Chapter Seven: Red Dawn
Glorfindel felt tired and numb. He stood alone in the yawning cavern. Bodies of the slain littered the ground around him, limbs in a tangled mass. Gray, pallid faces were frozen in expressions of fear, shock, and pain.
He stepped over the fallen Men and walked to the Elven warriors. Arandur, Malchathol, and Belegon lay on the ground like mortals, their spirits in Námo's care. Glorfindel took a shuddering breath and touched each forehead in a last gesture of respect.
He heard the sound of a low groan from a corner of the cavern. He rushed to the spot, wondering if perhaps one last enemy remained. A glimmer of pale blond hair caught his eye.
"Rasaras!" he breathed. He heaved the body of one of the Men off of the young warrior and then bent down to examine him more carefully. "Rasaras Eltatharion, can you hear me?" he whispered, checking the slender wrist for a pulse. He was almost afraid to raise his voice—there was something extremely lonely about the echo that normal speech would produce.
Rasaras's eyelids fluttered and finally opened. Gray-blue eyes slowly came into focus. "Lord Glorfindel?"
Glorfindel breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Thank the Valar you are alive. Are you hurt?"
The young warrior swallowed. "My arm is broken, but I do not know about anything else."
Sure enough, Rasaras's left arm lay at an unnatural angle against his chest. Glorfindel nodded. "That should be relatively easy to treat. I will find something to splint it with, and then we can bandage it up and you will heal perfectly."
"Are you injured?"
"No," said Glorfindel bitterly. He felt almost guilty to be completely unscathed when so many were dead, his own kin included.
Rasaras craned his neck to see past Glorfindel into the rest of the cavern. "What about the others?"
Glorfindel shook his head sadly and shifted so that Rasaras's view of the slaughter was blocked. "They are gone."
The gray-blue eyes blinked. Rasaras did not scream, or cry, or even move. He just lay on the floor as if the news was so staggering that he simply could not understand it.
Glorfindel ached with pity. The archer was only a few years past his majority—far too young, in Glorfindel's opinion, to be a witness and victim to the horror of battle. None of them had expected anything like this, except perhaps Erestor.
"Erestor!" he said, his head snapping up. The last he had seen of the advisor, Erestor had rushed forward to aid Belegon. Glorfindel had no idea what had become of him after Morazôn had killed Belegon, only to fall a few minutes later at Glorfindel's feet. He had seen no trace of him since then, and had mentally added him to the list of the fallen. Could it be that perhaps a third member of their company still lived?
He helped Rasaras up to a sitting position. "Close your eyes and take deep breaths. Do not move until I return. I am going to go look for Erestor."
Without waiting for Rasaras to reply, he stood and began looking around the cave. The only light came from a few torches still burning on the wall. He could not see the advisor anywhere.
He walked across the cavern to the place he had last seen Erestor. This particular area was thick with bodies, making it almost impossible to find any specific person. The torchlight flickered on the still blades.
Suddenly he saw a figure draped with dark fabric, collapsed in a still heap on the ground against the wall. He immediately rushed to it.
"Oh, please be alive," he begged under his breath as he brushed aside a sticky mass of dark, bloodstained hair. There had been enough death today. He had just lost three people that he had deemed friends, and that was bad enough, but this was different. Arandur's words had wedged themselves in his mind like thorns, and though he still questioned how true they were, if Erestor was dead then he would never know. He hated the thought of having him die with such a large issue unresolved, and he knew with sickening certainty that he would feel very guilty if the silent Elf before him had died with such hate-filled words echoing in his ears.
The advisor's face was deathly pale, his eyes closed. Panicked, Glorfindel reached for the slender wrist and felt for what seemed like hours until he could detect a faint, fluttering pulse beneath the pallid skin. Erestor was alive.
He let out the breath he had been holding. All was not lost. The Valar were merciful.
Rasaras's thin voice echoed in the cavern. "Glorfindel?"
