Chapter 3:  sights we never wanted to see

A silent procession was following the great white horse up the small mountain path. Only certain elves were allowed to know the whereabouts of this particular pathway.

The threatening clouds overhead had darkened even more promising heavy rain. Elrond, riding his black war stallion, led the troop of warriors and a few helpers were guiding the wagon.

His black stallion danced nervously sideways; the pace the elves were taking was too slow for his liking. Elrond patted the proud neck affectionately smoothing down the boiling temper of the horse.

Asfaloth, not far ahead of them, was just as nervous. His silent protest of the slow progress was displayed by flared nostrils and an impatiently swishing tail.

Elrond was sympathizing with the animals but the wagon had to be manoeuvred carefully up the steep incline.

However the nervousness was not only felt by the horses. The elves were as anxious to arrive at their destination. They still did not know what awaited them, and thoughts of terrible images assailed every one of them.

The mood of the party matched the grey storm clouds overhead, yet they carried themselves with dignity. They would bring home their loved ones for the last time. They would pay their last respects to their fallen comrades.

After a particularly difficult bend in the path Elrond looked over his shoulder and nodded; relieved, when the wagon managed the turn without any problem.

With a heavy heart the Elf-lord observed the wagon. If all of the patrol members had died then they would need the huge cart. Straightening, the Elf-lord gazed toward the end of the line of elves. Elrohir was bringing up the rear. He had sent Elladan ahead, scouting.

Automatically, Elrond patted the large bag slung over the flanks of his steed. It contained many healing supplies he had brought with him.  He did not know whether he had done so out of long practice or….hope? Erestor had raised a single eyebrow but said nothing. No one else had acknowledged the bag or commented on it.

Briefly the Elf-lord wondered what would become of Asfaloth. He shook his head in annoyance. It was the least of his concerns right now.

Having finally reached open land, after travelling through the thick trees giving additional shelter to Imladris, the rain began to pour down. Within minutes the elves and horses were drenched.

Elrond cautioned for more alertness now that they were near the area where Glorfindel had probably found the orc den. The party would be a much easier target than the patrol had been and he would take no chances.

He ordered two more scouts to ride ahead. The power that protected the valley was no longer of benefit to them.

Half an hour later Elladan and the scouts appeared on the plain quickly coming closer in a fast gallop. Just in front of his father the older twin reined in his horse sharply. With a raised hand Elrond had stopped the trek.

Looking at his son’s face; the Elf-lord knew instantly that they had found the spot where the party had been slain. Horror and sorrow was etched onto the three faces.

“My Lord,” Elladan reported, “just behind the tree line is our destination. We could not detect any orcs or foul beasts in the near surroundings.”

Elrond nodded acknowledging the curt and official tone of his son; knowing that Elladan had chosen this way to deal with his emotions. Without another word the older twin turned; closely followed by his brother who had come to the front of the line.

Elrond gave the signal to continue. He let his gaze wander over the near trees. Something he could not place was tugging at his mind; a presence almost too weak to catch but definitely still lingering.

He strengthened the barrier around his mind to keep the enemy from knowing his presence was there for the time being. Vilya was vibrating on his finger; a clear sign that more than just orcs were at work here.

His senses heightened he followed his sons at a more sedate pace having to acknowledge the order Erestor had given to stay within the protection of the warriors. Asfaloth had already vanished beyond the trees.

When the party of elves had reached a clearing inside the trees hey could not only see but also smell that they had reached their destination. An incredible stench assaulted their noses and a few fought with their heaving stomachs.

Elrond reined in his horse when he had a clear view of the scene. The little clearing was littered with orc corpses. Orcs smelled bad while they were alive, but when they were dead the stench was indescribable.

However what made Elrond have to swallow hard was not the foul air but the many dead bodies of elven warriors lying among the orcs.

The entire party:  elves, warriors and helpers alike, stood frozen looking at the massacre with stony faces. The warriors, more accustomed to such a sight, sadly lowered their eyes while a young stable hand who had volunteered to drive the wagon could no longer hold his tears in check.

With wide eyes he stared at the bloody bodies, before he leapt from the wagon and retched at the base of a tree. Erestor silently helped the young elf back to his feet after he had emptied his stomach from whatever had been in it and laid a comforting arm around the slender shoulders.

He placated the concerned look of his Lord with a shake of his head. The lad would be all right.

If anyone had harboured the hope that Thalan’s message did not match reality, that hope was now extinguished. Nothing was stirring in the clearing anymore. Elrond became aware of his sons standing on the opposite side of the clearing. Their faces looked like they were carved out of stone.

