Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters, races, and creatures, as well as our beloved Middle Earth, belongs to JRR Tolkien.
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Jeren slowly came awake, feeling as if she'd slept the night away. But it wasn't dawn, it was dark, and she did not know how long she'd been asleep. She'd come directly to her bedroom from Lord Elrond's study this afternoon, had lain down and was asleep within moments. She suspected that one of her dearest Elven friends, one she had often wished was her father, had secretly cast a healing sleep on her.
She felt drugged and lethargic, as if even moving a finger would take too much effort. She smiled to herself as an ironic thought crossed her mind—mayhap she could move a finger, mayhap not. It would depend on which finger…
She was lying on her side, watching lazily as the gauzy curtains, covering the width of the doorway out to her veranda, swung gently in the breeze, billowing out into the darkened room. The shadows cast by the moonlight gave the floating panels the illusion of ghostly breathing as they swelled and receded.
She could vaguely hear singing coming from the Hall of Fire, where typically the Elves would entertain themselves and others when the mood struck. Tonight they were probably there in honor of Rhyse and Elladan's impending departure on the morrow. The lilting chorus was not helping in her quest to rise—if anything, it was making her want to lay there and sleep the rest of the evening and night away.
Thoughts of Rhyse came crashing into her mind. All the pain she'd felt this afternoon, when he had gotten so angry and had said such hurtful things, tore at her heart again. If she were fair, she'd have to admit she'd been somewhat rough on him as well. Likening him to his father was never a wise move. She'd seen him resort to fisticuffs when any of the other rangers had ever made such a comparison.
She'd not worried about that today; he would never hit a cripple.
Jeren sighed and turned over onto her back. A cripple—that's what she was, and again she asked herself what she was going to do with her life. Where would she live? Would she impose on Lord Elrond, here in Rivendell, for the rest of her life? Maybe she should go back to the settlement; her Aunt Elen would not turn her away. She suddenly thought about Anardil, and what he might think of such plans. She knew her father would object at his only daughter taking charity from anyone.
Her thoughts meandered vaguely toward Elrond then, and how he persisted in his mission to get her to exercise and rehabilitate her hand and arm. She did not see the point. She could try from now until the end of time, and would never be able to move a muscle in her hand by herself. But why did he continue badgering her, unless he truly thought exercising it would help?
He was a very proud Elf, she knew. Perhaps it was his pride that kept him insisting that her hand could improve. Maybe he just did not want to seem a failure in anyone's eyes, especially his own. She shook her head slightly at that thought. He would not view this surgery as failure. He knew from the start it was very unlikely that her hand and arm would ever move again. The fact that it had healed and had not needed amputation was a success, as far as a surgeon would be concerned.
A quiet knocking sounded on her door. She wanted to see no one, so she closed her eyes, feigning sleep, and did not answer.
She heard the door slowly open, but did not hear it close again. She feared someone had come to check on her.
Since she distinctly heard footsteps, she knew it wasn't Lord Elrond or any of the other Elves. The only Human in Rivendell at present—besides her—was Rhyse.
She kept her eyes firmly closed, not wanting to talk to him again this day. He was disappointed in her, she knew, but even if he wasn't, she'd had second thoughts about tying him down with someone who could no longer fend for herself. If he needed a woman he could ride with and shoot with and kill Orcs with, then he'd best look elsewhere. She was no longer that woman. She prayed the tears stinging her lids—brought on by these wretched thoughts—would not betray her to Rhyse. Thank the Valar it was dark…
She could sense his presence as he stood beside her bed. His quiet breathing sounded almost thunderous to Jeren, as she lay there trying not to move or squirm. Why did he just not leave?
She heard him drop something gently on her bedside table, and then he did something she had not expected—he kissed her lightly on the lips. He then turned and quietly walked out the door. Jeren could hear the final click of the knob, and then his boots on the beautiful wooden floor as he walked down the hallway to his room.
