Disclaimer:
I do not own any part of Tolkien's work; I merely play with it, and get absolutely no money out of it.
Any original characters are my own, however; if you would like to borrow them, please ask first.
This is fanfiction; I make no claim to write according to canon, but I do try to devote some amount of research into timelines, relationships, etc. to make my story as accurate as possible without becoming obsessive. If I write something that is contrary to canon that is not essential to the story, please feel free to correct me; if I diverge from canon in order to make the story work, please do not go 'Canon Nazi' on me.
Rating: PG-13 due to depictions of torture, battle, and other Middle-Earth typical activities.
No Pairing
Categories: Drama/Adventure/Family
Note: The name of my main character is the combination of the two Quenya words culda (golden-red) and alcar (glory). Obviously, I know nothing about Quenya but what online translators can afford me. However, it comforts me to think that perhaps the poor chap's mother knew just about as much Quenya as I do. Trust me, it took many tries before I had a name that had approximately the intended meaning and sounded decent.
Hérairon
When the elves arrived in Minas Tirith, all the men, women, and children came out to observe the procession. In the houses of healing, patients and healers alike craned their necks to see from balconies and windows, until the Head Healer gathered himself together and began to chide those around him. Patients limped, shuffled, or dragged themselves back to their beds, and healers began bustling about once again, settling the injured back down. All the wards were alive with gossip about the ethereal beings and the relationship which Gondor's new king had with them. In one room alone, a man weakly settled himself back into his bed, mind whirling tiredly with the possibilities for the future.
His name was Culdalcar, a kinsman and loved one of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. Culdalcar was Imrahil's uncle, adopted brother to Angelimir, Imrahil's grandfather; his birth-parents were unknown to all but Angelimir himself. Angelimir's father Aglahad had welcomed the young man into home, saying only that the man was a kinsman, dear to him and of the line of the princes of Dol Amroth. Culdalcar named his home there by the sea in Dol Amroth, and was gifted with all that befitted a son of Numenorean descent. Prince Aglahad perished, and his son Prince Angelimir died some sixty years after as an old man, leaving Dol Amroth to the care of Adrahil, the newest Prince of Dol Amroth. Not long after, Culdalcar left without notice, to no-one knew where, and for what reason no-one knew.
In the forty and four years since, he had appeared to his kinsmen many times, enough that his cousins and their children and grandchildren knew him by sight. He must have indeed had the blessing of Numenorean blood in abundance, for his hair never lost the red-gold luster of his youth, and his skin remained fair and unblemished by sun, wind, or age. He was tall as the elves, and had much of their look in his piercing silver eyes and lithe, nimble form. Indeed, he was a master swordsman and a skilled archer, unrivalled with the bow and arrow in Gondor, even among the Rangers of Ithilien, with whom he joined every few years. He was a mighty warrior, but known as such only by a few, all of whom were warriors as well.
Culdalcar had not fought on the Fields of Pellinor. He had not been wounded in the battle at the Gates of Mordor, nor had he and his injuries been discovered until almost a fortnight after that battle. He had been discovered by guards at the gates of Minas Tirith not a week before, without a horse, pack, or any other sign of having traveled there; he was unconscious, and remained so for several days. The healers were confused by his many knife wounds, which bore the marks of a poison unknown to them. He had awakened only the day before, but had spoken nothing to any man due to an almost-healed cut across his throat, the obvious work of an animal's claw. The healers hoped that perhaps Aragorn, he with 'the hands of a healer', or one of the elven healers might lend their touch and help the unknown man to speak again. Had they asked the man directly, perhaps, they would have understood that such help was, in fact, unneeded.
