For What Hope is Worth

A/N: Happy birthday Nolitari! I hope you like it, mellon nin. It's slightly dark, but I think you'll like it.

Summary: Birthday ficlet for Nolitari. In battle during the Last Alliance, Elrond finds himself tending to an unusual patient.

Rating: K+

Elrond sighed wearily. It had been a long day, and the war was taking a terrible toll. The death rate had gone down some, and Elrond hoped the end of the war was near. But the logical part of his mind denied any possible hope of a bright outcome.

Looking around the healing tent, Elrond saw that almost everything was covered in blood. He spared a glance at himself, and noted that he too was covered in the sticky scarlet substance. Seeing the blood had never bothered him, he was almost used to his appearance after a long day. What did bother him, however, was going over the facts that the blood belonged to someone he should have been able to save.

He pulled himself out of his reverie. There was little he could do about those lost now, the best he could do was to give life to those who still had a chance.

The relative peace of the moment was broken by the sound of a few agonized cries and loud shouting. A group of wounded soldiers were being helped into the tent. The apprentices quickly began to separate those who would live from those who had no chance. Triage was harsh, but after many years of healing Elrond knew that it was necessary. It actually saved lives, contrary to the beliefs of some.

Thankfully, there were only a few wounded, and only one was marked out, unable to survive.

Snapping into healer mode, Elrond began barking orders, creating some semblance of order. He went from one patient to the next, removing arrows, cleansings wounds, applying salve. Elrond always felt rather detached at these times. It was almost as if his actions were automatic, his body taking over mind.

At his last patient, he was somewhat pleased with the results of his effectiveness, for the warrior was already on the mend.

Elrond heard a pained groan. Turning, he saw it was the warrior who was dying, the one who could not saved. For some reason, he was drawn to this elf. He saw the warrior was from Mirkwood, with apparently high status, judging from his armor.

The painkiller that had been given to the elf had slowed the soldier's mind as well as his pain, and Elrond knew he would never wake from his coma-like sleep. The elf had a severe head wound along with several broken bones, and immediately knew why this warrior was deemed to be unsavable.

If the head wound hadn't killed him, he knew the blood loss would. For some reason, though, Elrond had the compelling urge to tend to the dying soldier.

Seeing there was naught else he could really help with, Elrond got a sponge with cool water on it and dabbed the elf's forehead. He cleaned the deep gash that ran all the way up his arm, and he set his arm quickly. Knowing it was a desperate attempt, with no real purpose, Elrond sighed.

Suddenly, and idea struck the elf lord. It was a rather absurd idea really, but it had been known to work before. Without premonition, Elrond began to sing softly in Quenya, an ancient song used to honor the soldiers who fought against the armies of Morgoth.

A few questioning glances were thrown his way, but Elrond continued the song, and, with some regret, noted that it was having no effect on the elf. Then, suddenly, the elf stopped breathing. For what hope is worth, he thought bitterly, another has been lost to the shadow. He sighed and closed his eyes, but did not stop singing.

A black void filled everything. No thought. No sight. No sense. Just emptiness. The unsettling atmosphere was all he felt, if indeed he was still capable of feeling.

Suddenly, something disrupted the void. He thought he could not see, but perhaps it was just utter darkness, for the light suddenly broke into the void, but it was small and hardly noticeable.

What is this light?

Something teasing my hold on the world around me.

Saying there is hope in sight,

Saying if I open my eyes I could see.

I long to follow,

But I am already as empty as the passing wind.

I have no future, for I am nothing,

Lesser even than the most pitiful being,

For even the smallest being has life, and I have none.

But then, why be afraid to risk nothing? Seeing

As I have none, none can be taken.

The light burns, but I am ever drawn.

Surely I must go, this cannot be wrong.

Elrond suddenly heard a rasping breath, and he glanced down at the warrior. He was alive, and appeared to be nearing consciousness. Elrond was somewhat amazed. He had not expected this to work. But a small voice in the back of his mind said all was yet to be revealed.

The warrior coughed and gagged, but slowly, as Elrond watched intently, he made it back to consciousness. Elrond had stopped singing by this point, caught up in the chance that the elf might actually survive.

Another cough was torn from the fragile body. Elrond, instincts taking over, lifted him upright and gave the elf a small sip of water. The rasping sound did not cease entirely, but the elf relaxed slightly.

His eyes slowly drifted halfway open, and he met Elrond's eyes, not entirely aware, but nonetheless his eyes communicated volumes. The instant Elrond saw his eyes he knew that the warrior would die.

By this point, the soldier had accepted his fate as worthy, and was at peace. He barely managed to lift the corner of his mouth in the gesture of a smile.

With this, his soul fled Middle Earth. Elrond, rather dazed, closed the elf's eyes and abruptly stood up, to find that most of the healers were watching him. He was about to issue a command when he was suddenly disoriented. His world spun for a moment, and then a strong hand gripped his shoulder.

"My lord, you need some rest."

Elrond looked up at Glorfindel, narrowing his eyes slightly. "But…" The protest was cut off by a rather sharp response.

"Now."

Elrond stumbled out of the tent, wearied by all the day's events. He coughed on the ash that filled the air. He walked around the camp, looking for some ray of hope. But all he saw was death. Suddenly, his feet caught on something, and he almost fell. He righted himself, and looked for the offending object. To his dismay, he found he had stumbled upon his own feet. Ashamed, pride somewhat stung, Elrond saw that Glorfindel had now taken it upon himself to get Elrond to his tent.

Elrond found himself guided into the bunk. Elrond turned around to thank Glorfindel, but the golden-haired elf stopped any words by nodding shortly and disappearing again.

Elrond couldn't help but smile at this as he walked into the tent. Glorfindel was saving Elrond's pride, as well as the fact the other elf couldn't bear being thanked. It was a rather endearing quality about the elf.

Unusually careless, Elrond immediately dropped onto his bed, not caring to change or at least scrub some of the grime off of his hands. He immediately drifted off into the realm of sleep.

His dreams were filled with those who no longer resided in Middle Earth, whose souls had fled to Mandos.

THE END

A/N: I'm really not sure what to think of this. I'm rather proud of it, actually. I wrote this at 1 AM, so forgive my mistakes. I'm not sure if I portrayed Elrond correctly, this is probably the first time I've actually written from his POV. I've never really tried to write anything medical before, either, but the little bits and pieces were mostly inspired from a few fics I've read as well as the Star Wars med-star books.

For those of you who are wondering, I have not forgotten Balrog Slayer. I'm a little short on inspiration, but a new chapter should be up soon.

Please review! Constructive criticism welcomed!