as an arrow struck his eye, lodging deep in the wall of the socket. Estel shivered. He wondered who the man was. Elladan had seemed so pained when he realized what Estel had seen... the fallen man must have been a dear friend. Elrohir had said that the sons of Elrond had had many mortal friends, and that they remembered each of them, but it had never occurred to Estel that they might remember their deaths as well as their lives. How horrid, he thought, to watch a friend die in such a terrible way, and to be haunted by it forever! How terrible to be reminded of such sorrows by a thoughtless boy.

He would not make mention of it again, he promised himself. He could bear one more ugly vision. He was less certain about his ability to stand the inevitable inquisitiveness, but he pledged to do his best. He did not wish to hurt Elladan any more than the warrior had already been hurt.

Timidly he reached out his hand and stroked the dark hair upon the crown of the half-elven head. He wished that he could heal the woes of the soldier’s brave heart. He wished that he could soothe his pains as Elladan had eased his own. Was it his imagination, or had the crevices of care faded somewhat from the fair face? Estel reached with his other hand and curled it around Elladan’s fingers. He supposed that he loved the bold warrior that he had long worshiped from afar. On further reflection he decided that this was only natural. After all, if his atar was Elladan’s father, then in a way they were brothers.

lar

The withdrawal to the eaves of Lothlórien was slow and difficult. What had been a four-day journey eastward proved a nine-days’ journey west. There were wounded to be carried, and the bearers, wearied from battle, could walk neither very fast nor very far. Yet at last they reached the place where the golden canopy began, and there they found pavilions waiting for them, furnished with soft mattresses and warm blankets. The folk of Caras Galadhon had prepared for them a resting place, and beneath the mighty trees they were able to wash and to dine on fine foods and to sleep away the exhaustion of their brief but miserable campaign.

Saruman was in excellent spirits, and had been since emerging from the shadow of Dol Guldur with the news that the Enemy seemed to have fled utterly, and did not look to be planning a return. Even the grievous losses among his men seemed to perturb him but little, and he spoke already of his intentions to begin rebuilding his garrison with the choicest picks of Rohan and Gondor.

Radagast had not crossed over Anduin again, but had taken leave of the withdrawing army at the crossroads, bound north to his home in Rhosgobel. He had urgent business to take care of at Gandalf’s request, he said, and in any case he was eager to return to his friends, both winged and four-footed. He solemnly pledged to keep his agents’ eyes upon the abandoned tower, and to send word at once if there was any sign of returning evil. He, too, seemed confident that their errand had proved successful, though he was anxious to be gone from the company of the great ones with whom he had travelled so far.

Celeborn seemed grimly satisfied with the outcome, and though he had assigned a patrol to remain at Amon Lanc for a time he was convinced that Sauron would not attempt to retake the tower. Galadriel, though she kept one anxious eye upon her daughter’s husband, did not seem to share Elrond’s apprehension either. After a few days the Peredhil found himself sorely missing Gandalf’s company, for in the wizard’s well-founded scepticism he found a mirror for his own misgivings.

He had little time to brood, however, for the tending of the wounded took much of his strength. Though most were faring well enough, several did not survive the return journey, and there was Elrohir to care for also. His son passed most of the road to Lórien walking in dreams while his bloodless body lay in the back of a wain that had held water and provisions for the army. He woke seldom, and then only briefly, and such wakenings were accompanied by terrible pain. Upon reaching the encampment beneath the eaves of Lórien, he was laid in a tent apart from the rest, and there tended ceaselessly by one or another of his kindred; for not only his father and his grandparents were present, but Arwen also; for it was she, as regent, who had mobilized her folk to make ready this haven for the battered hosts of the Council.

She was sitting by her brother’s bedside while Elrond meekly took sustenance under her imperious eyes when Elrohir stirred upon his cot. It was the third day since the return of the armies, and on the previous evening the sutures in his side had been removed. Grey eyes struggled to focus, and a faint smile touched pale lips.

‘It seems I walk in legend at last,’ a hoarse voice whispered. ‘For here is Lúthien the fair to wait upon my sickbed.’

Arwen cast down her hoop and needlework, and caught his hand, her fair face bright with joy. ‘You have returned to us at last!’ she said merrily. ‘And it seems you are as impudent as ever.’

‘Be kind to me, little sister,’ Elrohir croaked, furrowing his brows into a sulk. ‘I have been through a terrible ordeal.’

Elrond rose and came swiftly towards his children. ‘How much do you recall?’ he asked, unable to wholly disguise either his anxiety or his relief.

