Title: Mírdan
Type: Slash (FPS)
Author: Mirasaui mirasaui(at)aol(dot)com
Pairing: Rúmil/Mírdan (OMC)
Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's creations, not mine. This is all just for fun.
Beta: None
Archive: Any, but please ask.
Timeline: A few hundred years into the Third Age
Warning: Violence
Summary: An injured and abused elf seeks shelter in Lothlórien.
Mírdan
Chapter One: Discovery
The late evening rays of the sun filtered softly though the leaves overhead, tracing mottled patterns on the moss covered ground. All was well and quiet in the Golden Woods. Rúmil put aside the arrow he was fletching, suppressed a yawn then stretched his tired muscles. Less than an hour remained of his shift on patrol, and all he could think about was the soft mattress of his bed at home.
"Not much longer, mellonen (my friend)," Fael said with a grin. "Mayhap you will get more sleep tonight?"
Rúmil sighed. He almost wished a few orcs would chance by, just to relieve the boredom. How ever was he going to stay awake these last few moments of duty?
Usually the time spent in the talan of the great mallorn tree was a comfort to him. He had been a member of the Lórien guard for over 450 years. Fael and Rŷn, the two elves that shared his shift, were almost as close to him as his brothers, Orophin and Haldir. In fact, all the members of his unit were like family. Haldir, his middle brother, was marchwarden of the Lórien guard. It was to his unit that Rúmil, Orophin, Rŷn and Fael were assigned. But it was not nepotism that placed Rúmil and Orophin in Haldir's group; it was their dedication to duty and proven ability.
Haldir kept his guardians at their best through daily training and exercise. To encourage competition and hone skills, there were semi-annual tournaments held which allowed both individual and unit competition. Under Haldir's command, his unit had won the most ribbons for the past 150 years. They were the elite of the elite, for the reputation of the entire Lórien guard was par excellent.
But Rúmil was not his usual self today. Haldir had lectured him this morning about not receiving proper rest. It did not matter that Haldir stayed up late, because as his brother rightly pointed out, Haldir was not due on morning patrol. And, as if the lecture was not enough, Haldir had tagged one extra hour of daily training on the whole unit as punishment for Rúmil's infraction.
Even though he found himself in trouble, it was worth it. His brothers meant the world to him; surely Haldir knew that? Orophin had been sent to Imladris two years ago on a courier mission. The galadhrim had been attacked on the trail by a large group of orcs. Orophin and the other guards had managed to overcome and kill the beasts, but Orophin had taken a poisoned arrow in his shoulder. Before they reached Imladris, the poison had spread and Orophin was deathly ill. Lord Elrond, one of the best healers of Middle-earth, administered an antidote, but it had been touch and go.
Due to the toxicity of the poison, Orophin's recovery period had been lengthy. When he was finally able to leave his bed, he was too weak to travel or return to duty. Elrond had encouraged him to take short walks up and down the hall of the healing house to build up his strength. But Orophin, never one to be idle, had not been able to deal with his weakness or the boredom of inactivity. Normally reserved and quiet, Orophin turned into a demon. His temper drove many of Elrond's assistants to tears, and it reached the point where none wished to go near him. The last straw was the day he yelled at Lord Glorfindel.
For Glorfindel was an elf of legend. He awakened under the stars at Cuiviénen and was a warrior hero of the First and Second Age. He was head of the House of the Golden Flower in ill-fated Gondolin and fell to his death fighting a Balrog during the destruction of that city, sacrificing himself for his people. And because of that great sacrifice, the Valar gave him new life and returned him to Middle-earth.
He was ancient, one of the most respected and renowned Elven warriors on Arda, the wisdom of ages evident in the depth of his dark blue eyes. Tall and regal, with golden hair flowing past his waist, a golden glow to his skin, he was ethereal in his beauty, dynamic, and powerful. His temper, when provoked, was fierce as the fires of Mount Doom. No one yelled at Lord Glorfindel and got away with it, and neither did Orophin.
The full fury of Glorfindel's wrath was heard and felt throughout the corners of Imladris, and afterward, Orophin's temperament underwent a complete turnaround. But it did not end there. Lord Glorfindel sent a letter to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, and as a result, Orophin was transferred to Imladris as a guard under Glorfindel for a period of one year. During the course of that year, Orophin and the great warrior became friends. Orophin blossomed under his tutelage, and gained a new sense of self-worth. But as the year came to a close, he was glad to return to the Golden Woods. He had missed the golden mellryn, his Lord and his Lady, but most of all, he missed his brothers, missed their closeness. A year was too long to be separated from those dearest to his heart.
Of course they had exchanged letters, and as Haldir traditionally provided escort for Lord Celeborn, he and Orophin had been able to visit with each other the few times the Lord of Lothlórien met with the Lord of Imladris for council. But such events were rare, and the longest had only been for the duration of one week. Rúmil had not been on roster for escort duty either time and could only wait for Halidir's return to hear a detailed report of Orophin's well being. But yesterday, all had changed, for that was the day Orophin came home.
