~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~
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For the very warm reception M.E.R has received - thank you :) I've decided to write slightly longer chapters each time, so that the fic won't be too disjointed. In this part a few more characters appear (in unexpected ways?). I've taken liberties with one character in particular, but hopefully his story is believable.
* Just a note - there were several types of Elves, and the Silmarillion goes into detail on that. 'High Elves' like Galadriel and most of Elrond's household were of the Noldor, while most forest Elves belonged to the Sindar.
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Chapter 3:
He was sitting in the shade of a massive solitary oak, his eyes hidden by the sweep of his fringe. With his brown shirt and his brown head inclined, a passerby might have thought him part of the tree. Yet as he suddenly shifted, a ray of sunlight caught the bright golden highlights in his hair, and his eyes were a brilliant green, greener than summer grass.
He often spent his days in the park, letting time slip by, and thinking of bygone days. His most trusted retainers had all departed, and later even the lesser servants had left also. His son had gone to settle in Ithilien after Sauron's defeat, and then had been the last of the Elves to take ship, following King Elessar's death. How ironic it was that he sailed into the west accompanied by a dwarf rather than his own father. Thranduil, however, had obstinately clung to Middle Earth, more possessive of his woodland realm than any dwarf would be of jewels and precious metals.
It was no doubt this stubbornness which had enabled him to survive, long after his beloved Greenwood had been swallowed by mountain and wave. Since the breaking of Middle Earth he had avoided the sea, dwelling within fast-shrinking forests or even in the settlements of Men. He had grown used to the ugliness of cities long ago, though his contempt for them was still strong. He likened the skyscrapers to huge thorns springing up from concrete foundations, while the vehicles which sped around them were like so many deformed insects, industrious yet mindless.
From the very beginning his opinion of Men had been somewhat scornful, and his short friendship with Bard of Dale had been mixed with a measure of frustration. In this Age, his views of mortals had sunk even lower.
They have become like the Noldor, only far less beautiful to look on. Self-obsessed, ever building and forging and expanding, certain of their own supremacy.
Thinking this, he found himself on his feet, walking away from the oak towards the red brick building on the edge of the park. There was a public gallery there, where mortal artists displayed their works. At times the displays were wistful and vague, at other times Thranduil found them grotesque and alarming. It was a perverse fascination which made him revisit this place, with its paintings and sculptures that mirrored the pathetic human condition.
His footsteps were noiseless on the polished tiles, and the attendant did not even look up as he entered. In the foyer, where usually stood a twisted lump of ironwork, there was now a large tapestry of dark grey, with elegant silver forms across it. The pattern pleasing; and under his keen sight the weaving was flawless.
It was beautiful.
Thranduil's pace increased unconsciously, and he was drawn into the open hall lined with paintings. A modest sign of mounted cardboard explained that this was a temporary display featuring the work of a fresh young artist who dabbled in painting and sculpture and fabric art.
The first painting nearly stopped his heart. It was a cluster of mellyrn, the gold and silver trees that grew only in Lothlorien and which he had admired, even coveted. There they stood, rendered perfectly on canvas as if the artist had once walked amongst them. In sudden expectation, Thranduil turned to take in the other paintings. One depicted a grassy mound, covered with tiny yellow flowers; in another scene flowed a river with blue mountains rising in the distance. It was as if he were looking out through many windows at Middle Earth.
And then he saw her, a serene figure in soft grey. She stood by the last of the paintings, her face thoughtful. If you glanced at her only once you would not remember her features. But at some deep unconscious level you would yearn to look at her again, and this time you would be caught. For the more one's eyes lingered, the greater the urge to remain there gazing in wonder.
Hers was not the face that would front - what was the crude English word? - a magazine. For unlike a model's face it did not cry for attention. Rather it seemed as if a veil was drawn over it, and yet there was no doubt that this was the most indefinably beautiful face you had ever seen. Perhaps the most beautiful in the world.
Thranduil recognised her. He did not fully understand how this could be, since Arwen Undomiel had died long ago, wife to a King of Men. Still, he was certain, as one who has loved from afar is certain. Like many before him, Thranduil had by chance seen her in the woods and had been snared.
When? Centuries into the Third Age, long before the birth of Aragorn. Legolas' mother had died untimely, and Thranduil had not thought he would ever wish to wed again. All this changed in that moment beneath the canopy of leaves, and the stars of twilight put forth their light. Surely Elrond would not think a Sindarin King beneath his daughter...? But in the end it was Thranduil's own pride, his own fear of rejection which prevented him from pressing his suit. And ultimately Arwen passed into the Doom of Men, beyond his reach.
Beyond my reach then, but perhaps not now.
He walked towards her, wondering if her memories were whole, or whether her paintings were but the last images seen in a fading dream.
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There was something... depressing about this ward. Maybe that was why there were more newly qualified nurses assigned here than to any other parts of the hospital. At first the freshness of the job kept them cheerful, but their enthusiasm would inevitably be worn down, and they were transferred out. Some even resigned. The few nurses who had stayed in for over a year already considered themselves veterans.
