Chapter Eleven: Waiting
It was a beautiful morning in Imladris. The blizzard had ended about an hour before dawn, and the sunrise gave off a soft pink glow that made the drifts sparkle with light. Normally, such a morning would have been cause for gladness. Children would have bounded outside, intent on playing in one of the largest snowfalls Imladris had ever seen, and adults would have treasured the sight of such a pure morning. Joy and celebration would have reached an almost Wood-Elven high.
It was not to be. Not this morning.
Instead of joy, there was a tangible aura of grief over the valley. Rumors spread quickly, and now almost everyone was aware of the horrifying news. Captain Belegon Taurvagorion, Malchathol Thorvelion, and Arandur Nárildion had died. Rasaras Eltatharion had been forced to show courage beyond his years and was injured. Lord Glorfindel Alkamacarion had shouldered a responsibility no one had asked him to bear and was now something close to a nervous wreck. Erestor Caranárion lay unconscious in a small healing chamber and was, for all intents and purposes, slowly but surely dying.
Glorfindel pushed the food on his plate around with his fork, staring at it without really seeing it. He was only in the dining hall because Elrond had kicked him out of Erestor's chamber. In body, Glorfindel had reluctantly obeyed and was now trying to eat breakfast, but his mind refused to leave the chamber where the green-robed healers were doing everything they could to fight for Erestor's life.
As strange as it was, Glorfindel missed the advisor's presence. At first he had scoffed at the idea, but the longer he sat in the dining hall, the more he realized it was true. He missed Erestor. There was something refreshingly different about the dark-haired Elf, whether it was his firm refusal to stoop to blind hero-worship or his acerbic personality. Even when the advisor had been only on step away from verbally dismembering him, at least he had been there. Then they had argued, flinging insults and accusations at one another in a childish manner that seemed even more petty when it was compared to the real battle that followed it. The Erestor that had emerged from the conflict seemed vastly different—more vulnerable, perhaps. And on the way home, even after Erestor had lost consciousness and not given Glorfindel a speck of attention, he had remained Glorfindel's sole focus. Now, as Glorfindel sat alone in the dining hall, he missed him.
With a sigh of disgust, he laid down his fork and pushed back his chair. The pretense was pointless. He was not fooling anyone by pretending that everything was perfectly normal again. Nothing was back to normal.
He left the dining hall and headed for the healing halls. Even if Elrond would not let him back in the small room, perhaps he could at least get an idea of Erestor's condition from the many healers that entered and exited the chamber.
He was so focused on his goal that he almost missed the sweet noise that echoed in the empty hallway. It was the sound of a harp, playing music that was as sad as it was beautiful. A quick glance into what he thought was an unused chamber nearby confirmed Glorfindel's suspicions as to the identity of the harpist. Lindir sat on a small bench, the harp in his lap, eyes closed as he poured his heart into his music. It seemed to be another of his improvised melodies, and Glorfindel stood spellbound in the doorway as the music flowed from the quick fingers. Lindir ended the piece on a chord that seemed to hang in the air between them.
"Is it true, Glorfindel?" asked Lindir, not even looking up.
Glorfindel cleared his throat and entered the small chamber. "Is what true?"
"What my father said." Lindir shifted on the bench to make room for Glorfindel to sit down beside him. "He said that Master Erestor is going to die. Is it true?"
Glorfindel froze. He could not simply tell the boy no, since everyone considered it to be such a likely possibility, but at the same time he was not about to say yes. "I don't know," he finally said. It was an honest answer.
Lindir looked down at the instrument in his lap, running one finger over the gold design inlaid in the dark wood. His eyes were deep with thought. "Father says that even if Lord Elrond can heal him, he will probably die because all his friends are dead." He tore his gaze from the harp and looked up at Glorfindel with troubled eyes. "I don't want him to die."
Glorfindel picked up the harp and set it aside, then put an arm around Lindir's shoulders. "Not all of his friends are dead," he said in what he hoped was a cheerful voice. "He still has you and me, doesn't he?"
A flicker of hope appeared in the harpist's silver-blue eyes. "Are you Master Erestor's friend too?"
"Yes." Glorfindel smiled. It was the truth. Even if it was only a one-sided friendship, he could no longer deny that it was there. He only hoped that Erestor could be convinced of that fact. "Yes, of course I am."
The halls of healing in Imladris were usually places of serenity, only rarely interrupted by the mad scramble that heralded a bloody battle for life. This was especially true if the room held a recovering patient, one that was not too seriously wounded to begin with. From the merry crackle of the small fire on the hearth, to the delicate beauty of the frost on the windowpane, Rasaras's room was one that should have been extraordinarily peaceful.
At the moment, however, it was anything but that.
Eltathar's back was to Rasaras as the elder Elf stood between his son and Lord Elrond. "My lord, I understand what you say, but I must also tell you that my wife Aranna was very upset by the message. She fears the worst, and if I return without Rasaras, then her fears will only be compounded. I must leave tomorrow, and I wish to take my son with me. We need him home with us."
Rasaras gazed at his father with a mixture of confusion and awe. Was this truly the same Eltathar that had taught him to obey without question? The same Eltathar that had assured him on numerous occasions that it was pointless to defy healers? The same Eltathar that had sternly ordered him to never, ever, say anything that could even remotely be taken as disrespectful to Lord Elrond?
Lord Elrond sighed, closing his eyes in a gesture that seemed to come from agitation and extreme weariness. "Eltathar, I am neither threatening the well-being of your wife nor disregarding your love for Rasaras. I speak only out of concern for his health. Were he to attempt the trail back to your home now, he would risk damaging the arm further. The bone would have to be reset, delaying his recovery by quite some time. Not to mention that it would be very painful if it was jarred or rebroken."
Eltathar's fists clenched behind his back. "With all due respect, my lord, is there not some way that you can prevent that?"
"Yes. I can keep him here until the bone is sufficiently healed." Even to Rasaras, who did not know Lord Elrond well, it was obvious that the harried Elf-lord was quickly running out of patience.
Eltathar bristled. "I mean, can you put it in a cast, or something similar? That would protect it enough for travel, I would think. And we would ride very slowly."
Lord Elrond opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to decide that it was not worth the trouble to argue with Rasaras's protective father any longer. "Yes, I can do that," he said, his voice tight with irritation. "As long as both you and Rasaras are in agreement concerning the issue."
Eltathar turned. At first Rasaras expected that his father would glare at him, daring him to defy the unspoken order to agree. After all, if he spoke so sternly to Lord Elrond, how would he act towards family? But he was wrong. The Elf's face was stern when he turned, but as he gazed at his son, the lines of anger on his face seemed to disappear. "What do you think, Rasaras?" he asked. "After all, it is your arm we are discussing, not mine. If you wish to stay, then say so."
Rasaras swallowed. He did not want to defy Lord Elrond's wishes, but he knew that a large part of the Elf-lord's frustration was due to Master Erestor's condition. The rumor had reached Rasaras's ears that the advisor was still in a comatose state, and would most likely die before the day was over, and undoubtedly Lord Elrond was still upset about the deaths of his captain and two formidable warriors. Of all the times to remain in the House of Elrond, this was not one of the best. If Rasaras went home, then he would no longer be his lord's concern. And after all, he missed his family. "I wish to go home," he finally said.
Lord Elrond nodded. "Very well." He glanced up at Eltathar. "If you would be so kind as to find my apprentice Nestorien, then I will set the arm now so that the cast can harden before you both leave."
Eltathar bowed, threw Rasaras a reassuring smile, and left the room.
Lord Elrond pulled a chair up to Rasaras's bedside and began to undo the splint. "The cast should remain on your arm for two weeks," he said. "After two weeks, return to these halls so that I can remove it and make sure that the bone has healed properly."
Rasaras searched the lord's face for any sign of disapproval. "Milord, I—I hope I did not offend you."
A genuinely startled look appeared on Lord Elrond's face. "Offend me? In what way?"
"By going against what you wanted."
A strained smile appeared on the Elf-lord's face. "I am not offended, Rasaras. We asked you what you wanted, and you answered." Then he chuckled. "And before you even ask: no, I am not angry with your father either. If I had a son, I would probably feel the same way. His impatience is only eagerness to make sure that you are safe."
Rasaras gave the Elf-lord a tentative smile. "Well… yes."
"Though I must tell you," said Lord Elrond in a more serious voice, "the condition of your arm is not the only reason I wished to keep you here longer." He paused in his work to look up at Rasaras. "The process of becoming a tried warrior is difficult, even for the most well-trained novices. In training, the fatigue and change are concentrated in the body, but when one faces battle for the first time, then healing is often most needed elsewhere. Do you remember why your father no longer takes up arms as a warrior?"
Rasaras cringed inwardly. Yes, he remembered it well, and had spent a long time since his return thinking about it. As much as he respected his father, he had often wondered how the older Elf could simply walk away from his duty. Now, after having seen for himself what real battles were like, he began to understand.
"Eltathar is no coward," continued Lord Elrond, resuming his work. "I am sure that you have heard stories about how brutally the Elves were overcome by Sauron's forces, but I can assure you that none of the stories can equal the true horror of that day. It was no simple retreat, Rasaras—it was a massacre."
Rasaras gave an involuntary shudder. He had certainly heard stories, some so gory that his father had sent him out of the room as a child when they were told, and they often seemed unrealistically grim. Surely no living being would do to the Elven warriors what the Orcs had done. But then, he reminded himself, he would hardly have believed that Númenóreans would do to the Elven traveling party what they had done. And he had seen that with his own eyes.
"I say all this as an example," said Lord Elrond. "Your father, along with most of the warriors that survived that day, never completely healed from what happened. His decision—to put his skills to another purpose instead of letting them fade from disuse—is an admirable one. But I do not want to see what happened to Eltathar happen to you."
There was a knock at the door, and a young female healer brought in a tray full of supplies. She started to assist Lord Elrond, but then bowed her acquiescence when he motioned for her to leave instead. The Elf-lord waited until she left before continuing.
"Eltathar is a very strong-willed person, and when he returned, he insisted on going home to his wife, rather than staying here where I could help him to heal. Though her love—and your conception, I must add—helped him tremendously, the healing that he refused never fully took place. What you see now is a result of that decision. I caution you, Rasaras: do not make the same mistake that he did."
There was a long silence following Lord Elrond's words.
"So you think that I should stay?" Rasaras finally asked, as soon as he managed to pull one thought from the thousands that swarmed in his head like bees in a hive.
"I think that you should do the right thing," answered the Elf-lord. "Your father knows you better than I do, and perhaps he is right. Perhaps he is wrong. In the reckoning of our people, you are an adult, and you can make your own decisions. I believe that you already know what you should do, regardless of which one of us you want to please."
Rasaras closed his eyes. He wanted to do the right thing, but why was it so hard to decide?
Finally he came to a decision. "I want to go home," he said, and then quickly added, "but I want to take my weapons with me, so that I can go back to guard duty once my arm is healed. I still want to be a warrior."
Lord Elrond raised a curious eyebrow. "And what has prompted this second decision?"
This was a question that Rasaras did not have to ponder. "Because the danger is still there. If anything, I want to be a warrior even more because of what happened. I don't want my family, or anyone else, to have to see that. If people like Morazôn are still out there, and I can see to it that they never have a chance to touch the Elves of Imladris, then I would be a fool to do otherwise."
The Elf-lord stood, having finished readying the arm for the cast, and looked down at Rasaras with a strange glint in his eyes. "Were I the High King Gil-galad," he said, "I would commend your bravery and say that you will become a great warrior one day." Then a smile broke over his face, as bright as the sun coming out from behind the clouds. "But since the High King is not here, but in Lindon, and I am only his herald, I will not say that. I will merely commend your bravery."
The informal delivery, as well as the impish nature of the smile on the dark-haired Elf's face, was enough to startle Rasaras out of his usual protocol. "What about the part about being a great warrior one day?" he asked, a smile picking up the corners of his mouth for the first time in quite a few days. "Will that just go unsaid?"