He tried to reach them through the bond he shared with them; but he was rejected by a cold barrier shielding their wounded souls. They would accept no comfort now.

No one could even imagine what tragedy must have taken place here, albeit several of the elves in the party had seen many battles and had seen comrades fall in the past.

Silently Elrond let his gaze wander around the clearing; instinctively counting. He had reached ten dead warriors when he heard Erestor take in a sharp breath and he looked up.

Following the councillor’s gaze Elrond instantly saw what had made his advisor gasp. There in the middle of the clearing lay Glorfindel, pinned to the ground with his own sword, and without doubt, dead. Asfaloth was dancing around the fallen elf neighing quietly.

Elrond closed his eyes. His worst nightmare had come true.

………………………………………

His gaze was still fixed on the spot where the blond elf was lying when something brushed against his mind.  He suddenly staggered. The utter evil made him momentarily recoil. A black malice he hadn’t felt for a long time was trying to tear his mind down. He began to shiver and his world narrowed to a tunnel with no opening at the end. Black was the only colour of his surroundings now.

While shoving back the presence that tried to completely engulf him with a mighty push, he groaned and sank to his knees. The sudden and forceful attack had surprised him but only for a moment. Yet, he would need a few minutes to regain his equilibrium.

The twins’ heads snapped up when they heard the painful sound from across the clearing. Their eyes widened in horror when they witnessed their father sinking to the ground. Quickly they were at his side and saw, with worry, his tightly closed eyes and clenched fists.

The warriors did not move; surprised and at the same time shocked; not sure what had attacked their Lord. Seeing nothing obvious that could have caused such a reaction they quickly guessed it had to be some sort of mental battle. Many hands wandered to the hilt of their sword or readied a bow, even though those weapons were useless in this case.

Knowing exactly what was happening, Erestor ordered the warriors to take up posts around the clearing. The attacker’s power was his mental force, yet he had to reside somewhere nearby in bodily form.

This accomplished, the councillor knelt in front of his Lord and motioned every one into silence. He had seen this often enough and the best way of aiding his Lord was not to distract him.

When Elrond finally opened his eyes Erestor nearly groaned noticing the look in the grey eyes. Elrond did not have to explain what had assailed him. This experience once undergone was forever etched into your mind and Erestor had experienced it before.

Looking between his father and the advisor Elladan narrowed his eyes when neither of the two was forthcoming with an explanation. “Ada, what’s wrong?” he asked; unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

Shaking his head, yet without any word the Elf-lord came back to his feet. Bewildered the brothers looked at each other.

“We’ve work to do and should do it quickly. We must not linger here more than necessary,” Elrond said curtly and turned to stride toward the wagon.

Feeling the consternation coming from his sons nearly physically, the Elf-lord took a deep breath and closed his mind to hide his thoughts. They had enough to weigh down their spirits; they did not need to be burdened with another shock.

Reaching the wagon Elrond briefly pressed his brow against the side platform to gather his strength. After a moment he took a deep breath and carefully extended his senses. The presence was gone. He could no longer detect anything unusual.

Not daring to approach him, the elves had started recovering the dead. Body after body was wrapped in linen and laid into the wagon. The orc carcasses were dragged to the edge of the clearing to be burned. It was a most unpleasant task, but at the moment it was more than welcome.

Elrond observed his sons. Getting no further information they had directed their focus on retrieving still usable weapons, clothes, and personal items they would give back to the family members as a meagre memory of their loved ones. Elrond sighed. He would explain later. Now was neither the right time nor the right place.

Letting his gaze wander around the clearing Elrond clearly recognized the desperate attempt by every member of the group to avoid approaching the dead Troop commander; much less do to him what must be done. This was not out of respect but everyone dreaded to even look at the now deceased beloved warrior.

Straightening his shoulders the healer strode forward, knowing that this was his task alone, and knelt down beside his friend. He praised the Valar for the small mercy that the warrior’s eyes were closed.

The sight that his body presented was hard enough to bear. In a nearly detached manner he let his eyes wander over the mutilated body bearing more wounds than he was willing to count and his gaze stopped at the sword that pinned the blond to the ground. It had penetrated all the way through his left side. The Elf-lord swallowed.

The warrior must have been already on the ground with no chance to avoid the strike of his own sword. What had happened here? Glorfindel was one of the best fighters in all of Middle-earth and no orc would have been able to disarm the accomplished warrior and defeat him thus.

What if the Balrog slayer had fought a battle on two fronts? A battle he was no longer able to concentrate on because his mind was distracted otherwise?

Knowing that only Glorfindel could have answered that question; Elrond reached out, from long routine to touch the elf’s neck for a heartbeat and was not surprised to find none.

