Title: Wild Justice 17/?
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. A comment on the canonicity of this chapter is appended to the end for those who are interested.
* * *
The first thing Glorfindel noticed when returning to camp was Erestor, who was assisting with the disposal of orc carcasses by viciously kicking one in the direction of one of the larger piles. He sighed, but did not reproach him. He felt rather the same way himself, but did not have the energy to bother with pointless gestures, however satisfying. He and a party of the Galadrim had spent most of the night in pursuit of the fleeing orcs, and had finally managed to hunt down most of them. It had been exhausting, dirty work, more slaughter than battle as the creatures' leaders had fallen at the campsite and the foot soldiers were incapable of forming a battle plan on the run. Still, he preferred it to the job that had been left for Erestor.
He looked about the once beautiful glade in distaste. The air was fetid with the smell of burning orc flesh, which had been discernable from miles away, and charred carcasses were piled in flattened mounds everywhere. Several Galadrim were digging long trenches in the dirt, which would serve as burial troughs for anything the fire did not consume. A group headed by Elrohir, who as his father's long time apprentice in the arts of healing was best suited for the job, was looking after the wounded elves. A wave of relief at seeing him unharmed swept through Glorfindel, but he controlled his features. This was not the time.
"How many did we lose?"
Erestor looked up from kicking a severed orc head into the flames of a pyre and scowled. His previous pristine garments were torn and bloody, and soot covered his features. He looked tired and disgusted, but then surprise and pleasure took over his features as he recognized Glorfindel. "So you're back; high time, too, running off all night, leaving me with all the dirty work to do." Glorfindel found his upper arm gripped tightly for a moment, before his grimace caused Erestor to release him and begin pulling at his torn sleeve. "That is a deep wound. You should have it bandaged at once, before infection sets in."
"How many?" Glorfindel really didn't want to know, but it had to be asked.
Erestor's smile faded, his joy in his friend's safe return muted by the cost of battle. "Too many. Thirteen dead, and four more hovering just this side of Mandos. Most have some wounds at least." Erestor looked somberly at Glorfindel, gesturing around the ruined glade to underscore his words. "That was no casual raiding party, Glorfindel. There had to be more than a thousand of them! We've burned at least five hundred corpses so far, and look at the number that remain!"
Glorfindel glanced at the fly blown piles. "I would say closer to two thousand, but we did not take the time to keep count during the pursuit."
"Someone knew we were coming." This fact was too obvious to need comment, so Glorfindel made none. The amount of blood he had lost from a knife wound in his shoulder and a sword cut across his arm was making it difficult to concentrate in any case. Erestor realised this, and his hard expression softened. "Come, I am taking you to see the healers before you fall over." Glorfindel allowed his friend to slide an arm about him, finding it pleasant to be pampered for a moment although he really did not need it. They had just managed to reach the edge of the glade when the sound of horses' hooves alerted them to the arrival of new comers to camp. The jingle of harness, soft thud of boots hitting the ground, and distinctive chink of mithril armor reached his ears. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was--Erestor's face blanched under its coating of soot and his eyes narrowed. Thranduil had arrived.
* * *
Elwyyda closed the door quietly and, as Rumil looked on, locked it with a large key. There were two Galadrim posted outside the door, one on each side, and a third sat in the tree just beyond Haldir's window. Elwyyda smiled in satisfaction; her charge would not elude them again. She gave the key into Rumil's keeping and his shift caring for the unwilling invalid began. Thank Aule, she thought fervently, as she didn't know how much longer she could remain calm around Haldir. Instead of apologizing for locking her in the wardrobe for much of the afternoon, then forcing her to spend the evening sloshing around in the rain, he had proceeded to complain loud and long about his "imprisonment," as he termed it. After several hours having her memory of Westron curses reviewed at length, she had been sorely tempted to gag him; she might have actually tried it, but was making it a habit to stay out of the reach of those long arms. Honestly, he was the most annoying creature in Arda! She had actually known orcs who were easier to get along with--or at least who were quieter.
Elwyyda passed down the hallway to her own room, but found after she had bathed and taken up her usual sleeping position under the edge of the large bed that she was not at all sleepy. Worries about Zirak's well being kept surfacing in her mind, for she had yet to have an opportunity to speak with him since their arrival. Rumil had been very nice and, as well as his broken Westron allowed, had repeatedly assured her that Zirak was all right. Still, she wanted to see for herself. After more than an hour of staring at the underside to the bed frame and still finding sleep elusive, she decided to imitate Haldir and go do something stupid.
