Special thanks to Nemis for all she did in defense of the story this past week. *huggles* This chapter is dedicated to her as it provoked that now legendary live journal rave that made me finally have the nerve to start posting this in the first place. *scatters rose petals*
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Dark Memories: Shadows of the Past
By: DLR 2002
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Chapter 17
An earsplitting crack of thunder shook the night sky. It appeared that the air itself was on fire as there arose with a great hiss from the pits of Angband, a horde of dragons, belching forth flame and destruction.
Elrond found himself taking shelter close to two Noldorin elves that were scanning the sky.
"Yes, it is indeed Eärendil," said one of the elves. "Yea, behold the Silmaril!" exclaimed his companion.
Elrond edged closer, trying to hear their conversation and remember his Quenya. A Silmaril? he thought, why would Eärendil have a Silmaril? Elwing had it when she drowned herself, his mind said, and it accidentally said all of this out loud.
The two elves of Valinor turned and looked at him. There was a pause.
"I am Mahtan," said the first elf. "And you are . . . ?"
Elrond blushed. "I am Elrond," he said. "I beg your pardon; I did not mean to intrude."
"It is well that you did, perhaps," said Mahtan, "for you are sadly misinformed. Elwing is not drowned, what gives you that notion?"
Elrond stared at him, shocked. "That is the tale told among my people. She threw herself into the sea in grief, over the loss of her sons. She had the Silmaril in her keeping and it was lost, with her."
"Nay," said Mahtan, pointing at the sky. "There it is, on the brow of Eärendil as he sails his vessel Vingilot across the heavens. Behold, he draws nigh, perhaps he will assist in the conflict."
"That is Eärendil?" asked Elrond in disbelief.
"Yes, tis his doom, by the judgment of the Valar, to sail the skies each night, never to set foot in the lands of men again," related Mahtan.
"Judgment," Elrond whispered. "For what was he judged?"
"No mortal may set foot on the Undying Lands and still live," Mahtan said. "By the grace of Manwë, Eärendil was allowed to choose by which race he would be judged for his transgression, as he belonged to both. He and Elwing both chose to be numbered among the Eldar."
"What of Elwing?" asked Elrond. "Where is she?"
"She was lifted from the sea by Ulmo," said Mahtan. "She resides in a white tower in Aman from which she flies in the shape of a great bird from time to time, but come down from the tower among us, she does not."
Mahtan turned his attention back to the battle against the dragons. Elrond sat in silence, his mind reeling. His mother, alive in Aman. His father. He paused and looked up. A star? In the sky?
"Look, something is happening," Elrond whispered.
"Yea," said Mahtan, "tis what I spoke of, Eärendil approaches. Perhaps the sight of the Holy Gem will turn the tide."
A white flame grew in the sky and great eagles surrounded the apparition. There came a terrible bright flash and an unearthly screech assaulted their ears.
Down from the sky crashed the great Ancalagon, mightiest of all the dragons, slain by the sword of Eärendil. He broke the towers of Thangorodrim* with his fall and flames and explosions rose up from the depths of Angband.
Elrond absorbed this spectacle with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, tears in his eyes.
"Adar," he whispered with anguish.
The two elves of Valinor exchanged glances. "What was your name again?" Mahtan asked.
Elrond did not take his eyes off the white flames. "Elrond," he answered quietly. "She that bore me was Elwing and my sire was Eärendil."
Mahtan smiled. "Well met, then, Elrond. One now understands your interest and your ignorance in this matter."
Elrond took Mahtan's hand. "Thank you."
"You should, perhaps, attempt to locate your companions," Mahtan advised. He looked at Elrond's armor. "The House of Fingolfin."
"Aye, indeed," said Elrond, "though he is long since slain. His grandson, Ereinion Gil-galad holds the title of High King."
"And he is most likely looking for you, young son of Eärendil," said Mahtan.
Elrond smiled and hurried away.
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"Elrond!"
"I am here, Aranwë." Elrond called back.
"Thank Eru," said the healer, "you are needed."
"Tell me what to do, Hîrnested."*
"You will work on this side of the area," began Aranwë. "Separate the severely wounded from the superficial. You will help treating the superficial and direct the severe cases towards Enelkin or myself." Elrond nodded.
"Any supplies you might need are over to the left." Aranwë gripped Elrond by the shoulder. "I am very glad to see you," he said before he hurried off.
Elrond gazed at the rows of wounded. He stood frozen for a moment, unsure of where to start. Please, he thought, let there be no one I am close to, lying here.
There was a hand touching his ankle, hitting it. Elrond looked down.
"Water," the elf said, his lips cracked and dry. There was a great barrel filled with water, and Elrond dipped a bucket into it. He began to go up and down the rows, offering drinks to those who were conscious. Occasionally, he would indicate an injured elf to be moved closer to the front of the line.
Elrond also took bandages with him and he cleaned wounds and wrapped them as he passed the water ladle around. There were some very young looking elves lying here. One was gazing at Elrond with pleading eyes, as Elrond cleaned and wrapped his wound.
"What will happen, Dîrnested?"* the young elf asked. "Am I going to the Halls of Mandos?"
