Disclaimer: If I did own LOTR's, Gandalf would have asked the eagles to fly into Mordor, to Mt. Doom, at the start of the adventure. it would have saved a LOT of hassle. and if i owned Harry Potter, Dumbledore wouldn't be the only gay in Hogwarts!
A rough voice, and even rougher hands woke him painfully from his forced sleep, as they spoke in a coarse dialect whilst hoisting him from his frozen bed.
His eyes managed to open slightly as a hand descended on his burning forehead. He moaned as he was jostled by the loud man carrying him. The man himself was extremely stout, yet muscled, and had long red hair and a grizzly beard, both beginning to turn as white as snow with age. The hand moved from his forehead, brushing some hair from his face that was beginning to stick from the sweat. As it brushed passed his ear, however the man gave a cry of great surprise, staring intently at his ears before giving another loud bellow to his fellows. Harry only noticed other people coming into his sight before he once again fell into unconsciousness.
Glóin looked worriedly at the boy in his arms. Not only was he badly wounded and fevourish, but he was too light, even for being only six or seven years of age. His face was flushed deep red and sweat covered his brow. He moved his hand from his forehead, pushing the pitch black hair away to prevent it sticking, only to jump in surprise as he reached the boy's ear. Taking a look he found his suspicions confirmed, the ear was pointed!
"He's an elf-child!" he cried in shock, causing the rest of his company, his son included, to rush over to look.
Gimli, his son, instantly growled, spitting on the floor in distaste, "we should leave him be then! No good-for-nothing elf would ever give us the courtesy of aid in the same situation! Why should we help him?"
To his shock some of the other dwarves mutter in support of his statement. The elf-child moaned again in his arms, shifting in discomfort and receiving glares from about half the gathered dwarves.
"We will not leave him to die Gimli. How would Elrond welcome us if he discovered we had left one of his kind to die in the deep snow? The elves are extremely protective of their children, we would be carved alive if we let one die willingly." He began walking again, forcing the rest to fall in step behind him, whilst he contemplated his own words.
It was true, the elves care of their children was legendary, and no other race – even the Istari – had ever seen one of their young before they reached at least 200 years old. And so this made Glóin wonder to himself, how in Mahal's name did one end up by the foot of the lonely mountain, surrounded by snow and covered in wounds? It didn't make any sense.
He understood the other dwarves uncertainties in harbouring an elf. The two races had not got along too well in recent times, but he would not hear of them that they leave anyone to die when they have caused no greivances to any dwarf. Especially not a child!
They would take the elf-child to Rivendell, where Elrond could deal with it from then on.
The elf did not wake for the next four days, in which time only Glóin would attend to it. Each night they stopped he would lay the elf down in furs of his own – receiving glares from his son for such care – and take a damp rag to it's forehead to help calm it's fevour. Then he would slowly drip water down it's throat, massaging it's neck as gently as possible to coerce the elf into swallowing before it choked. He regreted he could do little else for the youngster, but so little was known about young elves that he didn't know what he could do. He then left the elf to attend to his own needs before returning to sleep beside it. And each night when he returned there would be an owl, with pure white feathering, waiting beside the boy's head.
On the fifth day, when the dwarves had just crossed the old ford, the elf-child stirred in Glóin's arms, before several minutes later his eyes fluttered open.
Glóin smiled widely down at his temporary charge, "we've just crossed The Great River and will reach the Misty Mountains tomorrow."
He allowed a brief frown to cross his face when, not only did the elf not show any signs of understanding, he also flinched away from him slightly, stiffening in his arms.
"Care to tell me how you were injured, Master Elf, and how you came to be alone in the wilderness?"
the elf merely continued to stare into his bearded face, not acknowledging a word he said.
"You don't speak the Common tongue?" Glóin found himself asking, resignedly.
When no answer was forth coming he sighed, pointing to himself he said as clearly as possible, "Glóin."
For Harry he was more than confused, and still nowhere near rational thought. The man spoke in a harsh voice, and, even though he couldn't understand a word, and the man smiled brightly at him, he couldn't prevent himself from tensing up. The man spoke again but Harry could only stare at him, not at all comprehending the words that were spoken to him. It seemed the man figured that out aswell, as he sighed before pointing to himself in an exagerated manner and saying, much more clearly than before, "Glóin."
Harry nodded his understanding wearily, not giving his own name even when prompted by 'Glóin'.
Harry felt himself growing tired again, Glóin shifted him closer to his muscled chest in response to his drooping eyes and, as Harry's injuries were jarred by the action and he hissed, he cursed the Valar for the predicament they dumped him in. 'Some Lady of Mercy she is!' he grouched to himself before he drifted off again.