Elrohir shuddered. ‘Too much, I think,’ he muttered. Then his eyes fixed upon Arwen’s face and he tried to smile. ‘You are a poor nurse, lady. Can you not offer water to a fallen hero?’

For a time little of import was said, for Arwen was occupied with her brother’s comfort, and Elrond took the opportunity to question him regarding his pains and the state of his mind. When the examination was ended Elrohir let himself fall back against the cushions. ‘There were four...’ he said, and though he uttered no specifics Elrond knew full well of what he spoke. ‘Why did they come for me?’

‘You drew too near to the tower,’ Elrond said sadly; ‘and the orcs could scarcely waylay you. Also, I think, they feared you less than Galadriel or Glorfindel... or even myself. You were at once a formidable threat and an easy target.’

Elrohir flushed. The sight cheered his father: it seemed he had blood to spare once more. ‘I let myself be cut off from the others,’ he said. ‘I was rapt in the act of combat. I did not pause to think.’

‘No you did not,’ said Glorfindel, who had entered the pavilion unnoticed and was leaning upon the centre post with his arms across his chest. ‘I would have expected better of you. Why did you not have someone to guard your back? You were fortunate that no stray orc-knife felled you long before the Nazgúl made their move.’

Arwen turned upon her brother, astonishment in her eyes. ‘You made no arrangements for a partner?’ she asked in alarm.

Elrohir closed his eyes. ‘I did not think of it,’ he said heavily. ‘It has been so long since I have fought alone; it did not occur to me that without Elladan I should have to make other provisions.’

His sister clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘My poor fool,’ she remarked fondly. ‘Twins are strange creatures. How unfortunate that you were not born conjoined at the hip: then at least you could not be separated.’

‘Have missives been sent to Imladris?’ Elrohir asked, suddenly anxious. ‘Elladan will be fraught with worries...’

‘Not yet,’ Elrond said. ‘I did not wish to send uncertain tidings. Now that you are plainly recovering, messengers will be sent forth.’ He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to voice the yearnings of his heart. ‘If you are well enough in the care of your grandmother, I wish to ride with them,’ he ventured at last. ‘I have been away already too long: I must return to my people.’

‘You must return to Estel, you mean,’ Elrohir said, nodding with understanding that was not mirrored upon his sister’s face. ‘I thought you said that when the Necromancer departed his torment would cease.’

‘So indeed I postulated,’ Elrond acceded; ‘but my heart will have no peace until that supposition is proved.’

‘The hosts cannot be mobilized yet,’ Glorfindel said gravely. ‘Too many of our folk are weakened with their wounds, and soon there will be snow in the northern lands. I would be reluctant to depart from Lórien before the spring.’

‘Yet messengers must be sent,’ Elrond said; ‘and if our valiant invalid will give me leave, I shall depart with them tomorrow.’

‘You do not need my leave, Atarinya,’ Elrohir said gravely; ‘but you do have my blessing. I would have you give Elladan comfort also, and do try to keep him from riding too swiftly to berate me.’

Arwen rose and laid her hand upon her father’s arm. ‘Our gallant knight will be well cared-for,’ she pledged; ‘but can you not tarry until spring with Glorfindel? Too long have we been separated, and I fear that it will be some years yet before my faithful champions will suffer me to cross the mountains.’ She cast a tender, reproving look at her prostrate brother.

‘Alas, I cannot,’ Elrond said, raising his hand to stroke her twilight tresses. ‘I have another child who has greater need of his father than you, my dearest one. I must needs ride with what haste I may.’

Arwen nodded sombrely and turned her back, gliding to the far side of the pavilion. She stood for a moment, staring into the corner where the canvas was butted together with fine stitches of green. Then she spoke. ‘Father,’ she asked; ‘how old is this mortal who is so dear to your heart?’

‘He is ten years of age,’ Elrond said. ‘Not yet half-grown.’

She inclined her head. After a soft inhalation she turned, and she was smiling. ‘I shall be sure to return to Imladris before he comes to manhood, so that I may endeavour to understand why you love him so,’ she promised. Then she shifted her gaze to Elrohir and said teasingly, ‘Surely fifteen years will be long enough for you to purge the passes, now that the Necromancer is gone from the Wilderland.’

Elrohir made a cheeky rebuttal, but Elrond did not stop to hear it. There were preparations to be made, and he had need of conference with Galadriel and Celeborn before he departed. He could linger no longer: his heart yearned for home.