He turned. "Yes?"
"You found Master Erestor?"
Glorfindel allowed himself a smile. "Yes, and he is wounded, but he is alive."
Rasaras stood and began to walk over. His face was bloodlessly pale, and his steps were uncertain, but he managed to pick his way through the carnage. "Will he be all right?" he asked as soon as he had reached Glorfindel.
Glorfindel grimaced and looked back at the unconscious advisor. "I hope so. I will need to take a look at him to see if his injuries are serious, but at least we know that he is still alive. If you want to help, go to where they stowed our packs and bring me Arandur's bag. He was the one who brought the healing supplies, I think."
Rasaras nodded and went off to do Glorfindel's bidding.
Glorfindel looked back down at Erestor. He was no healer, but he would do his best. The very worst thing that could happen was that Erestor would die, and if Glorfindel did nothing, then Erestor would die anyway. He had to at least try.
He reached up to the wall and picked up one of the torches, then wedged it between two nearby boulders to give him a little more light. The only signs of injury that he could see were the fact that Erestor was unconscious, the bleeding wound on the back of his head, and the way that his left ankle was twisted far more than a sound joint would allow. However, as Erestor was lying on his stomach with his head to one side, it was hard to tell if there were any other injuries. Glorfindel picked him up as gently and carefully as he could and turned him over.
He sucked in his breath when he saw the long, deep slash across Erestor's left shoulder. Had the wound been only a few inches lower, then the advisor would undoubtedly be dead by now. As it was, the wound was bleeding profusely, and Glorfindel could tell without even seeing it clearly that it would need stitches to heal.
He moved Erestor's cloak out of the way, and then picked up a dagger that was lying nearby and began to cut the shoulder-seam of the dark, bloodstained tunic. The sooner he got those stitches in, the better. He would probably need Rasaras's help, but he was far from eager to put the young Elf through that.
Light footsteps echoed in the cavern. "I brought what you needed, Lord Glorfindel," said Rasaras, approaching with the bag.
"Many thanks." Glorfindel took the pack and began to root through it, in search of the healing supplies. Soon he found a needle and thread, fresh bandages, and a few small drawstring bags of dried herbs. "I do not know everything about the effects of each of these herbs," commented Glorfindel, "but between the two of us, we will figure it out."
Rasaras looked doubtful, but he dutifully nodded. "What will you do?"
"I cannot do everything that needs to be done, but there are a few things we can accomplish. We need to set the broken ankle, stitch up this cut, and make sure that that cut on his head does not get infected. I will need your help."
The look on Rasaras's face was an interesting mix of disbelief, horror, and fright. "I—I am no healer," he stuttered.
"Neither am I, but surely you know something. With any luck, he will back on his feet in no time, and we can go on back home once the snow stops."
"We are not going on to Mithlond?"
Glorfindel shook his head. "Erestor would never survive the trip. It would be hard to find our way in this snowstorm, and he needs Elrond's care. Círdan or no Círdan, we are not going to Mithlond."
Rasaras nodded then glanced back down at Erestor. His eyes lit up. "He's waking up!"
The first sensation Erestor felt was pain. Hammering, agonizing pain racked his whole body, but it was concentrated at his head and shoulder and ankle. The pain was so intense that it nearly took his breath away. At least he knew he was not dead—surely he would not feel pain if he had died.
A voice filtered into his consciousness. "Erestor? Can you hear me?"
Erestor could not identify the voice, so he had to guess. "Belegon?"
He heard a slight sigh. "No. It's me, Glorfindel."
Glorfindel. Of all people, it had to be Glorfindel. "Where is Belegon?" he asked.
Glorfindel's voice fell ominously silent for a few seconds. "He—he is not here right now," he finally answered. "How do you feel?"
A brief flash of frustration entered Erestor's mind. Where was Belegon? Why was Glorfindel the one standing over top of him? He was almost ready to snap at the annoying Vanya, but he quickly decided not to. He hurt too much to argue, and being annoyed took too much energy. "Terrible."