They were on the last leg of their journey now. In just over a week, they would be across the mountains and into the valley of Rivendell. But Glóin worried for the elf in his charge. His fever was still raging strong, refusing to break, and with the return of the cold snowy surrounding, he worried the elf might be overcome before the reached the elvish settlement. Not to mention the other wounds that covered him. Whilst they were free from the dangerously cold climates, Glóin had taken the opportunity to bandage the injuries. They were visciously unpleasant and he was beginning to think the elf-child had been tortured before being left to die in the snow, from the extent of the injuries covering his petite body. And, to his dismay, they had but the most basic of ointments, so the wounds were taking their time to heal, constantly worn open by the rough travel of the dwarves.
Still none of the other dwarves would assist the elf. Glóin well remembered his treatment at the hands of the elves in Mirkwood, but he was hopeful that, if the situations were reversed, the elves would do the same as him. It was the deepest greivance that even his own son would not help him.
As they started to ascend the mountains – the elf's small form tucked against his chest inside his furs – he could only pray that it wasn't a dead elf-child that they carried into Rivendell.
May Mahal help him if that happened.
Harry was beginning to feel worse. Whenever he returned to consciousness he would feel even more delusional, and only ever managed a forced drink of the man's water before falling back into his fever-induced sleep. Yet in his brief few lucid moments he managed to take in that they had returned to frozen climates. He was beginning to think that, even with the care of the man, he would not be able to fulfil his supposed task on this planet – and that he would be seeing the Master of Death again rather soon.
For six days they travelled across the mountain, and for six days the elf stayed tucked inside his furs, his breath against Glóin's neck getting continously weaker as the hours passed. On the fifth day, when they started their descent from the mountain, he forced the other dwarves in his company to increase their pace, marching down the mountain side in quick order.
Each night as he lay down, the elf still pressed against him for heat, Glóin would sigh at the bad attitude of Gimli. Had he truly raised him with so deep a distrust of elves that he would leave one to die? If so, he wondered if bringing him to Rivendell was wise. He had thought Gimli might be able to hold his tongue around the elves but with each resentful glare sent his way, he was beginning to doubt it.
On the sixth day, when they reached the bottom of the mountain at dusk, he forced his group to continue marching. With the elf's breathing ragged against his skin he decided they could not rest any longer. It was with great delight when he reached the peak of a small hill to see the lights of Rivendell. His tired and moody company groaned loudly when he brightly announced, "it is but a little ways. We will run from here."
And so, with a hoist of his pack and one arm supporting the elf ever held to his side, he began to run, silently asking forgiveness of the elf as he groaned in pain.
One could hardly call their entrance into the elven realm fitting of dwarves of their standing, but, as they all huffed at the prolonged sprint, Glóin couldn't bring himself to care, immediately seeking out the first elf.
He could see the mirth dancing in the elf's eyes and, as he approached watched it grow larger as the elf immediately danced away, flitting around the corner and disappearing. A light laugh at the disgruntled dwarf caused him to turn around to see an elf very similar in appearance to the last, watching him whilst laughing openly.
Instead of approaching this time, the dwarf spoke from where he was, "Master Elf, I am Glóin, son of Gróin, embassy of Dáin II. It is of great importance that I speak with Lord Elrond."
The elf's eyes once more sparkled with mirth, "He is resting, you may wait until morning to speak with him. Quarters have been prepared, come and I will show you to them."
Glóin growled in frustration, ignoring the thrice-damned amusement in the elf's eyes.
"I need to see him now! You will just have to wake him or I will cause enough noise to wake him myself!"
the twinkle in the elf's eyes instantly hardened and his voice grew deeper, "What do you threaten me with, dwarf? You are guest's in this place and you think to demand to see my father? He is not available at present, I have told you, and he will see you in the morning if that is your wish."
Glóin would finally hear no more of it. The elf was infuriating, and with the elf-child's breathing against his neck a constant reminder, he needed to get to Elrond soon, or nothing would stop the elf from dying.
He drew his axe. "Go and fetch your father instantly, or I'm certain you will all regret it for many years." His threat was not idle, and the elf knew it as instantly the dwarves were surrounded on all sides by knocked arrows pointed to their throats.
He felt the others behind him tense, but didn't allow himself the same comfort, staring almost pleadingly to the stubborn elf watching him disdainfully.
"You will dis-"
"Enough." All eyes turned to face the speaking elf as Elrond strode from another archway, staring intently at Glóin. "I am awake, what is it you would have of my Master Dwarf?" the Elven Lord asked coldly, eyeing the drawn axe.
"I would have you healing skills Lord Elrond. On our journey here we came across a youngster you might be interested in, deep in snow. He needs immediate attention if he has any hope to survive!"