Aware of the gazes following him, he rose slowly to his feet, grabbed the hilt of the sword and took a deep breath. He was unwilling to bear the sight any longer. With a determined tug he wrenched the sword free. The blade slid from the body with a sickening noise and Elrond flung it to the side angrily.

The next instant however he froze when a heavy rivulet of bright red blood spurted from the wound and the body jerked away from the pain. With a cry of dismay the Elf-lord quickly knelt on the muddy ground again.

*Valar, he’s still alive,* he thought while gathering his wits. *Dead elves do not bleed and do not jerk away!* his mind screamed when realisation hit him.

All motion in the clearing had come to a standstill; all eyes were drawn the healer’s hand when Elrond reached out again to search for a heartbeat.

Making a conscious effort to calm himself, the Elf-lord concentrated to detect the life sign he so desperately searched for. Yet again his fingers could detect nothing. “This cannot be,” he declared not even caring that he spoke aloud.

He had seen the body react in a way only a still living one could react, but for that the heart must still be beating….

With gratitude he welcomed the steadying presence of his sons in his mind and allowed their spirits to support him. They were kneeling beside him now following his ministrations with stony faces; their earlier rejection already forgotten.

After endless minutes Elrond could finally feel it; a very slow and faint beating beneath his fingertips almost too weak to be detected.

*How could I have missed it in the first place?* he scolded himself, nonetheless relieved at this result. The hopeful look on Elrohir´s face nearly carried him away.

However, a moment later his healer’s rational mind took over again. A heartbeat was no guarantee for survival. The blond elf had lain here for hours slowly bleeding to death from the uncounted wounds. His body was nearly frozen in the chill air and his temperature already below any level of hope.

Nonetheless the healer in him could do nothing differently. While pressing a thick patch of linen Elrohir had handed him to the bleeding hole, he dragged his cloak from his shoulders to cover the deadly pale and still body to shield him from further rain.

When his heavy bag was dropped next to him he looked up into the grim face of his eldest. Elladan was an accomplished healer himself. The initial joy had given way to reality.

Elrond nodded his thanks. “Other survivors?” he asked in a controlled voice. Elrohir only shook his head. Elrond nodded redirecting his attention to his patient. He had one survivor here, who would need his entire range of healing abilities.

The elves continued with their task until the last body was recovered and every orc piled on the clearing’s edge.

While working, the Elf-lord had compartmentalized the friend and transformed to a focused healer a self-protection concept he had long established to be able to treat friends or family-members.

With the help of his sons he cleaned wounds, stitched gashes, washed abrasions and bandaged nearly every visible part of the fair-haired elf’s upper body. Every few minutes he checked for a heartbeat and listened to Glorfindel’s breathing, knowing that the thin lifeline could snap at any moment.

Again he knew he was lying to himself. Glorfindel was strong in body and mind but even within these premises he had practically no chance to survive. His needs had been neglected for too long. Too much time had gone by for the hope of recovery.

For hour after hour the healer gained victories over one problem only to have another arise. The fight for this precious life became a desperate race against time.

At some point Elrond had lost all track of time. His world had narrowed to the wounded body before him. He had not even registered that Erestor had erected a small tent over him to shield them from the still pouring rain.

When nothing more could be done, the Elf-lord wrapped the wounded body in several cloaks and sank back on his haunches. He accepted the mug of steaming tea Erestor offered him with a grateful nod.

After ensuing that the blond warrior was resting as comfortably as possible under these circumstances Elrond sat on the ground in front of the tent and let his gaze wander around their little camp. Nothing remained to be done.

He closed his eyes and extended his senses again beyond the little clearing. The evil presence was gone.

“Elrond?” the Elf-Lord looked up at his soft spoken name. “How is he?” the dark haired councillor asked in a whispered tone, albeit loud enough for every one at the campsite to hear.

Elrond considered his answer well. Yet who would he fool? All had seen the dreadful condition the warrior was in. He decided for a compromise. “He is stable and not deteriorating further,” he answered knowing that Erestor understood what he was not saying.

“Would you like to depart, or shall we establish a camp for the night?” Erestor asked. Elrond again considered his answer carefully. Staying here in the cold and wet camp would surely not improve the well being of their wounded friend, but was transporting him home with all the stress and jostling the right decision? Either way was a risk. Coming to a decision he looked up.

“We will return home,” he declared earning silent nods and relieved sighs from all around. Erestor rose without comment.

*If he’s going to die, then it should be at home,*` Elrond added silently. One look at his sons’ faces told him that they had read his mind as well.

To be continued……………………