Disclaimer: I have no right to anything from The Lord of the Rings or anything else by the great master, J.R.R. Tolkien. I am not gaining any profit from using them, except for the fun of being allowed to romp in Middle Earth. (This Disclaimer will be hereafter referred to as "Ditto")
Title: Heritage
Extended Summary: For generations, the Heir of Isildur was known only as the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the Rangers who kept their forgotten kingdom safe dwindled in the shadows of the North. Yet through this time, the line of Elendil was never broken, passing from father to son. What was done to preserve it? And what sacrifices were made by the other half of this family, the sisters, mothers, daughters, and wives who were also of the Dúnedain? This is the story of Míriel, a healer, and her quest to save her brother's life and the line of kings, even when Arassuil is not certain he wants to be saved. When Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas enter the scene, the result is a journey that will change the way all of them see elves, men, and other things they always took for granted. Third Age 2700, pre-FotR.
Rating: PG-13, for, well, angst and action! At the moment, I foresee a character with suicidal tendencies (meaning that he's NOT going to hurt himself, but he's lost his will to live) and other characters having to deal with it, guilt, battles, wounds, etc. No swearing, slash, rape, abuse, or romance is planned, though. And to lighten the angst, there will be some humor; how can you avoid it when the Terrible Twins of Rivendell get going?
Chapter 1: A Race for a Life
Wind howled across the barren downs, sweeping gusts of snow hither and thither across the landscape. The girl drew her cloak tighter around her, trying vainly to prevent the icy chunks from being blown into her clothes. Although she could barely see a step ahead of her, she pushed on through the frozen land.
"Míriel!" The shrill cry pierced Míriel's dream and she sat up abruptly. Pushing her wavy bronze hair out of her eyes – she noticed vaguely that it was sweat-streaked as a result of the late autumn heat, despite her dreams of freezing – she focused on the figure spilling through her doorway.
"Míriel, come quick!" her young cousin Tathar panted. "It's Arassuil! He's hurt …"
She didn't have a chance to finish her message. At the sound of her brother's name, Míriel literally leapt out of bed and pushed out of the room, oblivious to the fact that she wore only a thin sleeping shift. Tathar took one last gasp of air and plunged after her, knowing that there was no way she could catch her cousin before she reached the House of Healing.
Ignoring the picturesquely winding paths, Míriel jumped hedges and trod through gardens, unmindful of the destruction left in her wake. The only thing in her mind was getting to her beloved brother. He can't be that badly hurt, she tried desperately to convince herself, trying to dissuade the fear Tathar's presence had caused. Valar, please – make him be all right. I can't do this; twenty-two is too young to deal with his death too!
She checked her headlong rush to pass through the gate into the Healing compound, where the House of Healing and its associated gardens were spread. The most solid and most defendable structure in this semi-permanent camp, the House of Healing's strong wooden walls had always held comfort and hope in the past. Now, as she pushed through the doors she felt only terror. Outdoors was dim, with Ithil only a thin crescent and the stars dimmed by wisps of clouds. By comparison, the low torchlight in the hall dazzled her eyes momentarily, but she didn't need to see to know where she was going. After all, she'd been working in this House for as long as she could remember. She turned right, into a small room immediately beside the doorway. If Arassuil was seriously hurt, he would be here, in the beds kept available for emergencies.
Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could see two figures bending down to lay a third, limp body on the nearest bed. Mentally she blessed Tathar and whoever had sent her; apparently, they'd seen the patrol ride in and she had come to get Míriel immediately.
Impatiently, she thrust Arassuil's bearers out of the way, seeing them only as capable hands, not recognizing them. Her eyes were now fully adjusted, and she stared down at her brother.
Ai, Valar… It was obviously not good; he'd taken an orc arrow through the shoulder, which had been broken off but not removed, and a white gleam out of the bloody mess of his leg showed that the bone was still sticking out of the skin. The reason neither of these had been treated properly was clear; the bandage wound around his waist was already dark with blood along the left side. He'd been stabbed in the gut, then, and if it hadn't stopped bleeding yet, he was in serious trouble.
