Chapter 5: duties we never wanted to do

It was still dark, but with the promise of dawn when the Elf-Lord finally stirred. The younger twin loosened his hold to give his father room to move. The healer opened his eyes slowly and looked at the older twin sitting a few feet away from him with Glorfindel’s head pillowed in his lap.

Only then did he become aware of the fact that he was leaning heavily against someone. He relaxed instantly when he sensed who was steadying him. The steady flow of comfort and support from his child was calming and refreshing. However, he frowned when his memory eluded him for a second:  why did he feel so weak and why he was in need of mental and physical support?

He turned his head to look at his youngest son but regretted the action halfway. With a groan, he sank back and his hands flew up toward his temples. With circular motions, he tried to soothe his piercing headache. While still searching his scattered memory he felt more and more upset that one of his children had to support him.

As a father and a healer, he knew that they needed their strength in mind and body as badly as he did after all that had happened. With this realisation, his memory came rushing back like an icy bucket of water thrown in his face.  His head jerked up with a start so that he could look again at the still form of his Troop commander.

With a sigh of relief, he could detect that his friend was still breathing and he could nearly see the flow of energy from his eldest son enveloping the fëa of the warrior. Now he remembered why he felt so drained and dizzy.

His healing trance to save his friend had depleted his strength. Judging by the disapproving look his youngest son shot him, he had overdone it, but what other options had been left to him?

At the faint sound responding to the pain, Elladan’s head jerked up in alarm. Seeing his father in distress, he directed a concerned gaze at his brother. While still supporting the fëa of Glorfindel, Elladan had no additional reserves to determine what had caused his father pain.

*It is a headache and dizziness. Nothing is attacking him,* his brother told him without words and Elladan relaxed marginally. The older twin had long expected an attack, but either the evil one had retreated or did not dare to approach again. Even if the Elf-lord was unconscious, his ring still protected its bearer and was a force in itself.

Having heard the commotion the warriors slowly gathered, waiting for orders on how they should proceed. Relief was visible on the fair faces when they noticed that their Lord had finally awakened. After a few moments more, Elrond struggled to his feet with the reluctant help of Elrohir. The younger twin would have liked it better if his father had granted himself a bit more rest. Yet the healer strode over and knelt beside the warrior. However, when he extended his hand to lay it on the elf’s chest Elladan quickly shoved his hand beneath his father’s palm.

“No, Adar, you have nothing more to give. Glorfindel is stable for now. You have to rest yourself!” The narrowed eyes and the agitated reply of the younger elf betrayed the worry and fear he harboured for his father. Elrond was initially angered by being reprimanded but that feeling quickly faded when he recognized the concerned undertone in the voice of his son.

He gazed deeply into the eyes of his child and swallowed when Elladan briefly dropped his guard and let his father see what had happened a few hours before. The fear and concern that they could lose two of their most loved ones was still fresh and frightening, as well as the worry of being attacked again with no means or strength to repel the evil.

Yet the Elf-Lord also saw the determination of his headstrong son to save his life even if it would cost them the warrior’s life. Elladan met the gaze of his father steadily. He had made this decision and he would stand fast, no matter how his father would judge this.

Feeling the calming presence of Elrohir who had watched the silent dispute with growing concern Elrond raised his hand and laid it instead on Elladan´s arm. “You are right, my son. I am sorry for the concern I caused you and your brother, but otherwise….” he trailed off and directed a thoughtful look at Glorfindel. Even without touching the limp body, he could detect enough that caused him concern. The state of his friend’s health was still very grave.

Elrohir retreated from both the minds of his brother and father when he sensed that the storm was over, while Elladan closed his eyes and relaxed a bit. When the love of his father enveloped his fëa, he shuddered and could barely hold back the tears that threatened to fall. *I love you, my sons* was the balm that revived both brothers more than other words could have. After Elladan had opened his eyes and nodded at his father, the Elf-lord rose and instructed the guards to organize a swift departure.

Glorfindel was placed into the litter again, after the healer had convinced himself that the wound that had caused their stop was still closed and not causing further trouble. Within a few moments, the elves could resume their walk. They were eager to reach their home as quickly as possible.  Elrond directed his senses outward at their surroundings but again detected nothing out of the ordinary. However, he would not relax until after they had crossed the river.

……………………………………….

At dusk, the elves finally reached the courtyard in front of the Last Homely House. Healers, stable hands and helpers already stood there waiting to lend help to the wearied elves. Elrond immediately instructed his staff to take the Troop Commander inside and prepare everything necessary for further treatment.

He would follow shortly after a quick bath and a change of clothing. Erestor waved him away when he came over to discuss how to proceed further with the dead warriors.

“My Lord, I’m perfectly able to manage this. Your presence is needed in the healing ward.” Grateful for not having to deal with this dreadful task, if only for the time being, the Elf-lord squeezed the shoulder of his councillor thankfully and then hastened inside the building.

After splashing some cold water onto his face and washing his arms and hands thoroughly, the healer quickly dressed in suitable garments and hurried out of his rooms toward the healing wing. Before he could push the huge double doors open, his eldest son stepped into his way blocking the entry. Elrohir´s hand lingered on the doorknob; he was standing slightly behind his brother.

The Elf-lord sighed because he knew perfectly well what argument would arise now. He was not willing to go into another debate with them because he knew they would be right with every point they would raise. 

Therefore, before his son could even open his mouth the healer laid a hand on the eldest twin’s shoulder. “My sons,” he said in a tired tone, but nonetheless a tone that brooked no argument. He cast a side-glance at the younger twin. “I know what you want to say and I will not even think about denying it. I am weary and drained and need rest desperately, but Glorfindel needs my help again to bring him out of the woods. I’m not even sure if I will be able to call him back, weary or not, but I will try not to go too far.”

With that, he squeezed past them and hurried into the corridor leading to the sickrooms. He did not see it; but he did not have to see their faces draw into a grimace reflecting the concern and worry for a much loved father. The feelings flowing toward him through their bond stabbed like a knife into his heart. He was tormented by the desire to reassure them that he would be careful, yet he knew he could not give that promise.

Glorfindel would need all of his healing abilities to be called back from the edge of the abyss he was still lingering on. If it came down to it, he would sacrifice his own life. His old friend had sacrificed his own wellbeing many times in the past without ever thinking about the consequences. Now it was his time to pay him back. He hoped that he would not have to give his life but he was prepared to do it.

When he stepped into the surgery, he stopped for a second, looking at the room and the body of his friend. The warrior was lying on the elevated worktable, stripped naked and already washed. If the healer had not sensed the still resident fëa, he would have assumed him dead.

The white linen underneath the limp body made the pale flesh look even greyer and the many bruises and cuts stood out clearly. Additionally, the great wound in his chest looked swollen and angry red, elven healing ability notwithstanding.

Yet he was not here to lament what had already happened, but to do what he could do to improve the condition of his protector. While on the road, he had only made sure that the warrior did not slip away. Now he would treat the body with all his skill to pull it out of its trauma.

As was his wont Elrond slipped into his healing mode, enabling him to forget the ugly sight before him. In this mode, he could push aside hunger, thirst, weariness, pain, concern and worry. His world narrowed to focus on the patient before him. Only professionalism was now directing his hands. He called upon Vilya to enhance his healing abilities.

Hours later, he had stitched every gash, all bruises were soothed with a healing balm, and the deep wound was both properly cleaned and finally stitched closed. This ended the easiest part. The harder and more delicate part still lay ahead. He needed to remove the shadow from the warrior’s mind. The Elf-lord had clearly sensed that something dark was lingering on Glorfindel’s fëa, assuredly one of the reasons why the patrol had been slain down to the last man.

The night was half way gone when the Elf-lord sank, weary beyond measure, into a cushioned seat someone had thoughtfully positioned near the bed. At least his friend was now resting as comfortably as could be expected in his condition.

The healer had managed to push back the malice that was still threatening the very soul of the elf, yet some deep imprint remained and despite all of his skill, he could not remove it. A clear testimony that something dark remained was Glorfindel’s diminished healing ability, which should have kicked to improve the elf’s condition.

Elladan, closely followed by his brother, slipped silently into the sickroom where his father had been treating their mentor for almost four hours now. Many healers and helpers had come and gone but from none of them could the twins get an answer on how Glorfindel was doing, and when asked how their father fared the helpers quickly excused themselves.

Frustrated Elladan had decided to look for himself knowing that he was acting against his father’s wish to stay away. The brothers knew the sacrifice that their father was willing to make, even if he had not told them.

Again, Elladan was not willing to accept this. He wanted to look in his father’s eyes and have him repeat his desire to give up his life to save the life of another. Elladan knew that he was acting selfishly and that part of him would die with the warrior whom he had grown to love as a second father, but he would never again fail to protect a member of his family.

Elrohir shared the same opinion, albeit he was more reluctant to act against his father’s wishes. Yet his hands already shook when he thought about the fact that his beloved father would give up his life. Elrohir took a deep shuddering breath; it was, after all, Glorfindel’s life they were debating.