Creeping out of her room, Elwyyda noticed that the habit of the palace servants for ignoring her existence held true; no one even gave her a second glance as she made her way up the stairs to the room which Rumil had said belonged to Lord Elrond. The lessons of all those years in the mines also helped, as she knew how to fade into the background when needed. She was not surprised to find Lord Elrond's rooms unlocked when she reached them--they had had to have a lock specially fitted onto Haldir's door because such a thing was not usual in Lorien--but she was disappointed to find her friend neither awake nor alone. The dark elf at his side she vaguely remembered from her first disastrous day, but did not know what he was called. She hoped he wasn't going to yell at her, as Haldir had done enough of that already.
To her surprise and pleasure, he turned out to be another like Rumil. Elwyyda had begun to put elves into groups in her mind, in a pyramid of types with Gildor and Zirak pre-eminent and untouchable at the top. Rumil and a few others who did not look at her as if she smelled bad--which she did not, having made certain to bathe every day whether she needed to or not--were in the middle. The haughty servants of the royal palace were firmly on the bottom, and she avoided them whenever possible. Haldir wasn't on the pyramid at all, as she preferred not to even think of him unless absolutely necessary. She certainly would have had nothing to do with his recovery, except that Gildor had asked her very sweetly before he left to please take good care of him. There was, she reflected sourly, absolutely no accounting for taste.
This elf had eyes like Gildor's, dark and kind, but also rather sad, so perhaps he was really more like Zirak. She had not been introduced to Lord Elrond, but these were his rooms and the dark elf did look like a healer so she assumed it was he. He seemed unsurprised to see her, although he could not have known she was coming. Not only did he fail to order her out, but he indicated with one of those curiously elegant elvin gestures that she could sit on the edge of the bed if she liked. Elwyyda settled herself, and was content to watch Zirak sleep for a while, noting happily that he was obviously better than before. He was still thin, pale and weak, but somehow was more THERE than she could ever remember seeing him. This elf, then, seemed to be good for him, so she decided definitely to put Elrond on Rumil's level for now. Especially as he thankfully spoke Westron, something with which Rumil, but not Haldir unfortunately, had much difficulty. "Will he get better?"
The dark elf looked sad. "There are many kinds of better," he said slowly, his eyes on his patient. "If you mean, will he improve physically, then yes, I believe so."
Elwyyda crinkled up her brow in thought, but the elf's words made no sense. Better was better, was it not? Zirak was out of the mines now, and had all the food he wanted and his own healer caring for him . . . but the expression in the elf's grey eyes told her that something was wrong. She decided to go about this a different way. "What happened to him? Why was he in the mines? Your people did not sell him." The last comment was not a question; Gildor had told Elwyyda that there was no such thing as slavery among the elves. There were many things she did not like about their society--the flimsy buildings that swayed in the breeze and were built too high off the ground; the over-fancy food, so decorated that it was often hard to say just what its main ingredients were; and the frequent snobbery--but their attitude on slavery was one thing she highly approved.
"No. He was believed slain in battle. But we should have looked longer for him. I should have looked longer." The last was said so low that Elwyyda almost didn't catch it. It seemed that this line of questioning was upsetting Lord Elrond, but Elwyyda persisted, not knowing when she might have another chance.
"So his enemies sold him?"
Elrond glanced up at her, and paused. Finally he sighed and ran a hand over Zirak's blankets, smoothing them although they already looked fine to her. "You were long his friend, when others on whom he might have expected to depend forsook him. I think you have a right to know."
* * *
Mardthelu slid another inch along the tree trunk, the cape he had taken off the ugly one he had killed slithering along behind him. It was uncomfortable against his body, and felt almost like it was trying to get away from him, but he pulled it tighter nonetheless. He did not like its too smooth, too clean surface, nor the fact that it smelled like the one he had killed, but it served its purpose, allowing him to slowly advance along the tree limb unnoticed by the host that swarmed beneath him.
Mardthelu he had been named and mardthelu he was, especially after the number of elves they had crushed that day. But the price had been too high, and one elf in particular had to pay for that. He stared at the hated face, so dazzling it hurt his eyes, and knew his time to deal with him was limited. Already the despised sun was sending so much light over the horizon that it seared his eyes, and soon it would be so bright that he would be truly blind. Then he would have failed to repay the ugly one for not only killing Vulkulk, but also for kicking his severed head into the burning pile with so little respect. Mardthelu longed for the cool dark of the caves, but accepted stoically that he would never see them again. But before he died, he would take his revenge.