Instantly Elrond's eyes moved from Glóin to focus on the slight figure protruding from the inside of his own furs, wrapped tightly to his body. He gave a stiff nod, motioning for the dwarf to follow quickly and made haste to his House of Healing. Elladan and Elrohir instantly followed behind him, ignoring the dwarves completely.
The three of them entered a free room without a glance at the dwarves, none to pleased with the entrance they had caused, but Elrond motioned to the bed silently, waiting until the dwarf unwound the boy from his furs and laid him on the bed before he moved forward to examine him.
Glóin watched anxiously, ignoring the burning glares from the two elf brothers to wait for Elrond to say anything about the elf's state.
The elder brought a hand to the elf's forehead, feeling the burning fever for himself before pulling his hand away quickly. He issued a brief snap of commands to one of his sons who quickly complied and moved to leave the room, only to pause at a sharp exclamation from his father. The sons watched in shock as he staggered back slightly before looking at the dwarf in shock. They too turned to glare at the dwarves before their father spoke.
"He's an elfling?"
After the startling announcement the three elves set to work more vigourously than seen before. Creams and balms were mixed from freshly collected plants and applied to the crusted wounds covering the elf. One elf sat constantly at the child's head and applied a damp cloth to his burning forehead whilst whispering words of calm to the elf.
It was four days before any of them left the elf's side, and the inhabitants of Rivendell – especially those who had come for council – wondered what was keeping the Elven Lord so. The dwarves were treated with distrust after their entry was whispered amoungst the elves. Their lord and his sons had disappeared after such a spectacle and they knew the dwarves had something to do with it.
Even Mithrandir himself seemed at a loss as to why the Elven Lord had suddenly withdrawn and refused to come out. Nothing was known of the injured elfling lying ill in a bed within the house of healing.
Whispers were a constant companion to Glóin and his fellow dwarves, and dark looks from the elves and it wasn't until the fourth day of their stay, when the twin elves left ehe elfling's room that they abated.
With great reluctance, both approached the dwarves as they sat in the courtyard. Glóin heard Gimli growl behind him at their presence but he ignored that. Upon reaching the company both elves, to the shock of those observing, bowed lowly to him.
"We both offer our sincerest apologies for our actions to you upon your arrival. They were undeserved and your actions leave us in your debt. Tonight we will hold a feast in your honour, Master Dwarf."
"Aye, but now I would see the child."
Both elves hesitated, glancing at each other before nodding reluctantly. "Ada is with him at the moment. His fever broke last night and he is just sleeping the remains of it away. We are hopeful he will wake in the next few days," Elrohir explained as they walked swiftly to the elfling's room, forcing the dwarf to jog hastily behind them.
"And when he wakes we can find out who did this to him, and hunt them each down and cause them the same hurts," Elladan murmured to himself, though not low enough for the dwarf not to hear also, being thankful that he was not the one to incur these elves' wrath.
They soon entered the airy room of healing to find the Lord Elrond sitting by the bed, watching the sleeping elf intently. He glanced up as his sons drew up another chair and bade the dwarf sit before exitting again to inform the kitchens of the planned feast.
"You have my deepest respect for your care of this elfling, Glóin, son of Gróin. I have no doubt he would have succumbed to his hurt and left for Valinor had you not. And for my actions and those of the rest of the elves – my sons' particularly – of the other night I can give you nought but my humblest apologies and tell you that, in that instant atleast, the dwarves deeply embarrassed my kin and I in our foolish behaviour."
Glóin chuckled deeply, leaning back in his chair, "I never thought I would live to hear an elf tell a dwarf that! And as much as it was a joy for my old ears to hear, I'm not sure in the truth of your statement. I regret to hear myself say it aloud, but my companions were not as willing to help when we found him to be an elf – not at all…"
They both sat in contemplative silence, watching the sun bleach the elfling's fair skin different shades of orange as it set.
Some time later, Elladan entered, announcing that it was time they both prepared for the feast. Elrond nodded in agreement, whilst Glóin looked uncertainly at the bed-bound elf.
"Elladan, fetch Glorfindel here, he will be more than willing to forego a feast to look after an elfling."
Glóin nodded hesitantly in understanding and slowly made his way from the room, disappearing from the doorway with an anxious backwards glance.
The blonde Balrog-slayer arrived but a minute later, taking in the unconscious elf with wide eyes. "But there hasn't been an elfling since Arwen!" he gasped in shock, staring into Elrond's dark eyes, seeking answers.
The elven lord nodded, understandingly and motioned the elf to take a seat and beginning to explain everything he had been told my the dwarf to his fellow elf. He left for the feast, content that the little elfling would not be allowed out of the protective elf's sight.
Elrond chuckled to himself. Glorfindel the Elf-Lord, was a motherhen.