"Ow!"
"I am so sorry," Elrond murmured, pulling one hand away from the child's arm. Leston shrugged and fought to keep from cringing, holding out his wrist once more. The injury was not as severe as initially thought; however, it also was sufficiently damaged.
Faegon had a mean swing and a bad temper. Earlier, Elrond had taken Erestor's words into serious consideration when they had thought tutoring would not help. He had almost agreed. The child was stubborn, yet, even now, it seemed the young Elf needed it—he needed someone. The thought brought Elrond to consider the Elfling's father. He didn't know much about them, except that Faegon was an only child. He also knew Faegon's mother had died, though he didn't know how. The thoughts only brought more questions, and they would remain unanswered—for now, at least.
The Elf-Lord nodded and grabbed a splint off the bedside table, smiling. He lined it up with the damaged bone and secured it soundly. "How does that feel?" he asked concerned. He knew it was still probably painful, but there was not much he could do about that.
Leston considered the question carefully, flexing his hand and wincing. "Better...I guess," he answered truthfully. Actually, the bone throbbed, and he had to fight not to voice his pain. Elrond stood and moved to a small kitchen area, sifting through the cabinets. He pulled out three different herbs and boiled water. Within a few minutes, he came back with a steaming cup. Leston grimaced at the sight of the herbal concoction.
Elrond smirked. "Have you ever had painkillers before?" he asked, setting the mug beside him.
Leston looked up and scrunched his nose, nodding meekly. "My mother made them for me when I fell from a tree and broke my arm—" he held up his bandaged arm—"the same one. They're nasty."
Elrond raised an eyebrow at that and smiled. Very blunt. A child that likes to get to the point of things. Now I see why he didn't get along with Faegon, he thought.
"You have not tried mine." The Half-Elf took the cup and held it out, raising both eyebrows in an expression that made Leston want to laugh. He wasn't exactly sure why, but the older Elf just seemed so insistent.
Looking at the cup with distrustful gray eyes, the blond Elf took the handle and sniffed the contents. Then he looked back at Elrond, peering over the edge of the glass. "Do I have to?"
"If you want the pain to stop, yes," Elrond replied smoothly. This was nothing new to him. After all, he had two very stubborn, very independent twin sons.
Leston seemed to weigh the costs of the situation, sniffing the liquid once more. After a moment, he shrugged and sipped the fluid. Immediately, he cringed and glanced up at his lord with betrayal in his eyes. "You lied, this is disgusting," the young Elf said, forcing himself to take another sip. He shuddered.
Elrond laughed and shook his head. "Leston, when there are two evils, is it not correct to choose the lesser one?"
"What?" Leston asked confused at what Elrond was trying to get at.
The Half-Elf sighed, looking at the ceiling and trying to figure out if it was worth explaining. "Just drink the draught."
The sun was sinking behind the horizon, and from previous calculations, they had six hours of daylight left—enough time to make it back to Rivendell. Glorfindel peered at the sun through the foliage and shrugged, blue eyes intuitive. They didn't have a chance to rest, and they might as well keep going. He patted the shoulder of a brown horse beside him, encouraging it to continue walking. Asfaloth was at his other side, enjoying what would be considered a leisurely walk. Indeed, with the people in tow, they weren't moving very fast. So, both Faron's horse and Glorfindel's were relaxed and free, following their owners willingly.
As for the animals pulling the carts; they were tired, but the two Elves didn't push them nearly as hard as the traders had. It would be a stressful few hours' home, and they would no doubt be exhausted by the time they arrived.
Faron was at the back, conversing quietly with a group of former slaves. They had apparently not seen many Elves, and now that there were two among them, the people were more than curious. The captain almost looked uncomfortable, and Glorfindel smiled. It was one thing to talk to a group of humans for a few minutes and enjoy their company; it was another to spend endless hours being swamped by their questions. Glorfindel was almost tempted to call it a night, then, thinking of their schedule, he pressed on. The two would be switching positions in a few hours anyway. In the cart beside him, he heard two traders having a whispered conversation.
It was evident they held animosity toward the two Elves who had quickly taken them down. And now that he thought about it, he realized it was effortless—almost too easy. Obviously, there weren't many traders in the first place, and coming on them when they were sleeping was a stroke of luck. So, the only reason that came to mind was there was more to this than expected. Were the headquarters close? Were they expecting help? Were these traders planning an attempt to free themselves—which wouldn't work?
Glorfindel shook his golden head. He tended to over think. One slave trader shot him a deadly glare. The Balrog-slayer rolled his eyes.
"If you two keep this up much longer, you'll force me to take you out of that cage and have you whipped. Then I'll have to hang you from a tree by your fingertips, left in nothing but your underwear." The golden-haired Elf smiled at them, and they eyed him warily as if trying to decide if he was bluffing. The look he gave them confirmed he wasn't. Immediately, the two closed their mouths and grumbled, the noise making the Noldo want to whack them. By the Valar, he had just seriously threatened them, and they had the gall to complain? From the back, Faron heard him, and the captain was smirking.