Vulkulk was his mother-son, older than he and often cruel to him, for Mardthelu had never been as large the others in the brood. Vulkulk had often told him that he would almost certainly fail the rite of passage and bring shame on them all, yet he had mercilessly trained him for it, battering him from dusk to dawn every day with surprise attacks so that Mardthelu became wary of everyone and lashed out at the slightest sign of danger. He had suffered many cuts and some broken bones from Vulkulk's training, but had grown harder and faster for it over time. When it was at last time for the trial, Vulkulk had gone along as one of the watchers. Mardthelu had worried about that, sure that his fate was sealed, for he had never managed to please his tormentor even in the mines he knew so well, so how could he hope to do so in strange lands he had never even seen? He would fail the test and be killed himself, or worse, be sold as a slave, as one unworthy to be called a warrior.
But that had not happened. To his shock, Vulkulk had helped him, driving one of the dwarves they found in his direction, and insuring that it was a large male, so that killing it would be considered true proof of skill and courage. When the dwarf had proven canny and strong, and fought on despite many wounds, Vulkulk had distracted the others in the party to the spoils reaped from their attack, and quickly helped him to make the kill. He had let everyone believe Mardthelu had managed it all on his own, and when they returned to the caves, he showed off his mother-son's scars and praised his strength. Mardthelu became a warrior, the brood's honour was saved, and a debt was silently acknowledged.
Yet he had been unable to save Vulkulk in battle that day. Two of the ugly ones had attacked him at once, and no one orc could stand against such odds. Mardthelu had been too far away to assist him, fighting his own battle from which he only narrowly escaped after killing the ugly one. He had plundered the corpse, of course, and taken a knife and the curious cape that concealed its wearer, but he had shown no disrespect to the body. Their were clans that did so, of course, but his had never been among them, believing that a warrior of any type, if he fought well, deserved honour.
But these things they fought did not feel that way. The bright one who killed Vulkulk kicked his body and his severed head as if trying to kill him yet again. Orcs had few ceremonies, but they understood honour to those who died bravely, and this creature offended against all the codes. He must die.
* * *
"There was a great battle long ago, and many great elves were lost in it. But the foe we fought, Sauron, was destroyed, and his host utterly defeated." Elrond's voice was steady, but his eyes were far away, and Elwyyda wondered if he even saw her anymore. "Or so we thought. But we were wrong; Sauron's soul lived on, but without a body it was largely powerless. Realising this, one of his servants, the Lord of the Nazgûl, devised a plan for obtaining him a new body." Elrond stopped, shivering slightly, and Elwyyda wondered if she really wanted to hear this after all.
"Do you understand how elves die?" Elrond asked. Elwyyda shook her head; there had been little time for such reflection in the mines, and she had rarely thought about anything other than survival. "Elves are destined to live as long as Earth lasts. Yet, we can die, if our Fëa, what you would call a soul, is separated from the Hroa, our body. The one cannot live without the other, and once the Hroa is injured too badly, the Fëa is released to Mandos. Many elves had fallen in battle against Sauron, and many more were near death. The Lord of the Nazgûl took those still clinging to life with him, to a hidden fortress about which we knew nothing, and returned them to some of their strength. Then he tried to alter them, so that one might prove a fit carrier for Sauron's soul."
Elwyyda did not understand. "But you said the soul goes to Mandos if the body dies. Why did this Sauron's soul not go there, and how could he take on the body of another? Would that soul not then be forced out, and the . . . Hroa . . . die?"
Elrond smiled at her. "You are quick. I begin to understand how you were able to overcome such odds and flee the mountain. Sauron's is a powerful spirit, able to ignore the call to Mandos, and the same laws that govern the elves do not also bind him. As for the second part of your question, you are, of course, correct--if the Fëa left the body, the body would then die. But the Lord of the Nazgûl was clever, and believed he could force the Fëa of one of the captured elves to remain in its body, but unaware of itself and quiescent, while the soul of his master took over control of the borrowed Hroa. Elven bodies are durable, so once the transfer was done, his master would be virtually immortal. He had many elves to work with, and was confident that he could eventually find a suitable receptacle."
"Did it work?" Despite herself, Elwyyda was becoming interested in the tale, although she did not see how it could have anything to do with Zirak. He was not possessed by some evil force--that she knew perfectly well.
"No, thank the Valar, it did not." Elrond smoothed Zirak's hair lightly, then leaned back in his chair. "But the attempts to weaken and restrain their souls did the elves great damage, as did suggestions implanted in them that any attempt to regain their sense of self would result only in great pain. Most died from the torment eventually."