It was quiet today, except for the droning voice of a visitor who was reading to his father - for a long while no-one could make out distinct words. Finally he was approached by a young woman who took him firmly by the arm. "Excuse me, sir, but you're really not helping him."
On the bed, the old man was unmoving, unseeing. He had lain in that state for nearly a decade now, unable to speak or care for himself.
"Look, Miss, I don't need you to tell me this. I don't have to be here at all. I'm just taking valuable time out of my own life to do this. The doctor said it would be good for him, so I'm just doing it."
"What are you reading to him?" she asked, and looked down at the cover of the book. "The Silmarillion?" This was at complete odds with the visitor's appearance. He carried a battered attache case and wore the uninspired attire of a minor executive. She blinked, surprised.
"I picked it up off the reading shelf in the lounge. What? You're gonna nitpick on this now?" He raised his voice defiantly, and in the other beds patients began to moan in complaint.
"I don't think your father would appreciate it."
Affronted, the man drew himself up. "I suppose you're trying to tell me that we've got poor taste in reading material, yeah? It says here it's a classic. Or are you trying to say my father won't understand a book like this? Have you read this, nurse?"
"I have," she replied. "And though it's very poetic, it's too sad for a man who hasn't been outside this ward in years. When you read that passage aloud, you were telling him about mortality and loss; how Men face an uncertain fate when they leave the Circles of the World. If you're going to interact with him, tell him about your family, your children... Tell him about how your day was, and what you plan to do over the weekend. Something that will make him want to wake up and live life."
The man glared at her a long moment, then threw the book onto the table and picked up his case. The visit was over. Moments after he left, a thin-lipped doctor came in through the swing doors and took the young nurse aside into the cleaner's room.
"I think you need a refresher course in nursing, Miss Owen. You've forgotten that your job is to comfort family members, not give them aggressive lectures on trivial matters. That man's father is fending off death."
"I think I was doing my job, Doctor. And if I were that elderly man, lying there with no chance of recovery, I'd rather be dead."
The doctor's face pulled into an expression of disgust, deliberately exaggerated.
"No," continued the nurse, "I don't believe in prolonging his existence. This isn't life, it's indignity. It's suffering. If his mind were still functioning, he wouldn't want to be a broken puppet lying in a hospital bed."
The doctor's eyes were stern, unforgiving. "So are you saying, Miss Owen, that we should 'put him down'? Perhaps you'd also like to see us euthanise all coma patients and everyone over the age of 55 too. Why not throw in a couple of quadriplegics while we're at it?" He adjusted his glasses over his beaked nose. "With... repulsive ideas like those, young lady, I think you might find you're in the wrong profession."
"You're twisting my words." For a moment her colleagues eavesdropping outside thought she would make a further retort. But her resolve finally seemed to weaken, and she turned away. "Maybe you're right," she said. "This is the wrong profession for me."
She returned to the long ward looking pale. Nursing had been a family vocation, at least for the women - the men took on policing and occasionally military careers. Everyone had believed she would make an excellent nurse. For a while she had believed it too, but while still in nursing school doubt had developed in her. She had not lost her pity or kindness to her patients, yet with time there grew an inner exhaustion. Slowly it would eat into her soul.
Walking back to the elderly man's bed she picked up the discarded copy of The Silmarillion and thumbed through its pages. "Perhaps you did want him to read this to you. I'm sorry."
As usual, the old man did not reply, his skewed gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"Couldn't you... couldn't you give me a sign which chapter you'd like to hear?"
His eyes were cloudy, his mouth slightly open. Suddenly, as she leant closer, it seemed a film was lifted from his irises. To her intense surprise, the orbs moved by fractions in their sockets, till they looked straight at her. With aching slowness his jaw shifted, and he moistened his lips. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly rich. He said:
"I know you, my dear."
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There was an awkward silence.
"Maybe it was one of those cases where air passes through the larynx and it sounds like the patient's talking...?"
It was the end of Nurse Owen's shift, and she stood at the doors with her hands in her coat pockets. "No, I didn't imagine it. The words were very clear. And he looked at me, I swear."
The other woman nodded hesitantly. "Well, I'll watch him carefully tonight. If he shows any other signs I'll tell the doctor that you noticed them first."
"Thank you Maria. I'm off now."
"See you tomorrow."
The hour-long bus journey and the walk up to her apartment were uneventful, as always. A few months back when she had been on a later shift, she had often run the obnoxious man on the third floor - he was constantly trying to ask her out, no matter how many times she refused. Nowadays she hardly saw him, though now and then he still put absurd little notes in her mail.
She took off her coat and changed out of her uniform before flopping into the big easy chair. She was hungry, but too tired to cook. For no particular reason she reached out and switched the television on, just in time to catch the news. There was complete chaos onscreen, and as the reporter squinted into the camera huge flames erupted in the background.
"... the fire seems to have started about an hour ago, but as you can see, has already reached an unstoppable intensity. Firefighters have been battling the flames in the east wing with little success. Though evacuation in the other wings is under way, it's feared that hundreds in the east wing may have already died... "
She froze as the camera panned the scene, and the all-too familiar building appeared, wreathed in fire. It was the hospital.
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End of Chapter 3
To be continued...
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AlexeCinz
July 2001
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm