Warning: Things in the italicized section get pretty heavy. Also, a reference to the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Chapter 27: Elvish Hospitality
The following days and nights were spent traveling as fast as they could, two lives and the fate of the world on the line. No pressure, as Cass would sarcastically say.
But there was tremendous pressure on Boromir's heart and mind. Even the ring was drowned out by his worry as he guided Damascus, his wife tied to the horse's back. At first he would hear her voice and his heart would leap, thinking that she had regained consciousness, but for naught. It was merely the mumblings of nightmares.
There was no getting food into her but with a little massaging of her throat she would take small bits of water during breaks. It was better than nothing, Boromir hoped. What was the rhyme? Five minutes without air, five days without water, five weeks without food?
Frodo was also in a bad way but at least he was sometimes awake enough to take a few bites. The longer they went on the paler his eyes got and his veins were beginning to show blue in his face. He was slowly, ever so slowly, turning into a wraith.
Three days passed before Strider returned from gathering kingsfoil with an elf woman in tow. No questions were answered, only an argument made in elvish before Frodo was put on the woman's horse and taken away into the night. "What are you doing?" Sam demanded, "Those wraiths are still out there!"
Boromir had to agree. Privately he worried that Frodo's strength may not hold out and the journey alone may kill him. Then who would carry that accursed ring?
Now that he saw what the Enemy would do to get the Ring, its sinister whispers were even more unwelcome. That thing had nearly gotten them all killed and two of their number held on by a thread. Yet it continued to tempt him in spite of his newfound animosity toward it. Only when Frodo was gone with the elf-woman did he get any peace.
At nights Boromir would sleep half on top of Cass and Gander on the other half to keep her warm, close enough to the fire that it was uncomfortable. Yet she still subtly shivered. As the days passed that movement got so small as to be of little notice, her breathing shallow enough that her lips were going blue.
"She won't last much longer," Strider murmured as he checked her over on their fourth night out from Weathertop.
Boromir's stomach twisted. "Is there nothing more you can do?" he asked even as he watched the ranger dispense the only remedy that seemed to help: kingsfoil, rubbed onto her ice-cold hands and cool face.
Regretfully Strider shook his head. "Not out in the wilds," he answered.
It felt like a boot to the chest. All Boromir could do was swallow his frustrated retort and nod; the man was doing his best, even if his best was nowhere near good enough. It was all he could ask.
"Is she going to die?" Pippin questioned, face pale and still shocked from the events of the past few days.
"We hope not," Boromir replied unhappily.
That night he was awoken by a groan of pain from under his right side. Wide awake, he rolled off of Cass in case the pressure had begun to hurt.
On her other side Gander whimpered and pressed his nose to her collarbones, sniffing. He let out a short, low bark and began pawing at her tunic.
Immediately Strider was there, gently pushing the hound out of the way. He frowned at the spot that had distressed Gander and then for some reason sniffed that spot. He went still and stiff. "There's blood," he stated and pulled up Cass's tunic to see.
How Boromir found more horror and fear in himself, he wasn't quite sure. But to see the tiny specks of blood that dotted Cass's undershirt, then the small incisions on scarred skin made him feel slightly nauseous. Something glinted from one of the many scars on Cass's torso and, careful not to touch the would itself, he pulled it out.
In the firelight a tiny shard of steel glinted, covered in blood and phlegm.
"It must be the Black Breath, pushing the shards from that weapon out," Aragorn hypothesized, "I hope they are only being pushed out and not further in." He then got out his medical bag, stripped Cass to the waist, and began to work with a pair of tweezers and much bandaging.
As uncomfortable as he felt having his wife bared to several other men, Boromir knew that now was not the time for it. Strider kept as much of her modesty intact as possible but there was no skipping the bits that tore out of her breasts and even her neck.
"How did those bits of metal get into her?" asked Merry when he put a pot of water on the fire, just close enough to sneak a peek at what was happening.
"War," Boromir said simply. It was Cass's story to tell when she woke, not his.
Merry sucked in a hissed breath at the sight of a chunk of metal almost an inch long that was dropped onto the small pile of shards.
It took more time and blood than Boromir liked to get as much metal out as possible, at least the bits that were sticking out. Only a few pieces had wiggled out of her back thankfully. To hold Cass's torso upright while she was bandaged reminded him of after battle when always, several of his men would be badly wounded and needed treatment while unconscious. Except that this was far worse.
Morning came and Boromir's worries only increased when they tied her yet again to Damascus. Would the wounds reopen with the horse's movement? Whenever he checked over the course of the morning there wasn't much more blood than during last night's surgery, but the risk of infection grew with every hour she spent in the wilds.
Near noon Boromir heard hooves and his first thought was of the nazgul. But then wouldn't there be many heavy horses, instead of what sounded like a few lighter ones? Still everyone hid as best they could in the brush to see whether a friend or foe approached.
"Hail, Dunedan!" a clear voice rang out from the road, a blonde elf with delicate features who jumped down from his white horse with a smile.
"Glorfindel," Strider greeted in return, relief clear as he put a hand to his heart and then gestured outward while he bowed his head.
The elf returned the gesture before he quickly examined the company with eyes that pierced the very soul. They went wide briefly and then asked Strider something in elvish.
"She stabbed a wraith and needs Lord Elrond," Strider replied, thankfully in a language they all could understand.
For a second, Glorfindel blinked at him, surprise clear. The expression was quickly wiped away as he hurriedly examined Cass's face, closed his eyes with his hands on her cheeks like he was feeling something that couldn't be seen. Who knows the full power of the elves?
Anxiously Boromir waited for some sign.
His eyes popped open. "Her spirit continues to fight, yet her body is beginning to fail," Glorfindel murmured before he said urgently, "She must get to Imladris, more quickly than this beast can take her." He took out a knife and began to cut the ropes that tied her to Damascus.
"Then how?" Boromir questioned and began to help take Cass down.
"Asfaloth can take us easily; elvish horses have stamina beyond what the horses of man can dream and run as fast as the wind. We will need that speed," Glorfindel answered. Upon seeing Boromir's doubtful face, he assured, "He will not let her fall from the saddle, and neither will I."
Hope surged in Boromir's chest. A chance, finally. He swallowed his pride and requested, almost pleading, "Go as fast as she can take. Please."
There was a moment where it felt like Glorfindel peered into Boromir and saw everything. The good, the bad, and everything in between was bared to this strange elf. Barely, Boromir managed to keep eye contact despite the urge to bow or at least dip his head. For what felt like a very long time he awaited judgement.
A smile curled the corners of the elf's lips. "Lighten your heart, man of Gondor," he said, voice as soothing as chamomile and bright as celandine flowers, "For we are in just enough time."
Like Cass was a small child the elf pulled her down and cradled her unconscious form in his arms for the few short steps to his own horse. While Glorfindel jumped up, Boromir took her and hoped that this wasn't the last time he held her living body. To give her over to the stranger's care was almost a pain.
Behind him, Boromir heard Damascus snort unhappily. He felt the nervous stomp of her hooves.
"There are two horses and three ponies coming this way. They should ease the way for you, and know the way home," Glorfindel told them, to the hobbits' quiet relief. With a few words of elvish to Strider, then his horse, he was away like a glint of sunshine on a mirror with white mane and pale golden hair flowing.
There was no holding back Gander and he sprang after the horse and riders, howling.
Damascus nearly drowned him out though, bucking and neighing to get free. She refused to be comforted by Sam, who had taken her lead, pulling away when he would nicker gently at her.
"Let her go, Sam!" Strider called urgently.
The hobbit did so and Damascus too disappeared down the road, running as hard as her short legs would take her. In astoundingly little time she was gone.
With renewed hope, the shrunken party continued on once more.
"The ship sank. Your dad is gone."
Mum furiously pointing to a B+ on my report card and giving my dinner to Liam.
"Guys, somebody got shot over by the library."
Being accosted on base and barely able to get him off me.
"You're a fucking murderer!"
I stood in a pillared hall, beams of golden light crossing in every direction and yet not overwhelming as they lit the enormous space around me. There was no decoration but it needed none, majestic and beautiful in the simplicity of its marble and granite.