"But Zirak?" Elwyyda had never seen anything in him that seemed subverted or twisted, but then she had not known what he had been like before. What kind of power would be needed to do something like that, and how could anyone survive it?
"He was one of a handful of survivors, who the Lord of the Nazgûl failed to subvert for his uses or to kill. Eventually, the experiments were abandoned as useless, and the few remaining elves were sent to labour with the other mine slaves. It was thought that the hard work would dispose of them eventually, but that they would be of some use before they died. Most of the remaining elves did pass to Mandos over the centuries, but a few lived on, not knowing who they were or why they were there, the Nazgûl's power having deprived them of much of their memory of the past." Elrond smiled at her slightly, and Elwyyda marveled that such an expression could convey such sadness. "But thanks to your courage, we now know where they are, and those who yet remain will be rescued."
"And you can heal them." It seemed to Elwyyda that there was no reason for Elrond's sadness, as everything would be all right now. She had been in the mines many years, too, but she was growing plump with all the food here, and healthy with much rest and baths and fine clothes . . . if she could do it, certainly Zirak could.
"I have done something to help his leg, which I assume was damaged in the battle or later in the mines, and may eventually be able to return him to something like his old health. But I am not sure about the other--injuries to the soul are not as easily dealt with."
Elwyyda regarded Zirak thoughtfully. "He is a good person. I think he will be well in time. You are good for him."
Elrond gave that strange, sad smile again, and his eyes were pained. "No, I was not nearly good enough."
* * *
Glorfindel saw the orc a split second too late. Somehow it had managed to blend in with the tree and slide along the upper branches, keeping to the heavily shaded areas until almost on top of them. Alerted by a sudden movement, Glorfindel threw a knife at the creature's throat, but it managed to fire an arrow before his blade severed much of its neck from its body. Even as its corpse fell to the ground, Glorfindel knew Erestor must be dead. The orc had aimed directly for him, and there was no way it had missed at almost point blank range.
He heard Erestor cry and he spun around, expecting to find his friend breathing his last. Instead, Erestor stood, unharmed but horrified, watching as one of the Noldor sank slowly to the ground, an orc arrow imbedded in his chest. Glorfindel recognised the elf--he was one of Lady Galadriel's servants, one with whom he had once had dealings at Imladris--but he could not remember his name.
"Camthalion!" Erestor knelt in the dirt and ash, drawing the elf into his arms and holding him loosely. Elrohir moved forward and knelt beside the two of them, but Glorfindel could have told him to save his strength--nothing could undo the damage of a poisoned arrow through the heart. Camthalion must have noticed what was happening at the same moment Glorfindel did, and for some reason he chose to step in front of Erestor, taking the arrow meant for him. Glorfindel had never liked him, but he would see to it that he was properly lauded for his courage. Valour of that type was rare.
Elrohir did not apparently realise the seriousness of the elf's injury, however, and Erestor just sat there, cradling the Noldor, his eyes huge and disbelieving in his soot-streaked face. Glorfindel put out a hand to draw Elrohir away, as there was no need for him to exhaust his abilities trying to revive the dead, but his hand did not encounter his lover's shoulder. "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad." A tangible wall of energy met Glorfindel's outstretched hand, and the elf on the ground, Elrohir and Erestor all began, very faintly, to glow.
"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!" It was a command, and spoken in the ringing tones of one used to being immediately obeyed. The power radiating off Elrohir grew in intensity, golden pulses streaming off the three of them to radiate around the camp, causing Glorfindel to back away a step. "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!" An outpouring of heat and a rush of wind underscored the third demand. All around them surged a terrible, ancient power that shook the treetops over their heads, rumbled through the ground beneath their feet, and sent currents sizzling along Glorfindel's entire body. No elfling could possibly have possessed such authority, or known how to use it if he did.
Glorfindel wrenched his attention away from the three at the centre of the cyclone of light and energy, and searched out Thranduil. He could not be allowed to see this--he must not see it! But it was already too late, for Glorfindel could see the king's face, and just behind him that of Lord Celeborn, and knew that any hope of further concealment was lost. If they had not pieced it together already, and from Thranduil's expression Glorfindel rather thought he had, they would soon enough. The important thing, then, was to get Elrohir away as quickly as possible, and speak to them alone before either said anything to him. And he needed to find out just how much his young lover had remembered. So caught up was he in his thoughts, that Glorfindel barely noticed when Camthalion suddenly sat up, dazed and disoriented, but most definitely alive.
TBC
"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad.": "Camthalion, hear my voice, come back to light."
Mardthelu: Elf-crusher.
Vulkulk: Goblin-sword.