Rúmil knew he should have retired early last night, but had been so glad to see his elder brother that he went against his better judgement. Haldir did tell him once that it was getting late, but that was the only time, for Haldir never repeated himself. So Rúmil's tiredness was his own fault. He had broken a patrol rule but thought Haldir would understand his reason. Last night was special; it was not like he did this all the time. Still, Rúmil felt guilty.
Elbereth, he was sleepy! Picking up the arrow he had been working on, he wished again for a distraction to take his mind off the time. As if in answer to his thought, his keen ears picked out an alien sound amidst the normal forest activity. Looking over at his companions, he realized the other two elves heard it also, for each had nocked their bow and were crouched, muscles tensed, waiting to see who or what invaded the solitude of the woods.
Instantly awake and alert, Rúmil scanned the ground below the talan then swept his eyes further up the path. A figure moved out of the shadows. The three elves held their breath, waiting for the intruder to come close enough for their eyes to see more detail. A shaft of waning sunlight illuminated a tangled mass of light brown hair atop a slim body clothed in tattered leggings and a torn grey cloak. The soft leather boots of the stranger made no sound, but his steps were hesitant and unsteady. Before Rúmil could let out the breath he had been holding, the stranger collapsed onto the forest floor.
Signalling to Fael and Rŷn to cover him, Rúmil cautiously dropped from the talan and hid against the trunk of the great mallorn. Creeping from shadow to shadow, he moved until he was directly across from the prone figure. Stepping out from his cover, bow pointed at the stranger's back, Rúmil spoke, his voice ringing through the air.
"Who dares invade these woods? Speak stranger, but do not make a move or your life will be forfeit."
No sound came from the figure on the ground except that of ragged breath going in and out. Rúmil moved closer, and with the toe of one boot, pushed against the shoulder hidden under the grey cloak, turning the stranger over. Gold-flecked blue eyes widened at the sight of the pale face below him. He gently bent over to brush back a tangled strand of brown hair. "It is an elf," he cried out to his companions, "and he is grievously injured."
Fael and Rŷn hurriedly climbed down from the talan as Rúmil determined the extent of the elf's injury. He applied what immediate aid he could then gathered the elf into his arms.
"Rŷn, go with Rúmil, I will wait for your relief," said Fael as he saw firsthand the battered body lying limp in Rúmil's arms.
"Hurry, Rŷn, he is hurt badly," Rúmil cried as he started running quickly down the path that led toward the place where the horses were hidden.
"I will go on ahead and have a healer meet you," Rŷn replied catching up with, then moving ahead of Rúmil.
Rúmil could only nod as he ran, thinking of the frightfully pale face pressed against his chest. It was not a face he knew. Bruises and scratches covered the fair skin, and the elf's tunic was soaked with blood. His quick search of the body had found more of the same, with a large gash on the left side of the chest that was most likely the cause of the heavy bleeding. Rúmil had bandaged the wound as best he could, but there was no way of telling how much blood the elf had lost, or if there were internal injuries.
Willing his feet to move faster, Rúmil prayed the elf would not die in his arms. His muscles burned as he ran up a steep incline. Clearing the top, his forward momentum almost caused him to stumble when he started down the other side. Never had the horses seemed so far away. His breath was coming in gasps, each intake searing the back of his throat and it seemed as if he could not pull enough air into his lungs. The body in his arms jarred against his chest with each step he made, and he could palpably feel the other's pain. "Almost there," he thought, "one last hill and then level ground." The hill felt like a mountain and once again he nearly stumbled and fell. Pausing at the top to catch his breath, he heard a small whimper of pain escape the lips of the elf in his arms. Gathering his strength, he lowered his head and ran like the wind.
After what seemed like ages, he reached the small glade where the horses grazed. Rŷn's gelding was gone, and Rúmil's mare nickered softly at his approach. With a whispered command, the horse knelt so Rúmil could mount more easily with his burden. Once his mare had risen, Rúmil whispered another command and they were off, heading towards the healing house of Caras Galadhon, the city of the Elves. But progress was not as fast as Rúmil could hope, for he had to adjust his mare's gait for the injured rider.
Rúmil, with the elf barely breathing in his arms, rode through the night, trusting the instinct of his mount to find the way in the dark without harm. Never had the journey to his fair city seemed to take so long, and Rúmil's worry for his charge increased with each passing minute. The next day, he had to stop once to refill the water pouch and check the elf's bandages, but that was the only interruption to the journey that he dared.
As the angry red rays of the evening sun began to sink below the horizon, Rumil let out a sigh of relief, for the city gate was in sight. Rŷn and two healers waited there with a stretcher. After dismounting and laying the injured elf gently on the litters folded blankets, Rúmil backed away and caught his breath. "Please let the elf live," he prayed to the Valar. "Do not let my efforts have been in vain."
A guardian led the mare back to the stables while Rúmil sprinted to catch up with Rŷn. Together they followed the healers as they bore the wounded elf into a small building, one of the few in the city that was built on ground level.
"Do you know who he is?" Rŷn asked as they passed through the entrance of the healing house.
"No," Rúmil replied. ཁHis face is not familiar, but between the swelling and the bruising, I daresay it could be someone I know. Rŷn, his injuries cover not only his face, but his chest and back. Whoever he is, he has been sorely abused!"
TBC