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Jeren got up as soon as Rhyse had gone, and lit the lamp on her bedside table—no easy fete for a person with only one working hand. Someone, probably Daeron, had come in at some point while she'd been sleeping and lit the fat candle, which sat on the dressing table in her bathing room. She briefly thought about taking it closer to the lamp, so that she'd not have to walk so far with an open flame on the end of a taper, and give it the opportunity to extinguish itself on the trip back from the bathroom. She decided against it. The candle was large and had obviously been lit for some time—liquid wax was pooled around the flame and threatened to spill if it was tipped even the slightest bit. So she took a taper from a box where they were stored on the desk in her room and touched its tip against the candle's flame. She'd still had to make two trips to finally accomplish her goal—the taper blew out on the first attempt as she passed the open doorway to the veranda. Without another hand to shield it, the flame had sputtered and gone out in the breeze.
This doorway to the veranda was usually open at all times during the late spring, through the summer and into early autumn. The filmy curtains were drawn across the opening at night, or whenever more privacy was desired. During the winter, the glass-paned doors would be closed against the chill and damp.
She quickly found that what Rhyse had dropped on the table was a letter. She sat on her bed and unfolded it—again, taking much time, since only one of her hands truly worked any more. She smoothed the paper on her lap, making it lie flat so that she could read it.
Dear Jeren…
I hoped to see you before I left in the morning, but if I could not, I wrote this letter to let you know just how I feel.
First of all, I do regret my cruel words of this afternoon. As you no doubt noticed—probably long before you told me so today—I do have my father's ill temperament. I try to keep it hidden, for I do not admire the trait in him at all, much less myself. But I let it loose today, much to my remorse. I am sorry…
I will undoubtedly be back on duty very soon, which will suit me fine. I am not my best when idle, as you have definitely found out these past few days. I hate to leave with so much undecided between us, but I feel as if I will lose my mind if I do not get back to work soon, so I cannot stay. And we both need time to think and make decisions about our lives.
Do not think for a minute that I do not love you. I do sincerely. But sometimes love is not enough. We must both decide if our lives can work together at all, if you are not a ranger. Either of us being unhappy would defeat the purpose of marriage. We must work toward goals that would enhance our love, not diminish it, if that is even possible now. That is another thing we must decide for ourselves.
With all my love,
Rhyse
Jeren refolded the letter and dropped it back onto the table. Short and sweet. Or not so sweet, depending upon one's outlook. He hadn't closed the door on them being married; his intent was to take some time to think about it. She wanted to feel encouraged by that, but did not. Even if by some chance Rhyse decided that yes, he did love her enough to stand by her—even injured as badly as she was—she knew in her heart that he would always find her lacking, and she could not live with that.
It was difficult being around Rhyse right now. He did not accept her limitations, and if what he said this afternoon was any indication, he did not want to admit to the possibility that she might have limits, especially when it came to her being a ranger. Quite frankly, he had sounded as if he had no intention of ever doing so.
She accepted her impairment. Why wouldn't everyone else? Was she wrong or were they?
Gritting her teeth, she worked at moving her arm. She concentrated, giving it her all. She was able to move it at her shoulder, just as she had done the other morning for Lord Elrond, but that was all she could move.
Or was it?
She tried again, focusing on flexing her fingers at the same time as she strained to move her entire limb, and again she moved her arm at the shoulder joint, swinging it forward about six inches. But her fingers did not move. She exhaled explosively, not having realized she'd been holding her breath with the exertion.
Was this just the beginnings of movement of her limb, or was it the extent it would ever move? She'd been doing this trick for about a week now. It hadn't improved further, but then, she really hadn't been working at it either.
She rubbed her shoulder with her good hand. All that effort had made it ache. She got up from the bed to get herself ready for sleep. It was then that she noticed the tray that Daeron had brought while she slept. She lifted the cover from the plate. Cold things—from tonight's evening meal, she assumed: Some roasted chicken, a roll, butter on a small plate and some fresh strawberries. She picked up a berry and took a bite.