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. A comment on the canonicity of this chapter is appended to the end for those who are interested.
* * *
The first thing Glorfindel noticed when returning to camp was Erestor, who was assisting with the disposal of orc carcasses by viciously kicking one in the direction of one of the larger piles. He sighed, but did not reproach him. He felt rather the same way himself, but did not have the energy to bother with pointless gestures, however satisfying. He and a party of the Galadrim had spent most of the night in pursuit of the fleeing orcs, and had finally managed to hunt down most of them. It had been exhausting, dirty work, more slaughter than battle as the creatures' leaders had fallen at the campsite and the foot soldiers were incapable of forming a battle plan on the run. Still, he preferred it to the job that had been left for Erestor.
He looked about the once beautiful glade in distaste. The air was fetid with the smell of burning orc flesh, which had been discernable from miles away, and charred carcasses were piled in flattened mounds everywhere. Several Galadrim were digging long trenches in the dirt, which would serve as burial troughs for anything the fire did not consume. A group headed by Elrohir, who as his father's long time apprentice in the arts of healing was best suited for the job, was looking after the wounded elves. A wave of relief at seeing him unharmed swept through Glorfindel, but he controlled his features. This was not the time.
"How many did we lose?"
Erestor looked up from kicking a severed orc head into the flames of a pyre and scowled. His previous pristine garments were torn and bloody, and soot covered his features. He looked tired and disgusted, but then surprise and pleasure took over his features as he recognized Glorfindel. "So you're back; high time, too, running off all night, leaving me with all the dirty work to do." Glorfindel found his upper arm gripped tightly for a moment, before his grimace caused Erestor to release him and begin pulling at his torn sleeve. "That is a deep wound. You should have it bandaged at once, before infection sets in."
"How many?" Glorfindel really didn't want to know, but it had to be asked.
Erestor's smile faded, his joy in his friend's safe return muted by the cost of battle. "Too many. Thirteen dead, and four more hovering just this side of Mandos. Most have some wounds at least." Erestor looked somberly at Glorfindel, gesturing around the ruined glade to underscore his words. "That was no casual raiding party, Glorfindel. There had to be more than a thousand of them! We've burned at least five hundred corpses so far, and look at the number that remain!"
Glorfindel glanced at the fly blown piles. "I would say closer to two thousand, but we did not take the time to keep count during the pursuit."
"Someone knew we were coming." This fact was too obvious to need comment, so Glorfindel made none. The amount of blood he had lost from a knife wound in his shoulder and a sword cut across his arm was making it difficult to concentrate in any case. Erestor realised this, and his hard expression softened. "Come, I am taking you to see the healers before you fall over." Glorfindel allowed his friend to slide an arm about him, finding it pleasant to be pampered for a moment although he really did not need it. They had just managed to reach the edge of the glade when the sound of horses' hooves alerted them to the arrival of new comers to camp. The jingle of harness, soft thud of boots hitting the ground, and distinctive chink of mithril armor reached his ears. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was--Erestor's face blanched under its coating of soot and his eyes narrowed. Thranduil had arrived.
* * *
Elwyyda closed the door quietly and, as Rumil looked on, locked it with a large key. There were two Galadrim posted outside the door, one on each side, and a third sat in the tree just beyond Haldir's window. Elwyyda smiled in satisfaction; her charge would not elude them again. She gave the key into Rumil's keeping and his shift caring for the unwilling invalid began. Thank Aule, she thought fervently, as she didn't know how much longer she could remain calm around Haldir. Instead of apologizing for locking her in the wardrobe for much of the afternoon, then forcing her to spend the evening sloshing around in the rain, he had proceeded to complain loud and long about his "imprisonment," as he termed it. After several hours having her memory of Westron curses reviewed at length, she had been sorely tempted to gag him; she might have actually tried it, but was making it a habit to stay out of the reach of those long arms. Honestly, he was the most annoying creature in Arda! She had actually known orcs who were easier to get along with--or at least who were quieter.
Elwyyda passed down the hallway to her own room, but found after she had bathed and taken up her usual sleeping position under the edge of the large bed that she was not at all sleepy. Worries about Zirak's well being kept surfacing in her mind, for she had yet to have an opportunity to speak with him since their arrival. Rumil had been very nice and, as well as his broken Westron allowed, had repeatedly assured her that Zirak was all right. Still, she wanted to see for herself. After more than an hour of staring at the underside to the bed frame and still finding sleep elusive, she decided to imitate Haldir and go do something stupid.
Creeping out of her room, Elwyyda noticed that the habit of the palace servants for ignoring her existence held true; no one even gave her a second glance as she made her way up the stairs to the room which Rumil had said belonged to Lord Elrond. The lessons of all those years in the mines also helped, as she knew how to fade into the background when needed. She was not surprised to find Lord Elrond's rooms unlocked when she reached them--they had had to have a lock specially fitted onto Haldir's door because such a thing was not usual in Lorien--but she was disappointed to find her friend neither awake nor alone. The dark elf at his side she vaguely remembered from her first disastrous day, but did not know what he was called. She hoped he wasn't going to yell at her, as Haldir had done enough of that already.
To her surprise and pleasure, he turned out to be another like Rumil. Elwyyda had begun to put elves into groups in her mind, in a pyramid of types with Gildor and Zirak pre-eminent and untouchable at the top. Rumil and a few others who did not look at her as if she smelled bad--which she did not, having made certain to bathe every day whether she needed to or not--were in the middle. The haughty servants of the royal palace were firmly on the bottom, and she avoided them whenever possible. Haldir wasn't on the pyramid at all, as she preferred not to even think of him unless absolutely necessary. She certainly would have had nothing to do with his recovery, except that Gildor had asked her very sweetly before he left to please take good care of him. There was, she reflected sourly, absolutely no accounting for taste.
This elf had eyes like Gildor's, dark and kind, but also rather sad, so perhaps he was really more like Zirak. She had not been introduced to Lord Elrond, but these were his rooms and the dark elf did look like a healer so she assumed it was he. He seemed unsurprised to see her, although he could not have known she was coming. Not only did he fail to order her out, but he indicated with one of those curiously elegant elvin gestures that she could sit on the edge of the bed if she liked. Elwyyda settled herself, and was content to watch Zirak sleep for a while, noting happily that he was obviously better than before. He was still thin, pale and weak, but somehow was more THERE than she could ever remember seeing him. This elf, then, seemed to be good for him, so she decided definitely to put Elrond on Rumil's level for now. Especially as he thankfully spoke Westron, something with which Rumil, but not Haldir unfortunately, had much difficulty. "Will he get better?"
The dark elf looked sad. "There are many kinds of better," he said slowly, his eyes on his patient. "If you mean, will he improve physically, then yes, I believe so."
Elwyyda crinkled up her brow in thought, but the elf's words made no sense. Better was better, was it not? Zirak was out of the mines now, and had all the food he wanted and his own healer caring for him . . . but the expression in the elf's grey eyes told her that something was wrong. She decided to go about this a different way. "What happened to him? Why was he in the mines? Your people did not sell him." The last comment was not a question; Gildor had told Elwyyda that there was no such thing as slavery among the elves. There were many things she did not like about their society--the flimsy buildings that swayed in the breeze and were built too high off the ground; the over-fancy food, so decorated that it was often hard to say just what its main ingredients were; and the frequent snobbery--but their attitude on slavery was one thing she highly approved.
"No. He was believed slain in battle. But we should have looked longer for him. I should have looked longer." The last was said so low that Elwyyda almost didn't catch it. It seemed that this line of questioning was upsetting Lord Elrond, but Elwyyda persisted, not knowing when she might have another chance.
"So his enemies sold him?"
Elrond glanced up at her, and paused. Finally he sighed and ran a hand over Zirak's blankets, smoothing them although they already looked fine to her. "You were long his friend, when others on whom he might have expected to depend forsook him. I think you have a right to know."
* * *
Mardthelu slid another inch along the tree trunk, the cape he had taken off the ugly one he had killed slithering along behind him. It was uncomfortable against his body, and felt almost like it was trying to get away from him, but he pulled it tighter nonetheless. He did not like its too smooth, too clean surface, nor the fact that it smelled like the one he had killed, but it served its purpose, allowing him to slowly advance along the tree limb unnoticed by the host that swarmed beneath him.
Mardthelu he had been named and mardthelu he was, especially after the number of elves they had crushed that day. But the price had been too high, and one elf in particular had to pay for that. He stared at the hated face, so dazzling it hurt his eyes, and knew his time to deal with him was limited. Already the despised sun was sending so much light over the horizon that it seared his eyes, and soon it would be so bright that he would be truly blind. Then he would have failed to repay the ugly one for not only killing Vulkulk, but also for kicking his severed head into the burning pile with so little respect. Mardthelu longed for the cool dark of the caves, but accepted stoically that he would never see them again. But before he died, he would take his revenge.