"Míriel?" one of the men said in surprise. "You're the head healer?" She glanced up momentarily and recognized Melbarad and Erynvain, old friends of her brother.
"Elfileg's in labor, and the others are out with patrols," she told them grimly. But no real emergencies were supposed to come up while I'm in charge! some part of her heart wailed. Especially not to my brother! She squashed the annoyance as far away as she could. This was no time for negative thoughts; she had work to do.
"One of you, deal with the shoulder; the other, take the leg," she ordered brusquely, certain that while the warriors could not compare with her skill, they were capable of removing an arrow or setting a bone. No fighter could go out without that much knowledge of field healing. She heard Tathar come panting through the door. "Athelas," she snapped, and the girl turned and ran out again to the gardens.
"What happened?" she asked as she unwrapped the bandages. Somewhere deep inside, her heart was crying out that her brother's face was as pale as death and his breath was labored, but her mind kept focused on the task at hand.
"We were only a short distance from here," Erynvain reported. "I don't know how the yrch got that close, but they ambushed us. In the same volley that got Arassuil's shoulder, his horse was killed. He tried to leap free, but his leg caught. One of them stabbed him before we got close enough to help. I got him on my horse and brought him back while the rest were mopping up." ["…orcs…"]
The wound lay uncovered and Míriel hissed through clenched teeth. He had indeed been stabbed, and the beast who had done it had apparently twisted the blade, carving a dangerously large hole and likely rupturing organs. Although Arassuil was lucky enough to be still alive at the moment, it was unclear how long he could last. That he survived this long bodes well for him, she told herself firmly. But she was under no illusions about the dangers of this wound. "I'm just going to try to get him stable enough to move; I can't heal this, and neither can Elfileg. We must get him to Lord Elrond, in Rivendell."
She carefully cut his tunic away from the wound, doing her best not to get any threads caught in the clotting blood. Over her head she heard the men whispering to one another.
"The Dúnadan's son… If he dies…"
She would have glared at them if she dared take her eyes from her task of cleansing the wound. The venom in her voice, however, conveyed her feelings on the subject quite adequately without requiring any other signs. "Such negativity has no place here! He will survive. The line will not be broken. Work and hold your tongues!" Though her voice was harsh enough to wilt spring flowers, her hands were gentle as she mopped away blood with athelas-laden water.
She removed her attention from the men beside her, focusing all her awareness on her hands and the still form below them. Each beat of the pulse, each slow breath, she felt clearly as she concentrated on the delicate life beside her. Each one was a sign that she had not yet failed, that there was still a chance for Arassuil, and for them all.
"Muindor, brother, hold on," she whispered. She moved back and forth between Sindarin and Westron, unsure of what precisely she was saying, only trying to hold him there. "Benn vell, dorthach! Breathe! Don't let go! Stay with me! Muindor vell…" ["Brother… Strong man, you are alive! … Dear brother…"]
Míriel was unsure how long she spent hunched over the bed, working desperately to keep death at bay. Her own breath caught each time his breathing cycle broke its rhythm, but each time it picked up again, his pulse sounding frailly but consistently through his body.
As she slowly returned some awareness to her own body, she realized that once again people were talking urgently over her head.
"The litter…"
"No," she rasped, then coughed. Her throat always dried out as she worked. She forced herself to continue. "A litter will take too long. We must ride with him."
They stared at her. "Are you certain?" one asked. It was Melbarad, looking about like she felt. Apparently, he hadn't gone to rest after setting Arassuil's leg. "In his condition, he might…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but she knew what he was hesitant to say. "He is dying now! His only possible hope is getting him to Lord Elrond with all speed. Even so, I fear for him…" Her grief and terror for her brother, which she had submerged as she worked, threatened to spill out. Not now! she told herself firmly. There will be a time for that later. Right now, I am needed.
"We are going to Rivendell with all haste," she said firmly. "We stop only when absolutely necessary to rest the horses, and we leave as soon as I pack what I need. Someone find us an escort and get the horses saddled."