Culdalcar closed his eyes, listening to the clamor of gossip and celebration within the wards and out in the city. He smiled slightly, comforted yet somewhat unsettled by the sound of human voices in pleasant conversation. His fingers traced the scab across his throat, eyes clouding over in thought. His other wounds ached in sympathy to the memory; he closed his eyes as he laid back and tried to relax. He needed to concentrate on healing…
"A most dreadful and unknown poison," a quiet voice tugged Culdalcar from his afternoon sleep the next day; he struggled to regain his senses. "We thought all was lost; more than once, the man ceased breathing for several moments. I have never seen such a will to live in any warrior. As a healer, I have seen many wounds and illnesses, but I have never seen anyone with so many and varied injuries of deathly degree heal so very determinedly. But the wound to the throat is beyond our knowledge; it was half-healed when the man was brought to us, and I have little experience with such damage. Were any average warrior to be caught with such a blow as made this wound, he were nigh headless!"
Culdalcar's eyes crept open. The first thing he was able to discern in the waning afternoon light was the healer in his blue robe, then two figures in simple, soft gray robes.
"I had hoped that you might provide some healing for his throat," the healer continued, not seeing that the patient was following their conversation. "If he can one day speak…"
"I will do my best," a smooth, melodic baritone spoke. Culdalcar's eyes drifted closed half-way as he inhaled deeply in reaction to the sound. "Perhaps I may greet the warrior who conquered such a beast as would inflict so great a wound?" The patient's eyes slowly opened to meet the newcomer's.
Culdalcar stared frankly at the elves before him. Both were tall in the way of elves, broad of shoulder and narrow in the waist, with keen gray eyes and dark, shining hair. The light of the stars shone from their bodies, subdued somewhat by the fading sunlight. The two elves were obviously of close kinship, likely father and son, for they shared many identical features.
"Greetings," the elder elf inclined his head slightly, eyes taking in every feature of the man before them on the bed. Culdalcar returned the nod carefully, fingers going up to his throat. "I am Elrond Half-Elven; this is my son Elladan. We are healers," the two elves introduced themselves. "May we examine your injuries?" Culdalcar made a small gesture of permission. The two elves bent over his body, unwinding bandages to view the injured flesh on his body.
"These are not the marks of battle," Elrond stood upright, eyes turning to the healer for explanation. The healer nodded.
"They are not, milord," he agreed, his expression grim. "This man was not involved in any known battle, nor have there been any occasions for a skirmish with knives or daggers within all of Gondor." All eyes turned to the man on the bed, who curled one hand around the opposite wrist to indicate binding, then traced the deliberate slicing motion of a carefully wielded blade. Torture, the man mouthed once, then closed his mouth and went still, observing their reactions.
"A dagger dipped in some poison," Elrond suggested, his tone betraying none of his inner disturbance, and was answered by a small nod. "And the wound to your throat?" A finger traced out the word for wolf, first in the Common Tongue, then in Sindarin. Draug rider, he spelled out in Sindarin, then the words for two and moon. "You were wounded two months ago?" A nod. "By a draug and its rider?" Culdalcar tilted his head slightly and pointed to his upper left arm at a deeper, older stab wound that had not been poisoned. "The draug clawed your throat and the rider stabbed you," the elf murmured as he examined the proffered limb. "The knife wounds are recent." Culdalcar examined the elf, then grimaced and looked away. Mordor, he traced on the bed, then Minas Morgul and ring wraith.
"By the Valar!" the younger elf breathed. At the healer's questioning look, he briefly explained: "He speaks of the Dark Tower in Mordor, and of the ring wraiths."
"The shallower wounds show signs of a serrated edge," his father continued his examination as though no one had spoken. "These wounds are three weeks, no more than four weeks old." Culdalcar flinched slightly as a gentle finger traced a wound across the tender flesh of his left palm. "I can see the obvious effects of the poison, but the wounds seem to be healing now that it has been removed." The healer made a satisfied sound. "Are you able to move onto your side?" Elrond questioned; the man in the bed did so, moving slowly and delicately. "The wounds are centered largely on his torso and back?"