Vulkulk was his mother-son, older than he and often cruel to him, for Mardthelu had never been as large the others in the brood. Vulkulk had often told him that he would almost certainly fail the rite of passage and bring shame on them all, yet he had mercilessly trained him for it, battering him from dusk to dawn every day with surprise attacks so that Mardthelu became wary of everyone and lashed out at the slightest sign of danger. He had suffered many cuts and some broken bones from Vulkulk's training, but had grown harder and faster for it over time. When it was at last time for the trial, Vulkulk had gone along as one of the watchers. Mardthelu had worried about that, sure that his fate was sealed, for he had never managed to please his tormentor even in the mines he knew so well, so how could he hope to do so in strange lands he had never even seen? He would fail the test and be killed himself, or worse, be sold as a slave, as one unworthy to be called a warrior.
But that had not happened. To his shock, Vulkulk had helped him, driving one of the dwarves they found in his direction, and insuring that it was a large male, so that killing it would be considered true proof of skill and courage. When the dwarf had proven canny and strong, and fought on despite many wounds, Vulkulk had distracted the others in the party to the spoils reaped from their attack, and quickly helped him to make the kill. He had let everyone believe Mardthelu had managed it all on his own, and when they returned to the caves, he showed off his mother-son's scars and praised his strength. Mardthelu became a warrior, the brood's honour was saved, and a debt was silently acknowledged.
Yet he had been unable to save Vulkulk in battle that day. Two of the ugly ones had attacked him at once, and no one orc could stand against such odds. Mardthelu had been too far away to assist him, fighting his own battle from which he only narrowly escaped after killing the ugly one. He had plundered the corpse, of course, and taken a knife and the curious cape that concealed its wearer, but he had shown no disrespect to the body. Their were clans that did so, of course, but his had never been among them, believing that a warrior of any type, if he fought well, deserved honour.
But these things they fought did not feel that way. The bright one who killed Vulkulk kicked his body and his severed head as if trying to kill him yet again. Orcs had few ceremonies, but they understood honour to those who died bravely, and this creature offended against all the codes. He must die.
* * *
"There was a great battle long ago, and many great elves were lost in it. But the foe we fought, Sauron, was destroyed, and his host utterly defeated." Elrond's voice was steady, but his eyes were far away, and Elwyyda wondered if he even saw her anymore. "Or so we thought. But we were wrong; Sauron's soul lived on, but without a body it was largely powerless. Realising this, one of his servants, the Lord of the Nazgûl, devised a plan for obtaining him a new body." Elrond stopped, shivering slightly, and Elwyyda wondered if she really wanted to hear this after all.
"Do you understand how elves die?" Elrond asked. Elwyyda shook her head; there had been little time for such reflection in the mines, and she had rarely thought about anything other than survival. "Elves are destined to live as long as Earth lasts. Yet, we can die, if our Fëa, what you would call a soul, is separated from the Hroa, our body. The one cannot live without the other, and once the Hroa is injured too badly, the Fëa is released to Mandos. Many elves had fallen in battle against Sauron, and many more were near death. The Lord of the Nazgûl took those still clinging to life with him, to a hidden fortress about which we knew nothing, and returned them to some of their strength. Then he tried to alter them, so that one might prove a fit carrier for Sauron's soul."
Elwyyda did not understand. "But you said the soul goes to Mandos if the body dies. Why did this Sauron's soul not go there, and how could he take on the body of another? Would that soul not then be forced out, and the . . . Hroa . . . die?"
Elrond smiled at her. "You are quick. I begin to understand how you were able to overcome such odds and flee the mountain. Sauron's is a powerful spirit, able to ignore the call to Mandos, and the same laws that govern the elves do not also bind him. As for the second part of your question, you are, of course, correct--if the Fëa left the body, the body would then die. But the Lord of the Nazgûl was clever, and believed he could force the Fëa of one of the captured elves to remain in its body, but unaware of itself and quiescent, while the soul of his master took over control of the borrowed Hroa. Elven bodies are durable, so once the transfer was done, his master would be virtually immortal. He had many elves to work with, and was confident that he could eventually find a suitable receptacle."
"Did it work?" Despite herself, Elwyyda was becoming interested in the tale, although she did not see how it could have anything to do with Zirak. He was not possessed by some evil force--that she knew perfectly well.
"No, thank the Valar, it did not." Elrond smoothed Zirak's hair lightly, then leaned back in his chair. "But the attempts to weaken and restrain their souls did the elves great damage, as did suggestions implanted in them that any attempt to regain their sense of self would result only in great pain. Most died from the torment eventually."