Glorfindel chuckled wryly. "I am not surprised. You have a gash on the back of your head, your shoulder is cut wide open, and you've nearly twisted your left foot off. Can you open your eyes?"
His first instinct was to protest—his head was pounding as if someone was beating it with a battle-ax, and he was not eager to see Glorfindel. And on top of all that, he was beginning to remember what had happened to him before he had been hurt—Morazôn had been about to attack Belegon. A cold feeling of dread and sudden loneliness swallowed him up. Could Belegon be—was it possible that Belegon was—no, he could not even consider it! Surely it was impossible…
He opened his eyes and gave them time to adjust themselves to the light. Glorfindel was indeed bending over him, but to his surprise there was not even a hint of anything but compassion in the Vanya's silver-blue eyes. I suppose war does strange things to warriors, he thought. His annoyance began to fade away. For all he knew, Glorfindel might have saved his life. "Are you and the others all right?" he ventured.
The warrior seemed taken aback by the question. "I am well, and Rasaras is not seriously injured."
The dread deepened. "But Belegon? And Malchathol and Arandur?"
Glorfindel broke eye contact. "It—it appears that it is just the three of us now," he said in a strange voice. It sounded as if he was trying to be somewhat lighthearted, but was failing miserably.
Erestor felt as if Glorfindel had punched him in the stomach. He could not breathe. Not all three of them! It could not be… it could not! He closed his eyes to try to chase the thoughts away, but all his mind's eye could see was the shock on Belegon's face as Morazôn grabbed him from behind, the sight of Malchathol still and silent like a crumbled statue, and Arandur's sword slipping from his hand as he fell backward onto the ground.
"Erestor," said Glorfindel suddenly. Erestor jerked his eyes open and stared up at the Vanyarin warrior. "Now is not the time to grieve," Glorfindel said firmly, but with surprising gentleness. "That will come later. For now, we need to concentrate on getting back home."
Erestor only half-listened. He just felt numb. "Whatever you say."
Glorfindel glanced over at Rasaras and then back to Erestor. "We need to go ahead and put in those stitches," he said.
Erestor shook his head. "Do whatever you please. I do not care."
Glorfindel sighed and reached for the bags of herbs. "I hope you at least care about staying alive. We need you to fight this, or none of what we do will matter."
"I do not care," repeated Erestor.
Rasaras sat at the cave's mouth and looked out. The blizzard had finally ended and the sun was rising. It was a bright red sunrise, crimson against the deep snow.
He had never felt so lost, so detached from what was happening around him. Everything had changed so drastically in the last few hours that he hardly knew what to make of it all.
Glorfindel had finally sent him away after nearly an hour. First they had done what they could for Erestor, then they had gathered all the fallen into piles. Rasaras had gagged several times, and nearly fainted, and had it not been for Glorfindel's constant reprimands then he would have collapsed in the middle of it. Obeying the commands that Glorfindel gave him had been almost reassuring—it was something familiar, something he knew how to deal with, something to throw himself into before he went mad.
He could smell the acrid odor of burning outside. Glorfindel had made the decision to burn the bodies; it was their only choice. They could not bury them; even if the ground had not been buried under nearly a foot of snow, it was still frozen too hard to dig graves. They did not have time to build cairns. Ashes were the most respectful and most efficient way to deal with the problem. Glorfindel had burned each of the Elves separately first, with honor and reverence, but now he was just getting rid of the dead Men.
Upon venturing farther into the back of the cave a half-hour ago, Rasaras had discovered that the Númenóreans had attacked the horses. All of them were dead except for Súlfëa. Judging by the scene that greeted his eyes, Rasaras had concluded that Súlfëa had been so terrified that she had bucked and kicked, and killed the Man that had come to kill her. She had still been upset when Rasaras had entered, but he had managed to eventually calm her down. He had never before been thankful for the mare's paranoid and explosive temperament, but he was thankful now. Without a horse, there would have been little chance that they would reach Imladris in time to get Erestor the aid he needed.