It was juicy, and she had to catch a drip that escaped and threatened to run down her chin. She took another bite, finishing the last of it. She started unbuttoning her shirt. Slow going, as usual, but before long she was in her nightdress.
She glanced in the mirror, noting her hair, seeing it was time for a wash again. She shook her head, thinking of how she'd have to impose on Naith to wash it for her. She had a good mind to take a knife to it; it would be easier to keep if it were short. But another discouraging thought intruded into her mind—someone would have to do that for her, too. She couldn't even braid it herself anymore, and that was something she'd been doing since she was six!
Near tears again, Jeren got into her bed. She turned the wick on the lamp until the flame disappeared.
Sleep—that's what she needed, more sleep. She hoped she wouldn't dream, because in her dreams she was almost always whole, and when she woke up, bitter disappointment awaited her.
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The Hall of Fire was somewhat sedate this evening. It was usually livelier, sometimes even with dancing, depending on the occasion. Yes, there was song here this evening, but two of those in attendance were not listening; in fact, they were having what was turning into a rather heated discussion in a far corner of the main room.
"You must be jesting," Glorfindel said, acting as if he were stifling laughter; but Elrond could tell by the stiffness of the Arms Master's spine that he found precious little humor in the favor Elrond had just requested.
"I can assure you; I am as serious as I have ever been."
"Pose a different favor to me at another time, friend. I trained her once and found her fit. I have no stomach for playing nursemaid to a sulky child." He took a sip of the drink he was holding, his penetrating gaze meeting Elrond's over the rim of the cup.
"She isn't sulking, Glorfindel; she's terrified. And if someone cannot get through to her soon, all hope of her arm regaining any function will be lost."
"Get Elrohir to do it—you told him you would, when he brought her here with an arm so injured it would have been better off gone."
"Says someone with two good arms," Elrond replied quickly. It was his turn to stare Glorfindel down, as he, too, sipped from his goblet. "Elrohir is working on something else. That leaves you."
"Elrond—"
"—must I amend the favor and make it a command?"
"You command me?"
"It has been known to occur on occasion."
Glorfindel's jaw stiffened even more, as he thought about Elrond's proposal. "If I agree, there will be conditions."
"Name them."
"Once I start there will be no interference from you."
Elrond thought about that for a moment. Certainly Glorfindel was angry now, but Elrond knew him well enough to know that he would never harm a trainee, nor take his anger out on one.
"Done."
"Also—when she meets with your approval, and you say my work is finished, you will never command such of me again."
Elrond frowned, thinking this one over a bit. Never was a very long time in the lives of Elves.
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Jeren slept later than usual the following morning. Being up half the night tossing and turning did not make for early rising. Thoughts of Rhyse and her life in general kept her mind in veritable tumult. Yet once she did fall asleep, she didn't stir at all until sounds of persistent knocking broke through the heavy fog that sleep had immersed her in.
"Come in," she muttered. Even in her haze she had the presence of mind to hope it was not Rhyse, changing his mind after all and deciding to stay. He was right—they did need time apart in which to puzzle out this mess that their lives had become. And she did not want to see the pity in his eyes, or his contempt, for that matter, when he was faced with watching her struggle to do things she could no longer do.
"For Ilúvatar's sake, you're still asleep!" Daeron said almost to himself as he poked his head through the barely open door. He burst the rest of the way into the room, his voice rising as he advanced. "I knew an ill wind must be blowing, when you did not show for morning meal." He stood at the foot of her bed, talking to her as if she had been awake for hours. "It would be wise if you rose at once. I've just been directed by Lord Glorfindel that you are to meet him in the south training yard in twenty minutes. Even if you got up instantly and got ready at top speed, you will still be late. You know how he hates to be kept waiting."
Jeren sat up and stretched, yawning. "What can he possibly want with me? And in the training yard…"
"Training would be my guess, since that's what he does and that's where he usually does it." Daeron's cheeky smile did nothing to lighten Jeren's mood. She lay back down, snuggling into her pillow.
It was all too apparent that drastic action was required. Daeron could see she was not of a mind to get up at all, much less hurry, so he advanced further into the room, pulling the covers off her warm body. "Do not make me get a basin of water from the washroom and pour it over your head," he said in way of warning.
"You wouldn't," she mumbled as she sat up again.
"Do not test me—you may find out exactly what I might do. I am not fond of explaining myself to our illustrious Arms Master."
Daeron picked up the tray he'd left for her last night and headed back to the door, as Jeren got up and made her way into the bathing room. Just before he closed the door behind him, he turned around and said, "I'll have a morning tray here for you directly, so get dressed quickly. No one can do any training on an empty stomach."
Jeren heaved a deep sigh, and then went about her morning routine. She lamented about the messiness of her hair, but there was no help for it. If she was to be in the south training yard at all this morning, she would not be able to remedy its unkempt state. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth and then set about getting dressed.
By the time Daeron was back, Jeren was dressed in a light-weight white shirt and dark leggings. She sat at the desk where he had placed the tray, and hurriedly ate what was on the plate that he had uncovered with a flourish—eggs, a link of sausage and a piece of bread with blackberry jam spread over it.
Daeron was soon bustling about while she ate, putting her bed to rights.
"Don't bother with that," Jeren said. "I can do it."
He looked at her sheepishly, but continued with what he was doing. "Yes, but it will only take me a few moments, and you just do not have the time this morning."
Jeren couldn't help her hurt expression. What Daeron hadn't said was that he could do a much neater job, and in a fraction of the time.
She unconsciously reached for her sword on its belt, which she kept in the corner beside the desk. But even if she had been able to strap her belt on by herself, the simple fact was that she had no notion of where her weapons even were. She'd been unconscious when Elrohir had brought her to Rivendell this time, and had no idea what had become of them. It shocked her to realize how quickly and how completely she'd forgotten about things that had always seemed as if they were a part of her.
She hoped Daeron had not noticed her momentary lapse, but she should have known better. Her day had gotten off to a rocky start, and it looked to be going downhill from there.
"Worry not," Daeron said. "Glorfindel will have with him whatever training weapons you might need, if that is indeed his purpose for you this morning."
He finished smoothing the bed with one final pat to a pillow, and then he walked over to her, stopping in front of her. He stroked her left cheek with his right hand, and then let both hands linger on her upper arms.
"Remember who you are," he said, "when Glorfindel seeks to trip you up, as we both know he will. I do not know what he's about this morning, but whatever it is, my Jeren can take what he hands out and can hand it back to him, without getting herself into trouble. Your quick mind always amazed me," Daeron admitted, smiling now. "And it served you well, when dealing with the Arms Master. At times it seemed as if you surprised him, and he could never quite figure out how you had even come close to doing such a thing."
Jeren glanced away for a moment, but then let her eyes rest on his again. She did not smile; in fact, her face was sad. "Yes," she said in her customary dull tone, "but I've not seen your Jeren in weeks. I think she might be dead."
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Glorfindel was leaning against the fence that surrounded the south training yard, slowly stroking Asfaloth's mane. There were no others training today, Jeren noted as she approached, but she wasn't surprised by that. Some of the Imladris force had ridden out with all the trainees this morning to participate in a training mission. For some of the trainees this would be their first taste of killing Orcs. Rhyse and Elladan rode with them, and would ride on to the settlement, since Rhyse had not yet been released from the healer's care. Elladan would then leave again, meeting up with the Imladris warriors, to hunt with them. He was tireless in his quest to see the enemy slain.
"You're late," Glorfindel said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
"Well, you gave me no notice," Jeren said, by now grumpy from lack of sleep and having to hurry after being jolted awake.
"What did you say, Girl?" he asked her, his voice soft but dangerous.
"You gave me no notice, sir."