"But Zirak?" Elwyyda had never seen anything in him that seemed subverted or twisted, but then she had not known what he had been like before. What kind of power would be needed to do something like that, and how could anyone survive it?
"He was one of a handful of survivors, who the Lord of the Nazgûl failed to subvert for his uses or to kill. Eventually, the experiments were abandoned as useless, and the few remaining elves were sent to labour with the other mine slaves. It was thought that the hard work would dispose of them eventually, but that they would be of some use before they died. Most of the remaining elves did pass to Mandos over the centuries, but a few lived on, not knowing who they were or why they were there, the Nazgûl's power having deprived them of much of their memory of the past." Elrond smiled at her slightly, and Elwyyda marveled that such an expression could convey such sadness. "But thanks to your courage, we now know where they are, and those who yet remain will be rescued."
"And you can heal them." It seemed to Elwyyda that there was no reason for Elrond's sadness, as everything would be all right now. She had been in the mines many years, too, but she was growing plump with all the food here, and healthy with much rest and baths and fine clothes . . . if she could do it, certainly Zirak could.
"I have done something to help his leg, which I assume was damaged in the battle or later in the mines, and may eventually be able to return him to something like his old health. But I am not sure about the other--injuries to the soul are not as easily dealt with."
Elwyyda regarded Zirak thoughtfully. "He is a good person. I think he will be well in time. You are good for him."
Elrond gave that strange, sad smile again, and his eyes were pained. "No, I was not nearly good enough."
* * *
Glorfindel saw the orc a split second too late. Somehow it had managed to blend in with the tree and slide along the upper branches, keeping to the heavily shaded areas until almost on top of them. Alerted by a sudden movement, Glorfindel threw a knife at the creature's throat, but it managed to fire an arrow before his blade severed much of its neck from its body. Even as its corpse fell to the ground, Glorfindel knew Erestor must be dead. The orc had aimed directly for him, and there was no way it had missed at almost point blank range.
He heard Erestor cry and he spun around, expecting to find his friend breathing his last. Instead, Erestor stood, unharmed but horrified, watching as one of the Noldor sank slowly to the ground, an orc arrow imbedded in his chest. Glorfindel recognised the elf--he was one of Lady Galadriel's servants, one with whom he had once had dealings at Imladris--but he could not remember his name.
"Camthalion!" Erestor knelt in the dirt and ash, drawing the elf into his arms and holding him loosely. Elrohir moved forward and knelt beside the two of them, but Glorfindel could have told him to save his strength--nothing could undo the damage of a poisoned arrow through the heart. Camthalion must have noticed what was happening at the same moment Glorfindel did, and for some reason he chose to step in front of Erestor, taking the arrow meant for him. Glorfindel had never liked him, but he would see to it that he was properly lauded for his courage. Valour of that type was rare.
Elrohir did not apparently realise the seriousness of the elf's injury, however, and Erestor just sat there, cradling the Noldor, his eyes huge and disbelieving in his soot-streaked face. Glorfindel put out a hand to draw Elrohir away, as there was no need for him to exhaust his abilities trying to revive the dead, but his hand did not encounter his lover's shoulder. "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad." A tangible wall of energy met Glorfindel's outstretched hand, and the elf on the ground, Elrohir and Erestor all began, very faintly, to glow.
"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!" It was a command, and spoken in the ringing tones of one used to being immediately obeyed. The power radiating off Elrohir grew in intensity, golden pulses streaming off the three of them to radiate around the camp, causing Glorfindel to back away a step. "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!" An outpouring of heat and a rush of wind underscored the third demand. All around them surged a terrible, ancient power that shook the treetops over their heads, rumbled through the ground beneath their feet, and sent currents sizzling along Glorfindel's entire body. No elfling could possibly have possessed such authority, or known how to use it if he did.
Glorfindel wrenched his attention away from the three at the centre of the cyclone of light and energy, and searched out Thranduil. He could not be allowed to see this--he must not see it! But it was already too late, for Glorfindel could see the king's face, and just behind him that of Lord Celeborn, and knew that any hope of further concealment was lost. If they had not pieced it together already, and from Thranduil's expression Glorfindel rather thought he had, they would soon enough. The important thing, then, was to get Elrohir away as quickly as possible, and speak to them alone before either said anything to him. And he needed to find out just how much his young lover had remembered. So caught up was he in his thoughts, that Glorfindel barely noticed when Camthalion suddenly sat up, dazed and disoriented, but most definitely alive.
TBC
"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad.": "Camthalion, hear my voice, come back to light."
Mardthelu: Elf-crusher.
Vulkulk: Goblin-sword.