Murmurs echoed despite not being able to see anyone. Normally that would have freaked me out, but what can hurt you when you're already dead, right?
Many things, some of which I had seen with my own eyes. I sensed no threat, however.
No, I felt… peaceful. For the first time there was no whirlwind in my head or wrenching pain in my heart, only calm. Is this what they mean when they say, "Rest in peace?" If so, I could get behind it.
For what felt like several minutes I wandered aimlessly through the lines of columns. Whether I was looking for someone, I did not know. But I found them anyway.
The sheer beauty of the person who sat on that deep grey throne was unimaginable. Would my eyes start melting from it? I wouldn't doubt so. The perfection of their black hair, bound with stars, would turn Aditi green with envy; their face put Chris Evans and Venus herself to shame. I wasn't sure of their gender and quickly decided it didn't matter.
Dumbfounded, I simply stared at what must be God. Gratitude and bewilderment crashed together that I was here and not immediately being told, "Hell is that way. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars."
Finally the being on the throne looked up and their brown eyes froze me in place. The wisdom! The age! The surprise?
"Who brought this one here?" they called and even their voice was neither male nor female. It was like church bells and the laughter of children and the sobs of a new widow all in one, more perfect than I could ever imagine.
A small smile curled their lips. "We will meet again, young one. Earlier than you may expect but not sooner. You have much work yet to do, and many things to be, before you can come to rest." Their lips did not move; their voice echoed inside of my head.
Black consumed me.
Waking came with hideous pain, indescribable burning shooting biting pain that made me want to shriek. My mouth wouldn't move, though.
Panic consumed me and yet I couldn't scream or even open my eyes. My heartbeat stayed steady and breathing as if I wasn't in agony. What was happening to me?
Slowly, a steady rhythm penetrated. Beep… beep… beep… I knew that noise, a hospital heart monitor. It took several minutes of mind-numbing pain to remember how I got here and when I did, it felt like a flash went off in my mind. I wished I could tremble and wince with the fresh bolt of pain that it sent through my head.
Grenades, that's right, I thought. But if I'm in the hospital, why does it still hurt so badly?
"Forceps," said a woman in a clipped voice.
A second later I felt a hard pinch that I swore cut.
"Gauze."
Gently, something soft poked and wiped near where the new pinch was.
Oh god.
Oh no, oh god, please please please not this, this isn't real, this doesn't really happen to people-
Then I felt the area around my liver being cut open and I wished I could scream.
Waking was a slow thing. It felt like I had been dipped in acid and even thinking of moving hurt. Was I still in the hospital? This didn't smell like one, or like a morgue, but for a long time my eyelids were just too heavy to move.
I let myself drift off in a nap and when I next woke, I felt stronger. This time my eyelids obeyed me when I tried to open them. Just being able to do that sent a wave of relief crashing through me.
It was over. My nightmares were over. I wasn't on that operating table anymore.
Honestly, I wasn't sure what I was feeling. Memories shook me that I had long since buried and all the emotions tied up with them. It had been years since I thought of those parts of my past.
To try distracting myself, I looked around. The room was unfamiliar, graceful pale stone and thin curtains at an open window that let light peek in. From the brightness it must be near noon.
My stomach reminded me that it was there but I had no appetite. The area around my liver still burned and my upper half stung. My throat was just as parched as back then.
Slowly, memories returned. I was traveling with hobbits, that's right. To Riverdale? Rivendell, I corrected myself. According to Strider, elves lived here and from the almost natural beauty of the room around me, I couldn't even scoff at the impossibility. If there were hobbits and dwarves and those horrible nazgul, then why not elves?
A shiver went through me when I remembered the nazgul. How such evil things could exist, I wasn't sure. Here I thought ISIS was the height of evil, I mused, and had to laugh at how silly I felt for believing such a thing.
There is real evil in the world, beyond human understanding. The nazgul were proof of that.
And I'm proof that evil really can be killed, if you're brave enough.
Content in being safe, I forgot all my troubles for a little while in sleep.
The next time I woke, someone was adjusting me out of my comfy position on my front. I groaned plaintively and shook their hands off my leg, squinting the evil eye at them.
"Good, you're awake. Now readjust, you're hyperextending," the unfamiliar man ordered.