The two shared a look. No one was aware of Glorfindel or Faron's status. No one was mindful of the fact that Glorfindel could be very violent if he wanted, or that he had come back from the dead. They weren't aware of just how willing Faron was to follow through with a threat. They had no idea that the mere mercy he had given was less than they deserved. The funniest thing was the simple fact that these traders had no idea who they were messing with and one slip from them would result in a world of pain.
Putting one of the older, yet stronger slaves in charge of the watch, Faron left his post and came up beside Glorfindel. "The sick are going downhill, Glor. We should rest," he said gravely, and Glorfindel knew it wasn't only because he felt like tearing his ears off. The blond Noldo thought for a moment and glanced around. He had learned to ignore the rank scent of sick and wounded a while ago. Coughs and moans emitted from the group around him and his face fell.
"I wish we could Faron, but they need a healer, not rest. The sooner we get to Rivendell the better. We've already lost a few—" He looked to where a family was crying—"We can't lose any more."
Faron sighed rather loudly and shrugged in agreement. He slowed his pace and fell back to his original spot. And so, they walked—they walked for hours. It wasn't until the dim light of twilight that they entered Rivendell. The men and women gasped in awe, and from the back of the group, Glorfindel heard the slave traders murmur in what could have been shock. He smirked, what were they thinking? That Rivendell wouldn't be this gorgeous? He shook his blond head and called up to Faron:
"Run ahead and tell Lord Elrond! Organize a group of healers to get down here, and get the guards and the stable hands!" These horses need as much help as the humans do, he thought sadly to himself.
Faron nodded tiredly and darted off, leaving the large group of refugees to fill the courtyard. A few moments later, Elrond and Erestor came rushing out of doors, and Glorfindel grinned. Erestor had a book of formidable size with him, as always—he must have been reading. The two came immediately to face him.
"Is everyone alright?" Elrond asked, gray eyes scanning their group.
Glorfindel smiled. "Tired, but in one piece. There are some who need medical attention immediately," he nodded toward one of the cages, "we caught our slave traders." Then lowering his voice, he said, "I think an interrogation is needed. The capturing was too easy. I think there may be something up."
Elrond nodded, letting out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. A flood of Elves came in—stable hands and healers—the guards following shortly after. The Lord of Imladris would have a boatload of things to get done that night: including finding a suitable residence for the slaves, planning and following through with the accommodations for the traders, and answer millions of questions. He already looked exhausted.
As everyone was led out of the courtyard, Glorfindel yawned, feeling his adrenaline leave. The exhaustion swamped him, and he ached from being away so long. The golden-haired Elf blinked, he needed sleep. But before he could retire, Elrond laid a hand on his shoulder. Erestor looked between them and seemed to hide a wince and swiftly left.
"There are some things you need to know about one of your students," he said slowly. The Balrog Slayer was tired and probably ill-tempered. It would be a mistake to tell him too quickly, yet, he feared if he didn't tell him now, there would not be another chance—not for a while. Glorfindel's heart sank, and Elrond could see the dreaded expression. "You are not to go and deal with it tonight, is that clear?" he stated.
Glorfindel, slightly confused, nodded slowly. He didn't think he would like what was said next and so Elrond told him. It took a while, but he explained the whole thing. Everything that had occurred since the Gondolin Elf had left. Glorfindel's face burned red. Elrond wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment that one of his students would act like this, or if it was because he was angry—likely both. Glorfindel ran a hand over his face and let out a loud breath. He threw up his hands and strode away. Elrond was about to go after him.
"I know, my lord," Glorfindel called back stiffly. "I am going to bed."
Glorfindel paced. Class had just ended, and though he was glad to see how his students were coming along, he was irked to hear what had happened. Now he paced angrily in front of a bored looking Faegon. The silence was heavy—so heavy, that despite the young Elf's look of apathy, he could feel the rage coming off the Balrog Slayer—it was scary. After a long minute of pacing, Glorfindel finally turned toward him. The Elf's face was cold and blank, his eyes burning with a blue flame.
"What were you thinking?" he hissed, the sound sending a shiver down the adolescent's spine. Glorfindel was bristling and held his rage in by a hair. Indeed, the words were soft, but even an idiot could see the anger hidden beneath it.
Faegon shrugged, albeit nervously. "They were asking for it."
"You hurt a fellow warrior! If that were a real sword, he would be armless!" Glorfindel took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands, holding back a groan. "I don't know what is worse; the fact you don't use weapons seriously, or you had the gall to lose your temper in a spar! The whole time I've been gone, you've managed to get in trouble with Elrond—your lord, and your ruler—you managed to break all the rules and regulations of a warrior in training, and you've injured another child! What do I have to do to make sure you don't hurt one of my students because of your attitude?"
Faegon shrugged, feeling the threads of dread as the ancient Elf's rage grew. He almost flinched, yet, despite Glorfindel's wrathful words, he didn't move an inch. He simply stayed put, hands resting comfortably at his side. Faegon didn't know why, but he had expected the older Elf to hit him, yet, it seemed Glorfindel was used to channeling his anger when reprimanding a warrior. There was only so much one could do when a child had acted out as he did. "You cannot come to practice until I say so; however, your tutoring will continue."
