Rubies and Fire

Rubies and Fire

By Bonnie Rae

Elrond had never paced. Never, during all his thousands of years in Middle Earth had he paced. But never, during all his thousands of years in Middle Earth, had there been such dreadful cause for pacing.

Elves with sickness. No elf ever contracted a disease before, and surely no disease had ever infected the refuge of Imladris. Yet here, beneath his own roof, beneath his healing hands, in this place founded for travelers who needed freedom from worry, Elrond Half-Elven was powerless to help his own people. This master of magic and medicine could do nothing for the weak and drained elves under his care. He could only watch and wait while their own strength slowly returned.

Elrond paced more desperately than ever. If worry were something that could be cast out and stamped into the floor, he would have done it then. Finally, he forced himself to remain still and think clearly. He laid out all facts in his mind, forced himself to think coldly and logically.

What could have caused it? Is this some insidious trick of Sauron's? The Valar help us if he has that kind of power! Think. What do I know? Fact: Symptoms are first noticed when an elf wakes in the morning. Fact: The symptoms then include weakness, sensitivity to light, and two small pin-prick wounds on the neck. Is that a symptom? It could be the cause. Fact: So far, only male elves have been affected. Fact: No one has yet died from this illness; the first few to succumb are now fully recovered. What does it mean?

Elrond stood still. He looked for an answer in the air, strained to hear it whispered to him by the clouds…but there was nothing. Despondently, he leaned on the windowsill and muttered, "Has Eru forsaken his firstborn children?"

A respectful rap on the door lifted Elrond from his contemplation. Glorfindel, his chief advisor and closest friend, entered and knelt.

"Arise, my friend. What have you to tell?" Glorfindel stood and approached his lord, brows creased with concern.

"Disturbing news, Master Elrond. I regret to inform you that another elf has taken ill. This time, a maiden named Narwen."

Elrond's sharp intake of breath was his only indication of alarm. Calmly he stated, "Now we know this malady does not limit itself to males." Privately he thought, Should I send Arwen away before she falls victim as well? Amazingly, Glorfindel seemed to read the fear in his friend's eyes.

"Do not act hastily before you have seen this maid for yourself, my lord. And remember, no elf has yet suffered fatal harm from this sickness."

"Wise words, Glorfindel," Elrond conceded, "but also remember there is a first time for everything. I would sooner the sickness liberate my own spirit from my body than my daughter's, who is a greater treasure to me than even the Silmarils were to Feanor." With that, this lord of elves strode out of his chamber into the hallways of the last homely house, not bothering to bring any of his curatives because he knew they would not help this newly afflicted maiden.