"Míriel – we?" Tathar questioned, eyes round. "You mean you're going?"
"Of course I'm going!" she snapped. "He will die on the road without me! Do you not understand? HE IS DYING!"
Míriel took a long, shuddering breath and forced the pain in her heart back down where it belonged. Tathar had stepped back a pace in the face of her anger, though as far as she could remember, she had managed to keep her voice to a whisper so as not to disturb the man lying upon the bed beside her.
"Someone go get the horses," she said in a more normal voice, hazel eyes returning to the shadowed dark green color they'd been since discovering her brother's peril, no longer flaring with turbulent emotions. Melbarad hurried out of the room.
"Will you help me, Tathar?" she requested. The young girl nodded, to all appearances back to her normal self and not at all put out by Míriel's overreaction. "I'll need all the athelas that can be spared, both dried and fresh, as well as other herbs. Let's make up a pack."
It didn't take long for them to alter the basic field pack for the specific injuries Arassuil had sustained. Míriel was slightly aghast at the amount of athelas she'd already used to keep her brother alive and decided to pack far more than she had expected to need. Not for the first time, she mentally blessed her father for always choosing to camp in places where the healing herb grew profusely. She took it liberally, as well as adding various other drugs. Some, in particular, would allow herself and her companions to go without sleep and yet be totally alert. They would pay later for using such stimulants, of course, but necessity drove them now. There were even a few that would energize the horses, which she added as well.
Rifling through the pack one last time, she shut it securely and rose. As she moved to exit the storeroom, Tathar barred her way. She stared at the girl in bewilderment.
"Um, Míriel…" The girl blushed slightly. "You really can't ride a horse dressed like that."
Looking down at herself, Míriel finally recognized that she was still in her thin sleeping shift. Against her will, a slight smile touched her lips. "I suppose you're right." Much as she begrudged any wasted moments, she would have to go find something more appropriate.
"I brought you some of your clothes," Tathar offered, to her surprise. "Maybe not ones you would normally use for riding, but they were the first I grabbed."
"Hannon, mellon nîn," she said in surprise, accepting the offered outfit. Luckily, it was a tunic and trews, not a dress, which would have been impossible. It was a new set of clothes, probably not the ones she would have chosen for a long ride, but it was immeasurably better than taking the time to go find something else or wearing her shift. The girl had even remembered boots; Míriel hadn't even realized that she was barefoot. "Thank you very much!" ["Thanks, my friend"]
Her young cousin smiled and left as she swiftly changed into the new garments. Grabbing her pack once again, she ran for the stables. The other members of the party were already mounted, and she looked around hastily for her brother as she swung herself up on Helcaloth, her favorite horse.
Seeing him held before her adoptive uncle Thoron, she moved next to him. "Keep pressure on the wound," she ordered as soon as he looked at her. "If he bleeds through his bandages, or his breathing becomes too labored, inform me immediately. But it is speed that will save him now, not my skill."
The old warrior, her father's best friend, simply nodded. At a gesture from the leader, the group moved out. In the paleness of false dawn, they began the race toward Rivendell, the race for the life of Isildur's heir.
As they rode, Míriel realized that she was trembling from reaction and nerves. To distract herself, she concentrated on tying her pack of healing supplies behind the saddle, which was a bit tricky at a canter. To her surprise, she found weapons attached to the sides of the saddle. The sight frightened her; she hadn't thought about the possibility that they might be attacked again, other than to know that an escort was necessary. She knew self-defense, of course, and was rather good with the bow and more than adequate with the sword, but the danger to her brother was immeasurable. And I haven't been practicing much lately, she thought with a mental grimace. As Elfileg got farther and farther into her pregnancy, much of the work at the House of Healing had fallen upon Míriel. For all that she was yet young, she was the best and most experienced healer available. Míriel hadn't truly minded, not until tonight. But it meant that she'd had almost no time to visit the practice grounds, and she might be more of a liability to the warriors than anything else if they ran into trouble.
No! I'll be fine. I will save him. She looked over at her brother, still held, unconscious, between their uncle's arms. Did I do right? she had to wonder. Will he survive? People almost never survive such a wound! If Elfileg had been there, could she have saved him? Did I help or hurt him with my treatments?
With an effort, she pulled herself out of such negative thoughts. I did the best I could, she told herself firmly. And it will be enough. It has to be enough. She scrutinized him as best she could in the pale glimmers of light from the incipient dawn. The angle his leg was held at was not the best; even with the good splint, riding like this might possibly disalign the bone and make things even worse. A pity all his wounds were on one side; it would take a great deal of time to recover his old strength and skill, if he ever did. But at the moment, his life was more important than the possibility of even lifelong crippling. And his only hope for life was riding with all speed – which also was very likely to be the cause for his death. But what else could they do? Elrond will fix this. She clung to that hope, ignoring the fact that not even the greatest of healers, Lord Elrond himself, could do everything. Just hang on until we get you to Lord Elrond, muindor, brother…
Now she wished for Elvin-keen sight and hearing, so that she could make sure he was still breathing properly. She leaned toward him, trying to concentrate on him enough that she could tell. But it was impossible to achieve the near-trance in which she had worked on him under these conditions; the movement of the horse beneath her and the distance between them conspired against her. With a sigh, she dropped back squarely into the saddle and tried to think about the ride.
Anor rose slowly, bathing the scene around them in golden light. It was a beautiful sight, but no one in the party appeared to notice. Míriel only saw the red tint to the lovely sunrise ahead. Blood split this night – and I know whose! She tried to bite back the tears that wanted to stream down her face. This is no time to fall apart! Only a single drop escaped. She wiped it furtively, hoping that no one had seen.
Her foster uncle had. He moved his horse a little nearer to hers. "There's no harm in weeping for your brother, niece," he told her gently. "Misty eyes won't hurt anything right now."
She smiled at him gratefully but shook her head. "Not now, uncle. I have to believe that he'll be all right. I can't lose hope, not now."
Thoron returned the smile, although his heart twisted with pain for her. "Yes, you are his sister as well as his healer, and he could well sense any doubt on your part. But you cannot wait too long, hên nîn." ["…my child"]
She sighed. "I know, uncle; am I not a healer? But my grief must wait until we reach Rivendell. There, I will weep for my beloved brother."
"Tears of joy as well as of sorrow, mail nîn," he told her gently, and this time he got a real smile in return. ["…my dear"]
"Yes, uncle, of course. Lord Elrond will heal him, and there will be many tears of joy."
They lapsed into their own thoughts for a time. Míriel did her best to concentrate on the happiness they would have when Arassuil recovered. She was certain they would tease each other and laugh about this at some later date. She pictured her brother swinging confidently up onto his horse to lead another patrol, or running full tilt in an attempt to beat her to the dining room, and fought to keep more tears from joining the first. This will happen, she told herself firmly. There is no need for sorrow, no need for fear. He will be well. Lord Elrond will heal him. She clung fiercely to that hope. She had no idea if her brother could truly sense what she was feeling or not, but she'd seen too many unconscious people affected by those around them in her years as a healer to discount the possibility. So she continued to force herself to think positively.
When Anor was midway up the sky, they had to stop to rest the horses. Much as Míriel begrudged any pause, she was eager to check on Arassuil's condition. Leaping from her horse, she stumbled and nearly fell. I haven't been riding much lately, either, she admitted ruefully to herself as her legs cramped. But she ignored the discomfort. Tossing her reins to the man beside her – too intent to even notice that he hadn't been ready to take them and they slapped him across the face – she hastened to take her brother from Thoron's arms.
He was still breathing, but his head was hot with fever. Hurriedly, she set him down and looked around for her pack. It took her a moment to realize that she had left it on her horse. Idiot! she chastised herself. I am letting this get to me. I need to get a hold of myself.
"Looking for this?" a sardonic voice asked. She raised her head to see her adoptive uncle approaching with her healing supplies. With a smile of gratitude, she all but snatched it from his hands.
"Thank you," she murmured absently as she dug through the pack and got out the things she needed.
"Will you need any help?" he inquired, but she shook her head, still only paying slight attention to him. Thoron knew that she was concentrating too hard on her healing to notice anything else he said. He looked down at the young man he thought of as his nephew with a sigh and went to help cool down the horses.
Míriel worked feverishly, knowing that the break would be short and her brother was already sinking. Uncovering the wound, she carefully removed and replaced the athelas which she had packed into it to absorb and neutralize the poisons from his organs. He was still bleeding sluggishly, and after loosing so much blood already it was a great danger. After changing the bandages, she reached for the collection of dried herbs in her pack. Deftly, she added several different kinds of fever-reducing, blood-producing, and blood-clotting herbs to the waterskin she'd brought for him, being careful to get the right amounts of the powders and not to mix anything that would react badly together. It's a good thing he's unconscious for this, she thought wryly. Otherwise, he'd probably kill me because of the taste of this thing. Sitting her brother up enough to cradle his head against her, she gently forced the mixture down his throat.
It was a slow and laborious process, and both of them were wet by the time she was satisfied. As she eased out from under him, she realized that the men were beginning to mount; the break was over.
"How is he doing?" Thoron asked from behind her.
Míriel bit her lip. "As well as could be expected," she said honestly. "But…"
"We'll get there soon enough," her uncle said soothingly. "Do not fear. Lord Elrond will help him."
Míriel tried to relax and tell herself that her uncle was right. He laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. "Eat," he told her, offering her a piece of lembas. When she accepted it, he took Arassuil in his arms and lifted him onto the horse.
Míriel turned to mount her own horse, then began nibbling at the Elvish waybread. As she reached for her waterskin to wash it down, she remembered something else she'd forgotten to do. Rummaging in her pack, she brought out a small packet of dried herbs. Tilting her head back, she dropped a large pinch of the mixture as far down her throat as she could, and attempted to wash the bitter taste out of her mouth with large gulps of water.
She fumbled to restore the herbs to their proper place as the company moved out. Eating quickly, she managed to finish the piece of lembas her uncle had given her before the stimulants took hold.
It was quite clear when they did; she felt as if a wave of light were moving up through her body. It stretched and stretched her like an elastic band until she no longer had any sense of what was going on around her, when suddenly she snapped back to herself with a shock. Her senses were all heightened by the use of the drug; colors seemed brighter, shapes crisper, and sounds clearer. And, to her relief, her turbulent emotions had retreated to the back of her mind, allowing her to think without them worrying her once again.
As a healer, she well knew the price she would pay for such overextension of her senses. As it wore off, it would leave her exhausted and weak, unless she took more, and taking too much would tear apart her body from the inside out. On top of that, the drug was dangerously addictive. But at the moment, she knew, it was also necessary.
With her heightened awareness, she studied her brother. She tried to convince herself that she could see him breathing. He was still flushed with fever, but at least he was still alive. She stared at him for the entire ride, trusting her mount to keep out of trouble on her own. Each moment brought a bit more hope. He was still alive!
At the midday break, she took the time to relieve herself before tending him. As she returned, she realized that Hénluin, the leader of their group, was kneeling beside Arassuil. As she approached, he turned to look at her.
"How is he?" he asked, mirroring Thoron's earlier question.
Míriel answered it the same way she had before: "As well as could be expected." She changed the subject by removing a handful of packets of herbs from her pack. "Give these to the others," she commanded.
Hénluin accepted the packets and studied them for a moment. Then his head shot up and he tried to protest. "Lady, we are well-rested and have no need of this!"
"Nevertheless, you will take them," she ordered. "Rangers or not, none of us are accustomed to living in the saddle for days. I will not risk my brother's life on exhausted guardians."
Seeing the objections still burning in his eyes, she told him more gently, "I am a healer. I know the dangers of this, but there is not enough in those packets to harm any of these men. No one likes it, but it is necessary."
"Very well," he acquiesced at last. "We will do as you suggest – healer."
"Hannon le," she replied and turned her attention to Arassuil's wounds. Hénluin laughed softly, knowing that she was no longer aware of him or anyone else, and moved off to give out the stimulants and deal with the inevitable arguments. ["Thank you"]
Míriel worked abstractly, trying to distance her emotions from the fact that her brother was bleeding his life away, far too quickly. She fixed her mind on the hope of Rivendell and the great healer. If we can just get him there, he'll be all right.
When the time came to move out again, it was not Thoron who came to pick up Arassuil. To her surprise, Míriel looked up to see Melbarad standing beside her. "What are you doing here?" she burst out.
"The same as you, Lady Healer," he answered jokingly, using the nickname she hated. All traces of teasing disappeared from his face, however, as he looked down at Arassuil. "Trying to save my friend."
"You shouldn't have come," Míriel scolded the older man. "You just got off patrol, and you didn't sleep last night!"
"Neither did you," he countered. "And I'm dealing with it the same way you are."
She looked hard into his eyes. "That's very dangerous," she informed him.
"I know." He shuddered slightly. "I have no wish to end up like Calenhir."
Míriel shuddered as well, remembering the man who had become addicted to the stimulants. It had been a very painful death.
"I'm being careful," Melbarad assured her. "I won't take too much. But I couldn't just let him go!"
Some of the anguish she was feeling was in his voice also. Míriel nodded. "I know," she told him softly.
Suddenly Melbarad's face returned to its normal mocking style. "Well, if you're done chastising me, perhaps you would be so kind as to aid me with getting Arassuil onto my horse before we hold up the departure further?"
Míriel looked around, expecting to see everyone waiting for them, but only about half the group was mounted. Normally she would have punched her brother's friend lightly to show her displeasure at being tricked, but the reminder of how ill Arassuil was prevented her. She merely nodded and went to help him. We must get there quickly, she told herself fervently, noticing yet again the fever and the labored breathing. Hurry, hurry, we must get there soon, or it will be too late for him.
As the day wore on, the group as a whole picked up on her tension. All of them became more annoyed with each break that had to be taken to rest the horses and change Arassuil's bandages. The stimulants were pricking at all of them. When night fell, Míriel passed around the drug for the horses. Although the steeds had been showing signs of tiredness from the long ride, they were almost immediately reenergized. Míriel only prayed that it would last long enough.
Just keep going through the night, my brother, she thought desperately. We're almost there. Please, hold on for one more night!
As the night wore on and the stars revolved above them, Míriel began to truly think that they were going to make it. Arassuil's condition was worsening, but unless it suddenly changed or there was a large delay, they would be able to get him to Rivendell. Once there, Míriel was certain, Lord Elrond could heal him as long as he had any life left in his body.
Day had broken and they had nearly reached the road and the ford over the Bruinen that would bring them to Lord Elrond's domain when the two men sent out to scout ahead came galloping back to the main group. "Yrch," they reported shortly. "A large group in the Trollshaws, heading toward the road. Our paths will cross before we reach the ford." ["Orcs"]
Míriel watched Hénluin think for a moment. They all knew that they would have to fight; not only could they not leave a large party of orcs roaming freely across the land, but there was no way they could get to Rivendell without intercepting them. But what would this mean for Arassuil?
"Weapons out," Hénluin ordered at last. "We ride on. You two, go back out and be certain the yrch do not try to ambush us," he told the scouts. He turned and searched for Míriel. "Lady Míriel, you will take your brother and ride to Rivendell. We will cut you a path. Thoron and Melbarad, aid her."
The group nodded and took out their weapons. Arassuil was transferred to Míriel's horse; her brother's bulk made it hard for her to see or move, but that was what she had guards for. Just ride to Rivendell, she thought desperately. Muindor, please, hold on for me. Only a little further… [Brother]
"Ride!" came the soft order from the head of the group. They moved out to face the band of orcs.
OK, what do you think? Should I continue it? Or is it not worth it? Please review and tell me!