"With that sad excuse for a warrior?" Faegon snapped.
Glorfindel turned on him, blue eyes glinting dangerously. His hands balled into fists at his sides, and his jaw clenched as if keeping himself from saying something. "You better thank the Valar I am not teaching you personally, child. It will be a cold day in the void before you will earn my respect," he growled. As much as Glorfindel wanted to flip out and rant on, he knew it would accomplish nothing. Faegon stepped back. "You need to learn respect, you need to learn how to hold your tongue, and you need to learn reserve. Erestor is best equipped to help." There was a moment of silence, Glorfindel never once breaking eye contact. Faegon tried to hold his gaze, but for some reason—he didn't know why—he couldn't. Glorfindel sighed. "Go. I am speaking to your father tonight."
Faegon nodded once, and unless Glorfindel's eyesight was fading, the young Elf looked almost sullen. He hadn't looked that way until Glorfindel mentioned speaking to his father. Had he been too hard on the Elfling? Probably, yet, anger slowly cooling, he couldn't bring himself to feel bad—not at the moment.
It was well into the afternoon when Glorfindel arrived at the home he was told belonged to Faegon. The sky was dim as he dismounted Asfaloth, patting the horse lovingly. The Elf smoothed out his appearance and slowly approached the house, effortlessly gliding up the front steps. It was a nice setup; he had to admit. The house was small, yet lavish. Its walls were made of stone which had been whitewashed and built right next to the foot of a rocky hill, surrounded by a thick wall of trees—a thick wall of trees that secretly held another small house, camouflaged into the foliage. Well, it wasn't exactly a house; it was a one-room hideout. And from the window of that hideout, a pair of green eyes peeked carefully out.
Once Glorfindel entered his home, Faegon climbed swiftly out of his tree house and clambered down the trunk. He hit the ground soundlessly and padded forward, ignoring the magnificent white stallion that stood patiently, ears flickering as he passed. The brown-haired ellon rolled his eyes and walked carefully up the stairs, hand gliding just above the smooth rail. Like a ghost—he had much practice entering his house unseen—he slipped in and maneuvered to hide behind the flight of stairs leading to the upper level of the house. From that small nook between the railing and the wall, he listened as his captain and father talked.
It wasn't as if they would see him—indeed, his father hardly ever found his hiding spots. And as much as people thought he was good at making himself heard, he was even better at hiding. Not because his father was cruel to him, and not because he was timid. No, those were not the reasons. Hiding simply meant he wouldn't be bothered. Hiding meant his father wouldn't come looking for him or at least wouldn't find him. It meant he could be alone, without his adar there to put on an act that everything was well, and that he loved him—he hated that. Hiding also meant he was in reality. In a life which seemed so full of fake-outs and tricks, hiding was the best thing he could do. It meant something was real, even if it was lonely.
Curling up into the shadows, his view of the scene obscured by the wall, the young Elf sat and listened, feeling a twinge of fear. He bit his lip and almost winced. After this night, there would be no end to the lectures, the punishments. What was left of his relationship with his father would be gone. And for what? A stupid injury? Leston shouldn't have been asking questions. Leston should have minded his own business. It wasn't his fault, and he wasn't sorry.
"He did what?" his father asked, shock in his voice. Faegon almost snorted and rolled his eyes. Like his father didn't know he was capable of that!
Glorfindel nodded several times. "Farael, as a former warrior yourself, I don't have to stress the dangers of another recruit acting like this." Farael nodded gravely, leaning on the table. "I don't know what your relationship is like, and I am not one to pry. However, something needs to be done, and we are trying everything. He is just not listening, and that can be dangerous. I am not even sure if I can graduate him from this class, no matter how good of a warrior he is."
Faegon raised an eyebrow, unsure of how he should feel. However, as always, his anger was the first emotion to surface and take control. Not graduate? How is that fair, he thought angrily, fists clenching. The boy's face burned red, and he nearly shot up and out of his hiding place.
Farael sighed heavily and looked to the heavens. "I will try...Faegon has always been something of a problem child—" Faegon scoffed aloud. "—I fear it is because I have had to raise him alone. After his mother died, I tried to get a nanny...it didn't work. He takes after his mother, you know. Probably why I cannot understand him." The Noldo shrugged sadly, running a hand through hair that sported the same shade of deep, brown his son had.
Glorfindel, refraining from showing outward emotion, only nodded solemnly. The Gondolin Elf looked around for a moment and then straightened. "It has been a pleasure talking to you; I only wish it could be under better circumstances. But before I leave, I have to stress that if he does not pull together by the end of the summer, I won't be able to graduate him. Not until he shows a level of maturity I can trust."
Farael nodded in agreement, and Glorfindel turned to leave, passing Faegon with no knowledge that he was even there. The door closed and Faegon pushed himself deeper into the shadowy crevice.
Pull my act together, the Elfling thought with distaste, biting his lip to keep from screaming, they have no idea what they are talking about.