Glorfindel's voice broke Rasaras's train of thought. "Rasaras, I need to talk with you."
He looked up as the warrior approached. "Aye?"
"I have been considering what choices we have, and I have come to a decision. Erestor is in no shape to walk home—even if his ankle was not broken, he lost so much blood while he was unconscious that he can barely sit up, therefore one of us will need to take him on Súlfëa. My decision is that you will take what supplies you need and go on ahead. Blaze the easiest trail you can make. When you reach Imladris, tell them to be ready for Erestor's and my arrival. I will come behind you with him."
Rasaras lifted an eyebrow. "You would go alone with Master Erestor? I thought you hated him," he said before he could stop himself.
Glorfindel frowned. "I don't hate him. I dislike his personality and manner. But we cannot make decisions based on petty preferences right now. You cannot bring Erestor because your arm is broken and you would be unable to help him, so the duty falls to me." His eyes hardened. "We have lost half of this company already, and I do not intend to lose another, no matter who he is."
Rasaras felt ashamed. "I apologize."
The anger departed from Glorfindel's face. "Take heart, all is forgiven. We are both going to need courage for the next few days. Come and we will find you the necessary supplies, then you can set off."
Rasaras stood. "Very well, Capt—I mean, Glorfindel." He colored with shame. Glorfindel had sounded so much like Captain Belegon that for a moment he had forgotten who he was talking to. The sound of the familiar title almost hurt—it occurred to him as if for the first time that he would never be able to address anyone as Captain Belegon again, or Malchathol, or Arandur. He knew they were dead, but that was just a word, and it was starting to sink in that they were gone.
He felt Glorfindel drape a strong arm around his shoulders. "Come on, Rasaras," said the golden warrior quietly. "Let's go."
Author's Notes
(Reviewer thanks for "Afternoon Tea" will be posted at the end of its sequel… whenever that gets posted… I'm working on it.)
Avalon Estel: Thank you so much for all of your reviews! Sorry that this chapter was so late in coming! And I really hope that you update Holiday Havoc soon…!
seeing-spots: And I continue to appreciate your reviews. ;) I know this took a while, but… I had excuses! Lame ones, perhaps, but they are excuses… in other words, thank you for your review and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!
emy m sumei: winces Sorry about that, really I am… it had to happen. At least you can know that I hated having to write that just as much as you hated having to read it. I felt sorry for them all. Erestor (at least in my version) isn't really a warrior; he's a scholar. You have to take into account as well that he was completely terrified. And these are Númenóreans, meaning that they are Men at the height of their power. A force to be reckoned with, especially since they have a lot more manpower (pun not intended) and the element of surprise. As for more death… whistles and twiddles her thumbs and looks very innocent We shall see what becomes of them. Anyway, thank you for your review and I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!
Elwen: Thank you so much for your reviews! I really have nothing to say about lateness, so don't worry a bit about that. :) The argument, for me, was an attempt to crystallize the problem of their disagreements… it's not all Erestor's fault, but it's not all Glorfindel's fault either. And I had to laugh at what you said about Erestor and his horse… I've never had a horse, or been in close contact with a horse, so Súlfëa has been a bit of an experiment as far as animal realism goes. I tried to make the violence just descriptive enough that the reader has a clear view of what happens, but not so descriptive that it's just gory. I'm glad you liked it. Thank you, again, and enjoy!
The Squire: Wow. Thank you so much! Snowballs was my first story on , and I was amazed at how well it was received. Your praise is overwhelming… thank you!
Lutris: It's always wonderful when one of my favorite authors reviews one of my stories… so thank you so much; I'm honored! And I will respond to your e-mail soon, but life has been a bit hectic lately, so it's an ASAP but I can't make many promises. But anyway, thank you. ;)
Coming Soon: Chapter Eight: Adrift