"Nay," said Elrond, smiling. "You will be fine. Do not talk like that."
The young elf smiled weakly at him. "Here," Elrond said, giving him water. His patient drank and lay back, sighing. "Sleep," said Elrond, but it was unnecessary, he was already out.
Suddenly the ground shook as muffled explosions erupted beneath the surface of Arda. Elrond closed his eyes and prayed silently as the quaking went on. When he opened them again, the tent was still there, the wounded were still there, and the work was still there.
He moved on doling out water, words of comfort. Another young one. What was he, thirty-two? Thirty-five? Too young to be here, really.
Elrond examined the wound, which was in the thigh. The patient regarded him with narrowed glassy eyes. "Well, Dîrnested," he whispered, "how does it seem?"
Elrond cleaned the ugly looking gash. "Do not fret. You will be fine. Here, drink. What is your name?"
"Malanthir," the elf replied.
"You will be fine, Malanthir," said Elrond. "Do not go making any plans with Mandos just yet."
Elrond grew troubled as he regarded the elf's bluish face, although his own face did not show it. The bandage he had just put on five minutes ago was soaked with blood.
"What are you doing?" Malanthir asked.
"Stopping the bleeding," Elrond replied as he tightened a cord around the upper thigh.
Malanthir grimaced, breathing heavily. "We are immortal, are we not? Does that not mean we will live forever?"
"You will," Elrond told him. "Lie back, relax and rest."
"Whatever you say, Dîrnested," the young elf said, closing his eyes.
Elrond changed the bandage once more. He looked about for the stretcher bearers and beckoned them over. "Move this one forward," he instructed. The two attendants looked at each other.
"That is a leg wound," one finally said. "He should stay in the back."
"He should go forward," said Elrond again.
The two elves shifted their feet uneasily. "We know the orders," the first one said. "Wounds to the extremities stay in the back."
Elrond looked around in exasperation. "Be off with you, then." He stood quietly, thinking.
"Am I being a problem to you, Dîrnested?" asked Malanthir in a whisper.
Elrond squatted down. "Nay, Malanthir, you are no problem. I will get help for you." He patted the young elf's shoulder reassuringly.
Malanthir closed his eyes and gasped in pain. "Why can you not help me, Dîrnested?" he whispered. "You are a healer."
"You need a different healer," replied Elrond. "I will return shortly."
"Nay," said Malanthir, grabbing Elrond's hand. "Do not leave me."
"Malanthir," Elrond began.
The young elf looked up at him and his lips trembled. "Do not leave me to die alone."
Elrond squatted back down, his eyes blinking rapidly. "You are not dying. I will get the Hîrnested, he will help you."
"It is too late," Malanthir whispered weakly. "Do not leave me."
"I am here," said Elrond, wondering desperately what to do.
Then suddenly, it did not matter anymore, it was over. He saw the light leave Malanthir's eyes and the hand that had been holding his tightly relaxed.
Elrond sat frozen, staring at him, unable to move. Finally, he reached out and gently closed the unseeing eyes.
"No," he whispered, squeezing his own eyes tight.
He sat there, much longer than he should have, feeling the hand he still held grow cold. The moans of the living slowly penetrated his consciousness and he forced himself to continue the work, his brain functioning, but his mind closed down, numb.
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Gil-galad stepped out of his tent into the night air. He moved off to the side and stood there, quietly relieving himself.
He looked up when he heard a sound, his eyes searching the darkness. Sitting at a dying fire, several tents away, he beheld a forlorn looking figure.
The high king approached his foster son slowly, not wishing to startle him. Elrond was a sight, covered in blood, utterly exhausted.
"Elrond?" Gil-galad said softly. "What has happened to you, Neth-maethor?"*
Elrond looked down at himself. "Nothing Rîn-einior,* nothing. I come from tending the wounded."
"How goes it there?" asked Gil-galad, sitting down.
Elrond stared at the fire. "People are dying," he said finally, "and I can do nothing to stop it."
"Many more live," said the high king gently, "that would not have, if not for you."
"I do not have the skill to have sway over life and death."
"You will," responded Gil-galad, "in time."
"I need the skill now," said Elrond, looking up at him. "Tell that those who are dead, because I did not know what to do."
"You are too inexperienced to have been treating the severely wounded," said the king. "It is not your fault."
"I was all they had," whispered Elrond, "and I failed them."
"Do not be so hard on yourself," said Gil-galad. A shadow fell across his face. "I know how it feels to have been all someone has and to have failed him."
Elrond looked up at him questionably but Gil-galad had turned away, not meeting his eyes.
The king rose and Elrond followed suit. "It has been a long day," Gil-galad said. "Get some sleep, for we move tomorrow." On impulse, he turned and embraced Elrond quickly, then walked away in silence.
Elrond stood frozen, staring at the retreating figure of the high king, his spirit comforted, but his mind in a turmoil, puzzled beyond comprehension.
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*Stronghold of Morgoth, the first and most powerful Dark Lord
*Lord of healing
*Elf (or man) of healing
*Young warrior
*Crowned elder