I'll admit, I hissed at him when I turned on my side. The curtains were open and the sun was way too bright for my taste after so long spent unconscious. Which reminded me… "How long was I out for, doc?" I asked in a thirst roughened voice.
Though the man gave me an odd look, he also got me a cup of water with a hollow reed for a straw. "Four days since you arrived and four before that," he answered, voice musical, "I am Elrond, the Lord and main healer of Rivendell." As he spoke I watched his distinct features, looked at his intricately twisted dark hair, blinked in surprised at his pointed ears.
My first time meeting an elf (a Lord at that) and of course I'm weak as a baby, I thought in disgust. What a way to make a good impression.
His already severe eyebrows turned distinctly downward, like he was seeing my thoughts. Could elves do that? Whatever happened, his face softened as he told me, "It takes strength that is more than physical to smite such a thing as you did. You have proven yourself beyond doubt, so do not think harshly of yourself."
Holy shit, he was like Lord Denethor. Very quickly I shoved any uncomplimentary thoughts to the way back of my mind.
"This is the first time someone has killed one of those wraiths. No one knows the full extent of what that will cause," Lord Elrond cautioned me, "However we do know remedies for the Black Breath which you and Frodo were heavily under, and healed from. It is normal to feel weak, in every way." He smiled slightly as he added, "I suspect you may be hungry?"
My stomach growled but the mere idea of food made me feel sick. "Can I have something easy on the stomach?" I requested sheepishly.
"Of course," Lord Elrond agreed, and for a brief moment went to speak to someone outside the door.
I took those few seconds to finger comb my hair into some kind of order and sit up slightly. It may have been the aftershocks of the nightmare but god, it hurt even to do that.
Only then did I notice the tightness of fabric around my torso. Absently I itched at the edge of what had to be bandages circling the whole way from neck to hips, over my shoulders and all. I didn't remember getting injured, so what the hell?
"The small pieces of metal that were in your body went both outward and inward. Where the Black Breath did not take you, those came remarkably close," Lord Elrond said, startling me out of my attempt at cataloguing what happened, "My sons and I were able to remove them all." He closed the door again with a quiet click.
Impressed, I let out a sad attempt at a whistle. Even at home that would've been one hell of a job, had I been able to afford the surgery. "Somehow, saying 'thank you' doesn't seem like enough," I said with a little scoff. How does one give thanks for relieving them of constant, sharp, tearing pain that they've had to ignore for years?
"After what you did, thanks are unnecessary," Lord Elrond told me, "Later, Gandalf and I have questions. For now, your husband has been the most unique sort of pest." He spoke dryly but there were no hard feelings in his voice.
It made me smile. "I can believe it. How is he? And Strider and the hobbits? You said that Frodo will be alright?" As I spoke I wriggled and readjusted the pillows, only to have my hands not quite swatted aside and the job done for me. With strength that nobody who looks twice my age should have, Lord Elrond both kept me sitting up and folded the pillows to help me stay sitting.
Dang, elves are weird, I thought for a hot second.
"Everyone is in Rivendell. Only Frodo was harmed, stabbed by the chief of the nazgul, but he is healing well," Lord Elrond assured me.
"Ah, fuck," I cursed, then made an apologetic face when Lord Elrond's eyebrows shot up. To keep from offending my host further (Lord Denethor still in mind), I finished my diatribe mentally: "You had one job, Cass, and you fucking blew it like a whore."
Instead of getting huffy, Lord Elrond assured me, "Do not be unduly harsh on yourself. You may have saved them from further hurt and possibly death. Do not blame yourself for things that you could not possibly be responsible for."
Tightly I smiled up at him. Logically, he was right: there were nine of those things and one of me, plus they were undead; it was a miracle I even survived. Emotions are difficult things, however, and guilt still rattled through me. I could practically hear my mother's north eastern accent telling me I could have, should have, done better.
A hurried few knocks broke my thoughts and I jerked my head toward the door. "Come in," Lord Elrond called.
When he opened the door Boromir's expression was one of cautious hope, but then when he saw me and our eyes met… The way his face lit up made him look a decade younger. His grin and the wonder in his eyes made my heart beat a little faster. "You're awake!" he said in a hushed exclamation and forgot to close the door in his hurry to the side of the bed.