"The proper response, Girl, would have been no response at all," he said, standing straighter as if to assert his authority. "What? You were caught sleeping? At this hour?" Again, his disdain was difficult to miss. "You do remember the penalty for lateness, do you not?"
"Permission to speak, Arms Master?" Jeren asked with total compliance now, although she could not for the life of her figure out his game.
"Permission granted," Glorfindel said with a little more approval, both on his face and in his silky tone.
"The penalty for lateness is running a league for every five minutes of tardiness, Arms Master."
"Very good, Girl," he said quietly. "You haven't forgotten everything you were once taught." He circled around her as he spoke, obviously sizing her up and finding her lacking. "Since you are not long out of your sick bed, I will amend the penalty—for now. You will run a half-league for every ten minutes you are late. Since you are fifteen minutes late, you will run three quarters of a league. Now, get to it."
Jeren could hardly believe her ears. He acted as if she were back in training. "Lord Glorfindel, why are you doing this? I've been out of your command for years."
"Now is not when I wish to discuss this with you. When I do feel the need, I will. Now, get you gone, and then report back to me at the armory."
"But that's another entire league from here," Jeren said, with a plaintive quality to her voice.
Glorfindel smiled, and then leapt up onto Asfaloth's back, looking down on Jeren. "And it is not likely to grow any closer, the longer we discuss it."
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Of course, Jeren had come to the south training field on foot; she truly had no idea how to mount a horse in her present condition without any help, and that had only added to her lateness. This training yard was at least a twenty-minute walk from the house. She briefly considered going right back to her room and returning to bed. This exercise was one she could completely do without.
Yet her warrior's principles would not allow her to disobey a direct order, especially from the Arms Master himself. So she took off into the woods, following the path that was always used for this type of exercise—or penalty—whichever the case might be.
There were markers at the various lengths—half league, three-quarters of a league and full league—subtle though they were. There were carvings on various trees, placed at eye level, scored onto trunks that you could pass without even seeing if you did not know they were there or know of their import in judging the length of your run.
She ran at first, but had to slow to a walk very soon—too soon, really. She could not believe how much her stamina had declined in the weeks since she'd been injured. As soon as she'd caught her breath, she'd run for another length, until she could not continue. It went this way until she was finished running altogether. As she emerged from the path, she slowed to a walk and then bent at the waist, leaning over, with her good hand just above her knee, catching her breath. Her other arm dangled lifelessly at her side.
The more she had run, the angrier she had become. In the past, the opposite had occurred. She had often used running to try and free herself from rage—be it in the form of Orcs from the past, or a harsh trainer on that very day. But today, the longer she ran, the more livid she was with a certain blond Elf.
As soon as she could breathe freely again, she started her trek to the armory. Another whole league. If only she could ride. This walk would probably take her almost an hour, even if she ran part of the way.
When she finally arrived at her destination, she yanked the armory door open and stomped inside, looking for Glorfindel. It did not take her long to find him; he was sitting at a table fletching arrows. That surprised her—she would have thought such a mundane task was beneath him.
He got up and pointed toward the door, and without speaking they both went outside. He had three wooden training swords leaning against the outside wall, and he picked one of them up and handed it hilt first to Jeren. She looked at him warily, but accepted the blade with her left hand.
"I have given you the lightest of the training swords. Now, keeping your arm straight, I want you to point it to the ground out in front of you, its tip in the dirt, and then lift it to shoulder height—straight out before you—and back down."
Jeren did as she was told. She was sure her facial expression left much to be desired, because her anger at Glorfindel was only increasing. Much to her dismay, he walked back into the armory, and left her doing the arm exercise over and over again. She was so angry, she wanted to cry, but she would never give him that satisfaction.
After at least ten minutes, he returned and motioned for her to stop.
"The other arm, now, but without the sword," he said.
"I cannot—"
"—I am uninterested in excuses, Girl. I am only concerned with results. Now do as you've been told."
Jeren was holding her temper, but just barely. She prayed that she would not start crying in anger before this farce was over. She closed her mouth, her jaw clenched, and she tried to move her injured arm. It rose, ever so slowly, but she was able to lift it until it was almost level to the ground. She marveled at what being angry could do for effort—this was the highest she had lifted it since she'd been wounded. But she could not maintain it, and it fell like a dead weight to her side. She bent over slightly, holding her shoulder with her good hand. The pain in her arm where it had been broken was extreme. Tears were threatening to flood her eyes, yet she refused to let them fall.
Glorfindel walked up to within inches of her, so close she flinched away. He smiled, but grabbed the right sleeve of her shirt, up near the shoulder seam. He ripped her sleeve away, dropping it to the ground, and she gasped, wondering why he was treating her this way.
Quietly, he said, "Again." He placed his hand beneath her arm, and as she lifted it this time, he supported it. He peered at her bare arm as she worked, and placed his other hand on her back, right at her shoulder blade. When she could lift her arm no higher, and it would have fallen again, he held it in place, up and parallel to the ground.
Suddenly Jeren felt light-headed, as if she might faint. She must have faltered, because Glorfindel's hands tightened as if he were afraid she might fall. She looked at him and was taken aback by the show of obvious concern on his face. It was as if he was finally looking at her for the first time since she'd returned from running. He took her good arm around the bicep and led her back inside, to the place he had vacated earlier, and shoved her gently into his chair. He left but returned quickly, a cup of water in his hand.
"Did you not stop to quench your thirst at all, Girl?" he asked her gruffly. She drank greedily for a moment, and then tried to put the cup down, but he would not allow it. She drank again until all the water was gone.
"Permission to speak, Arms Master?" she asked, and even she was appalled at the sound of weakness in her voice.
"Permission granted," he said quietly.
"No, I did not drink while I was running, or afterward. I was in too big a hurry to get back to you, so that I could give you a piece of my mind."
He raised one eyebrow at her cheeky tone. "And why, pray, was that? What do you have to say, Girl?"
She tried to stand, but, again, he wouldn't allow it, placing a hand firmly on her shoulder to prevent her rising.
"I want to know why I am being punished in this way. What have I done to warrant such cruelty?"
This time both of his eyebrows rose, only now even higher. "Cruelty?" he asked her, with incredulity on his face. "You think my actions cruel?"
"I do. What am I supposed to be training for? I can do nothing—not even ride. I certainly cannot hold a bow or a sword. What am I doing here?"
"You were holding a sword just a few minutes ago, doing a drill. Yes, it was a primary drill and a wooden sword, but it was still training. You looked to be holding it well. Why do you feel fit to complain?"
"What?" Jeren asked, this time her turn to be disbelieving. "That was a drill, with my weaker left hand? Why? What can you hope to accomplish?"
"It is not I who needs accomplishment, Girl. That is what you need."
Jeren closed her eyes, silently counting, hoping her anger would abate just a little. When she felt somewhat calmer, she opened them again.
Glorfindel stood tall, looking down on her. Without giving her a chance to say anything, he told her, "Have the seamstress remove the sleeves from your training shirts, so that I can see which muscles are working in your arm and which are not. Then come back here tomorrow at the same time you were supposed to meet me today."
Jeren narrowed her gaze, disgust shooting from her eyes. "You have evaded my question," she said, her voice turning petulant, despite her wanting to remain in control. "Why am I here? Why are you doing this?"
"You may take your whining to the Lord of Imladris, but you will find little sympathy there. It is by his order that I train you now. And while you are at it, tell him I said that my dislike of this command he has seen fit to saddle me with does indeed have a basis. He will understand exactly what I mean, if you use the same tone of voice that you are using on me."
And Glorfindel turned and left the armory, going where, Jeren did not know—nor did she care.
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A/N: Thanks so much to my faithful reviewers: Sadie Sil, Brandibuckeye, Song in the Woods, Teacalm, Livia09, and Elfinabottle. I couldn't continue without your steady support.