"Yes," the healer nodded, moving closer to the bed. Culdalcar closed his eyes and simply let the healers do their work as they were accustomed to. He moved when it was requested of him, and gave gestured responses when he was asked questions. Once it had been determined that the poisoned wounds were no longer of any serious danger to him, the attention turned to his throat.
Fingers probed gently, and Culdalcar's eyes flew open to meet those of the elf lord. "You can feel that?" He nodded, shivering slightly at the feeling of cool healing power sinking into and through the injured flesh of his throat. "You have elven ancestry." It was not a question, especially after his use of Sindarin words. He blinked once for yes. "You are of Numenorean descent?" Culdalcar considered carefully, then conceded.
"Are you of Lord Imrahil's kinsmen?" the healer asked in surprise. Culdalcar's eyes flew to the blue-robed man, a smile growing across his face in answer. "I will send word immediately," the healer assured the injured man, and bustled off to do just that. Once the healer had left the room, Culdalcar turned his attention back to the elves.
The healing flow continued from Elrond's hands into the wounded flesh. Culdalcar reached up with one unmarred hand to cover that of the elf. Wordless gratitude flew from patient to healer, along with a sudden flow of power. The two regarded each other wordlessly as power passed from one to the other and back again, until both fairly glowed with an intense light. Slowly, the light died down, and Elrond gently removed his hands to inspect the wound once again.
"You have the power of one of the High Born," he observed keenly. "The light of the elves burns strongly within you." Culdalcar merely regarded him with a blank expression, fingers lightly tracing the faint white outline of the healed wound. Silence filled the room for several minutes, but was broken by the sound of rushing feet.
Several people entered the room, eyes instantly falling on the figure in the bed. "Culdalcar!" came the cry from several lips at once. Culdalcar smiled widely, joy filling his gray eyes as he stretched out his good arm in greeting. Several hands grasped to take his at once, and questions were peppered at him until one voice called for order.
Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, looked down on his kinsman in concern. He had known the man on the bed from childhood, and had never seen Culdalcar looking so ill. "I think, perhaps, that the healers would not appreciate such a noise as all your fervor has produced," he admonished the other members of his family mildly. Beside him, his nephew Faramir smothered a bit of a smile at the instantaneous reaction that garnered from his kin.
"Forgive us, Father," Imrahil's son Elphir spoke up. "And may you forgive us, as well, my lords and healers," he nodded to the elves and the healers who stood by. "I fear that our relief had overwhelmed us before discretion could take hold." Eyes moved again to the man on the bed, who was watching the events with a smile of amusement.
"Well, you have managed to cause some disquiet," Imrahil spoke fondly as he moved to stand by the bed, hand reaching to take Culdalcar's. Culdalcar, for his part, gave an expression that managed to convey his approval of the disquiet, and all the family members gathered around laughed quietly. "The healer said that you are unable to speak?"
Elrond spoke up. "It is likely that he will be able to speak clearly and without pain within a fortnight. The flesh is mostly healed, but his throat is raw and tender. You might," he directly addressed Culdalcar, "Begin to speak on the morrow. It will be painful, and you will be required to keep your throat moist. Perhaps a tincture of athelas…"
"Ah, the kingsfoil," the healer returned brightly, "Of course! I thank you for your assistance, milord! Truly, the healing magic of the elves is wondrous!"
"There were other patients in need of my attention?" the elven lord asked mildly, easily derailing the healer's awe-filled rant. The healer bowed to those within the room before attempting to lead Elrond out. A hand caught the gray robe before the half-elf could depart. Elrond looked down into Culdalcar's intent eyes, and a wordless exchange drifted between them. With a final admonition and farewell, the two elves and healer left the room.
The attention of Imrahil and his family turned back to Culdalcar, who merely smiled at them and gestured for the water pitcher nearby. After receiving the requested drink, he opened his mouth and managed to issue several small noises before succumbing to the need for sleep.
Post Script: The title of this story, Hérairon, loosely translates (very loosely) from the Quenya as Lord Copper-Top. Just my odd sense of humor peeking through a bit.