"Duh, Captain Obvious," I teased and opened my arms expectantly.
My commentary was ignored in favor of a careful, short hug. His inhale against my shoulder was shaky and mine wasn't much better, simply too glad to have this when I thought I never would again.
Over his shoulder I glanced at Lord Elrond and with tears in my eyes mouthed, "Thank you."
He simply smiled. When Boromir sat at the foot of the bed he then gave us plain spoken instructions: rest when I feel tired, don't stretch myself, and no sex for at least a fortnight. The last made both of us flush to the tips of our ears as we agreed.
"Otherwise, it is time to check your bandages. If I may?" Lord Elrond said and made a gesture toward the wonderfully comfortable shirt I was wearing.
Without any kind of thought to it, I shrugged off the shirt. Then I looked down at myself and gave a snort of laughter that made one of the tiny reddish stains get a little larger. "Oh, the memories," I mused with a grin at Lord Elrond's expression of disapproval.
Apparently I was healing fine now that the Black Breath was off, and all that was to be done was to keep the wounds clean and bandaged. Every morning and evening Lord Elrond or one of the other healers in this place would check, maybe change, my bandages, he told me, until there was no more blood. If memory served me correctly, that may take a while.
It was better than being dead so I took it as gracefully as I could. Which meant lots of pouting for show and then flopping back onto the pillows once Lord Elrond left.
"You were being difficult on purpose," Boromir observed, still sitting at the foot of the bed.
I patted the large amount of space on my right side in invitation. "Mhm. Can't be too easy of a patient or he won't believe I'm a healer," I joked.
He shook his head fondly at me. Then his expression went grim as he moved to sit beside me. "I never thought before that I may lose you before our time." He swallowed. "I didn't like the feeling of it," he confessed.
"Me either," I agreed distantly. A flash of what must have been the afterlife crossed my mind and I shivered.
Offering warmth, Boromir laid a careful arm over my shoulders. I settled under it and put my own around the small of his back comfortably.
"Any sight of counsel stronger than Morgul spells?" I asked off-handedly, referring to the whole damn reason we came here.
For a moment Boromir mulled it over, as if deciding what to tell me. As a warning to not give me the kid gloves, I elbowed him in the side. Automatically he rubbed the spot. "There is to be a council tomorrow, made up of dignitaries from the world over. They mean to debate what to do about the ring," he told me, voice conflicted.
"That thing is bad news. The faster it's gone, the better," I grumbled.
I got a strained smile. "Perhaps," Boromir allowed.
To me, it was pretty clear cut: destroy the Ring, and Sauron will never again be as much of a threat. Keep it around and one day, it will make its way back to him.
The mere memory of the ring's whispers made me shiver again. I pulled the blankets up, pretending it was simply an autumn chill. "You hungry?" I asked, not sure if I was hungry or nauseous.
"I could eat," Boromir allowed.
I smirked up at him. "How do you feel about raiding the kitchen?" I questioned, plotting all kinds of nefarious meals.
"You are very fortunate that the halflings showed me the way," Boromir replied.
Because of course the hobbits would aim straight for the kitchens; they were probably eating the elves out of house and home. "Then let's go," I urged and began to wiggle away.
Instead Boromir's arm clamped down around my shoulders. "You are staying here," he corrected, "I will ask the elves for a meal for us."
I pouted up at him. "Come on, I need to get out of bed sometime today," I complained at him,
"After we eat, we can walk in the gardens," Boromir suggested, "You are still bleeding and Lord Elrond said to be kind to your wounds. Carrying heavy trays is disobeying that."
As a medic, I knew better than to argue with that. Hell, back on earth the doctors would've thrown a fit about me going to the bathroom so soon; really I was getting lucky. "Fine, fine," I grumbled and waved a hand at the door.
When Boromir was shifting to get up, I put a hand on the other side of his face to turn it and kiss him gently. "Thank you," I whispered, hoping that he got what all I meant. More than getting food and taking a walk with me, but for caring more about me than I did.
Somehow with the brief smile against my lips, I think he understood.