WARNING: Severe injury of a small child, description of attack, inflicted wounds and medical treatment.

Chapter Two

Glorfindel’s Meadow

Glorfindel did not doze long beside his small charge. He roused after a short time, but lay enjoying the warmth of the summer sun, the munching sound of Brandlir grazing and the buzzing of the bees in the heather mixed with the occasional splash of water as a fish jumped in the lake. It was such a perfect summer day.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he finally rose to his feet. He glanced back down at the flushed and somewhat sticky face of Estel. The boy slept on, oblivious to all around him, and Glorfindel smiled. Such a peaceful thing— a sleeping child; so different from what children were like when awake!

A loud snort alerted him, and his eyes went to Brandlir even as his hand went to his sword. His horse was staring into the trees, the charcoal ears twitching this way and that as if trying to capture a sound that eluded him. The flaring nostrils told Glorfindel that the horse had caught a scent, and now Brandlir did his best to locate the source of it.

The fact that Brandlir did not react more revealed much. It could not be a wolf, bear or wildcat—the stallion would be whinnying, stamping and baring his teeth! It was something familiar, yet something of which to be wary.

Relaxing his grip on his sword when he failed to sense any hint of evil, Glorfindel wondered if the horse sensed nothing more than an overly aggressive squirrel. The small creatures did enjoy pestering the easily agitated horse.

He jumped when a large stag bounded into the meadow not fifteen feet from where he stood. The deer froze upon seeing him, shifting its eyes nervously around the meadow, breathing hard. Brandlir snorted and stamped a foot, laying his ears back at the deer and baring his teeth in annoyance.

“Peace, Glir. You must learn to share.”

But Brandlir was having none of it today. Already cross, the horse charged the deer, chasing it into another section of the wood, where the buck disappeared, though for a time, Glorfindel still heard the deer moving through the brush by the occasional snap of a branch.

Finally, all was quiet once more, except for the stamping of hooves and snorts coming from Brandlir.

Glorfindel gave his horse a dry look. “You are far too moody, my friend. One would almost think you a mare, rather than a stallion.” He grinned when the horse’s head whipped around in his direction. “Do not look at me like that! I speak the truth.”

Turning his back on Brandlir—something only Glorfindel would dare do as all others would have found teeth in their rear—he checked again on Estel and found the boy still slept. Leaving the child to his rest, Glorfindel hummed as he walked the hundred or so yards down to the lakeshore to retrieve their tunics from the large rock where they had been spread out to dry in the sun.

A waterfowl splashed down in the lake, calling to its mate, and he paused to watch the birds. The female answered from her hiding spot in the tall grasses on the far side of the shore, emerging with a small brood of hatchlings following behind. Glorfindel smiled as they paddled around, greeting the newly arrived father. Children were all alike, it seemed to Glorfindel.

A sudden hint of danger crept up the back of his neck, setting the hairs there on end. He spun around and felt his heart leap into his throat. “Estel! Do not move!”

“G’orfin’el!” 

— o —

“Glorfindel!”

Elrond would have shaken his captain, but his hands were currently busy unwrapping makeshift bandages covered in blood. His fear grew as he began to understand just how grave the injuries lying beneath the cloth must be.

Glorfindel's head jerked up at Elrond’s call and troubled blue eyes met his from across the room. The captain shook his head as if clearing it of grim thoughts and shifted his eyes away. Guilt hung heavy on him, Elrond could see, but he needed answers, and he needed them now.

“Glorfindel, I need to know what did this! Is there orc filth? Was there poison? What did this?” Elrond feared the answer, and his fear caused his voice to be sharper than usual in such a crisis, though his hands remained gentle but purposeful.

The disheveled captain straightened, his face becoming devoid of any emotion as he began to report.

“There were no orcs or poison, my lord. It was simply…” 

— o — 

As Glorfindel spun around in the mud on the lakeshore, he noticed Estel had awakened while his back had been turned. His warrior’s instincts took over, and he assessed the situation.

“Estel! Do not move!”

Estel stood with a bright smile on his face, his eyes captivated by something the boy would not understand as a source of danger—a large dog.

Whether a farmer's pet turned feral or perhaps born wild, it had slipped stealthily into the meadow.

Estel ignored the command given him, causing Glorfindel's heart to leap into his throat as the boy ran forward.

“Doggie!” the boy squealed. “Here doggie!”   

Glorfindel felt frozen as he watched the boy dart forward, but made his feet move. The brindle-striped mongrel outweighed Estel by many pounds, and Glorfindel knew the short, wide muzzle — distinct among dogs bred for war — hid teeth capable of inflicting serious harm or even killing a child as small as Estel. He cried out again for the boy to stop, even as he rushed after the child.

The dog lunged, but in that very instant, Estel tripped and fell. Teeth that would have grasped the boy's throat sank instead into the tumbling child’s arm, causing Estel to scream in pain.

Glorfindel ran to the aid of his charge. This could not be happening! The distance from the lake to where Estel lay seemed so much greater now that he needed to be there. He watched helplessly as he ran, praying he could close the distance in time.

Then Estel began to fight.

“Estel! Be still! Keep your face down! Be still, child!” he called to the boy.

But Estel fought against the pain. He twisted and turned, crying and shrieking as he tried to get away from the beast. The dog held his arm tight in its jaws, then released only to clamp down on the other flailing limb as the child thrashed. Estel’s attempts to free himself only made the wounds worse.

Even as Glorfindel pushed himself to cover the remaining fifty yards separating him from the boy, he could see the punctured flesh and the blood streaking down the small arms. As it was in battle, everything seemed to move in slow motion as he ran.

“Estel!” he called again, as the boy fought for his life.

— o —   

“It was just a dog," Glorfindel choked out. "A wild dog came out of nowhere.” His voice turned hoarse. “Damn it, Elrond! I should have sensed it sooner!"

But Elrond had no time for his captain’s distress. He could not allow himself to worry about such things, so he pushed them down with the detachment of a healer, focusing instead on the situation at hand. There would be time later for blame, time to feel. There was always time later, he knew.

For now, he needed more information, even as his fingers flew to deal with what he found under the wrappings of one arm: puncture wounds, so deep that fatty yellow tissue puckered outwards.

“Was the dog drooling? Staggering? Showing signs of the falling sickness?”

Elrond glanced up to see Glorfindel’s eyes slip closed. The captain was remembering, going over every detail of the attack.

Elrond grimaced. He could imagine how ferocious it must have been from the wounds he tended, and he had yet to look at the other arm. How had this happened to his child? To endure such brutality! Elrond's heart ached at the thought.

Glorfindel cleared his throat and continued his report in an emotion choked voice. 

— o — 

The feral bitch glanced up at the man running towards her. She growled and raised the hackles on the back of her neck. Using her body language, she  screamed for him to leave her alone. The light shining from his eyes meant little to her, though she eyed the shimmering stick he held with alarm. A man had once beaten her with a stick, long ago, and it made her wary.

But this was her kill. The deer may have eluded her, but this prey would feed her, and she would not give it up! She needed this food. Even now in the distance, she could hear her pups' whimpers.

With her eyes, she challenged the one approaching as she held the small limb firmly in her jaws. Instinct took over, and she gave a vicious shake of her head, feeling the tender flesh shred under the power of her fangs. She felt and heard a snap, and her prey gave a strangled scream before going limp. Now it would be easy to slip away before the man came to beat her and steal her meal.

Tugging at the limb she still held in her teeth, she backed up, but the broken member was too flimsy to move the limp form. Releasing her grip, she grabbed one of the thicker legs and began to drag her meal towards the brush marking the edge of the forest. She could hear the approaching feet running faster, hear its barks of warning, but she would not so easily give up her prey.

An eerie scream rent the air, and her head lifted in alarm as hoof beats sounded on the meadow. A glimmer of dappled grey brushed past the other creature and bore down upon her. Teeth flashing and snapping in the sun, squealing and snorting, the horse charged her.

Now here was an enemy of which to be even more wary. She had dealt with horses before, and from his smell, she identified a stallion — a most fierce foe. The bitch dropped her hold and darted away from the fierce rush.

Many other dogs would have turned tail and run from such a sight, but she was wild and held her ground. She had not eaten in several days and her nursing pups had taken much out of her. She was driven to eat and would let nothing, not even a stallion on the rampage, take a meal from her jaws.

Twisting and jumping, she avoided the snapping teeth and hooves. She lunged and sank her fangs into the horse’s hock. A quick kick outwards sent her reeling. She leapt back up, barking, snarling and lunging in again. Heavy hooves churned grooves into the ground as she darted between them, nipping and biting to drive off the threat to herself and her meal.

Movement to her right caught her eye, and she caught a glimpse of the man kneeling beside her prey. Spinning around to run off this new threat, she turned her back on the horse.

It was the last thing she ever did.

The blow to her head was swift, and she felt no pain. All went dark as she fell to the earth. The last thing she heard was the snorting of a horse, and in the distance, the plaintive hungry cries of her pups.

— o — 

“No. She was hunting due to hunger from nursing pups. She showed no sign of the falling sickness. Her eyes were clear and wild, but not mad.”

Elrond breathed a sigh of relief at this news. Mortals did not survive that disease, even those of Númenorean blood.

The punctures in Estel’s left arm, as well as those in his right leg were not serious. Painful, they would need to be thoroughly cleansed and flushed to prevent festering, but they were not life threatening.

Leaving those for later, Elrond turned to the right arm and began removing the thick bandage from it.

What he found caused his heart to lurch in agony for his child. He had to force the healer to the front. The father in him, would have to wait until the healer had done his work.

The flesh of Estel’s right arm was torn open, skin and muscles rent, exposing the bone, which was clearly broken. Only Glorfindel’s experience with battle wounds and knowledge of how to tend them had saved Estel from bleeding to death. The tiny body only had so much blood to offer before it would cease to function. A wave of gratitude swept over him, but it also was pushed aside as he locked his emotions away. Blood still seeped from the gaping wounds, and his fingers flew to stop it. The damage was severe, but he had hope of it being repairable.

As he worked, Elrond dimly noted his captain remained seated nearby, watching all and yet seeing nothing.

— o —

Brandlir bobbed his head, screamed one final time and then proceeded to stomp the remains of the dog into the ground with powerful hooves.

Glorfindel turned away and looked to Estel, who lay bleeding and unconscious on the ground. “Glir! Get the blanket! Hurry!” He applied pressure to a point above the bleeding.

With a final snort at the dog’s tattered innards ground into the bloodied soil, the horse darted to where the blanket lay not far from where Glorfindel knelt trying to staunch the flow of blood. The stallion snatched the material up in his teeth, holding his head to the side as he dragged it back to his master.

Glorfindel used his knee to hold pressure on the arm as he took the blanket, drew his hunting knife and turned it into strips of cloth for binding the multiple wounds. His fingers flew, working automatically, trained by battles uncounted, years beyond recall.

All while he worked, Glorfindel kept up a continuous stream of dialogue and soft singing to the unconscious child. He knew he would never forget the look on that little face when Estel looked down at the damaged arm still held in the mouth of the dog.

It reminded him too much of the expression of another boy, long ago.

He wrapped, bound, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood. And in the back of his mind, one theme rang over and over:

It is my fault! All my fault. Just as it was then…

It took him only minutes to bind the wounds well enough to see them home and to the master healer, and then he mounted and gave Brandlir his head.

Estel was finally getting to run fast — but he would never remember it.

To Be Continued....

Author's note: Just to clarify that the term 'bitch' as used in this story is NOT profanity, but the appropriate use of the word and refers to a breeding female dog.

Thanks for reading!