Having heard his brother’s intake of breath and feeling the anguish that was matching his own heart’s ache, Elladan resolutely strode around the bed and stopped a moment later at the sight that greeted him.

Their father was deeply asleep in a big and comfortably cushioned chair within arm’s range of Glorfindel’s bed. All words of rebuke left his mind at the sight of the sleeping elf. The sleep relaxed face however, did not betray the utter weariness of the Elf-lord, which had again reached a dangerous level.

Quickly the brothers rushed over and laid their hands lightly on their father’s chest careful not to wake him. While pouring some strength into his depleted reservoir they made sure that their father’s fëa had not been damaged beyond its ability to return to them.

Elrohir covered his father with a warm blanket and placed a small pillow beneath his head fully knowing that this would only marginally alleviate the ache that would occur after resting in the chair. He also knew that his father would not leave his friend’s side, even under the threat of death.

……………………………………..

After the Troop Commander had been carried into the house, the group of elves in the courtyard slowly dispersed. The warriors reported to their captains, the helpers brought back inside what they had carried with them, and many stable hands hurried away the horses.

Erestor and a few of his closest confidants had taken over the task of caring for the dead. They made haste to unload the wagon and transport the bodies to a tent erected at the side of the house. He wanted to place the bodies in a location of privacy, both for their own dignity, as well as for their families’ comfort.

Messengers had already been sent out throughout the valley to inform the families involved and escort them to the tent so that they could make their farewells.

Erestor sighed while carrying another dead elf into the tent. The Lord of this valley had brought twenty-five dead warriors home and this was a hard blow to the sheltered place. Many families he had known over centuries had a dead loved one to mourn.

Many tears would be shed over a husband, a father, a grandfather, a son, a brother, a nephew or a sweetheart. The tent was a poor place to give the family members the opportunity and privacy to mourn. Erestor knew this.  However, with the large number of dead and the haste that was required, this was the best solution possible.

After the last body had been transferred to the tent and laid on the pallets standing in rows, Erestor dismissed his helpers with a curt but heartfelt thank and closed the tent flap. He would take up the post at the tent’s entrance and stand there as an honour guard.

The first families had yet to arrive, but Lord Elrond’s councillor did not have to wait long. A procession was slowly walking over the lawn toward the tent. They did not speak and had no eyes for the beauty of their valley. Women were leading children, who looked around anxiously, not understanding where their joyous world had gone. Fathers were supporting their young daughters-in-law while fighting their own tears. Grim and at the same time forlorn looking sons walked briskly, struggling not to break down in public.

The group was trailed by warriors who were offering their last farewell to their fallen comrades. Several members of the group split off before reaching the house to join the group of elves building the funeral pyre. As soon as the families had said their last good-byes, the ceremony would begin.

While Erestor held open the tent flap to let the elves enter, he directed a frowning gaze at the illuminated window of the surgery. Lord Elrond was still there and no word had reached him so far. Was this a good or a bad sign? Would the Elf-lord even have time to be present to lead the ceremony before the cremation?

With a sigh, he closed the tent-entrance after the last of the elves had stepped inside. Silent weeping amidst whispered words of grief, mingled with high-pitched questions from the children, was all that could be heard from inside.

Over an hour later, a guard informed Erestor that the pyre was ready. The eldest twin had informed the councillor that the Troop Commander was stable so far and that his father was ready for the ceremony. Erestor briefly wondered how Elrond could be ready after all the hardship that lay behind him.

Never one to question what could not be changed he stepped into the tent and waited until all eyes were directed at him. Taking a deep breath, he said gently but firmly, “It is time!”

Having experienced this many times before, he nonetheless braced himself for the silent but intense emotional storm that swept against his fëa. Feelings of anger, grief, sorrow and unbearable loss were flung in his direction.

He knew that he was not the intended target of these emotions but he was there, and for lack of someone else to blame he was the focus. Erestor bore it with understanding and the grace of his long years knowing that a wounded spirit did not work rationally.

When the last mourner had left the tent, Erestor took a deep breath and ordered the already gathered guards to transport the dead to the waiting pyre. From the corner of his eye, Erestor spotted the Lord of the house standing at the steps leading down into the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the pyre. With a few steps, Erestor climbed up and joined his friend.

“How do you fare, Erestor?” the healer asked without turning his gaze from the elves already lighting the torches.

“I fare well, my Lord and you?”

“I’m well, thank you” was the reply.

A double lie.

To be continued……………………….