"It will," confirmed Lord Elrond with a smile that looked strangely proud. "Because I believe that you already are."
With that, the Lord of Imladris left the room to summon the apprentice healers who would make the cast, leaving a surprised and bewildered Rasaras behind.
Glorfindel shuffled his feet on the floor tiles. He had been sitting in this chair for over an hour. He had already taught Lindir another melody from Gondolin, visited both Rasaras and the families of the warriors who had died, helped Meretheryn and the other cooks in the kitchen, and done everything else he could think of.
Elrond still refused to let him into the healing chamber. It was extremely vexing, being only a few feet away from the door, and still knowing little more than he had known that morning. He had tried to get information from the various apprentices, but the only one that would tell him anything was a brusque Noldo named Mírhael. And, of course, he was maddeningly vague. The other apprentices only glared at him with annoyance.
He had only been able to actually see Erestor once, when an apprentice had paused while leaving the room to ask Elrond a question. Glorfindel, using the advantage of height that came from being a reincarnated Vanya of the early First Age, was able to see over her head and catch a quick glimpse of the pallid Elf in the corner.
Erestor's complexion was just as pale as before, but it matched with the pallor of the sheets and bandages and contrasted with the darkness of his hair in a way that made his face look almost chalk-white. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, but the motion was extremely slight. A large, thick blanket was laid over him, up to where his shoulder was still swathed in bandages, so Glorfindel assumed that the cold was still troubling him.
Glorfindel fidgeted as he sat, shifting in his seat and tracing the pattern in the upholstery of the chair. Oh, if only Elrond would just open the door and let him see for himself how Erestor fared! He began to tap his fingers on the armrest, an impatient gesture that had always irritated his father to no end. "Stop squirming like a fish on the beach!" the older Vanya would say, infusing his voice with the same affectionate authority that he used to command the small group of Vanyar that followed him across the Helcaraxë with Fingolfin's men. "Sit still, and at least pretend that you know how to be patient!" And then Glorfindel would grin, tap his fingers one more time, and be still. Patience had never been one of his virtues.
Suddenly a cry came from inside Erestor's room. It sounded like one of the female apprentices. Whether it was a cry of joy, or one of horror, Glorfindel could not tell. All it said was that something had happened.
Glorfindel could take it no more. He stood and ran to the door, ignoring the thought in the back of his mind that Elrond would not be happy to see him again. More clamor arose from inside the room. Abandoning all sense of self-preservation, Glorfindel grabbed the doorknob, threw the door open, and rushed into the room.
Author's Notes
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
kenzimone: Late nights and suffering Elves are enough to mess up anyone's mind (I mean, hey, look at me!) and so I completely understand. I'm not making any promises about Erestor. Is this update quick enough? ;) Thank you for your review!
Avalon Estel: Thank you! Yes, I feel sorry for Rasaras too. (hugs him) And I'm so glad that you like Eltathar! He in particular has grown on me during this chapter, and I'm glad that he has fans. And don't pick on Glorfindel too much… after all, it's all perspective, and Erestor was being pretty mean. (offers Glorfindel an ice pack) Yes, I can see what you mean about Celegorm. I just feel sorry for fair ones (such as Tyelko) gone bad, and Lúthien annoyed me sometimes. And as for this chapter, I'm locking the door so that your mad Glorfindel doesn't come after me… ;)
Ellfine: Glad you enjoyed it! Yes, Glorfindel has come to a few realizations, though Erestor is unconscious and completely unaware of that little fact. That could be troublesome… yes, poor them! Thank you so much for your review!
LOTRFaith: I hope that this is soon enough! Thanks for being patient with me. I do feel sorry for Rasaras, and after I wrote that section I had to take a few minutes and calm myself back down. I like that quote! Thank you so much for your review!
Erestor: Glad you like it. It's my personal favorite so far, other than perhaps this one, but that's because I like the cliffhanger at the end. :D I'm glad that you like Rasaras… he's really come to be my favorite original character in this story. I'm glad you liked Glorfindel's thoughts, as well… they're good for me to write, because they help me to understand everything and learn how it's all coming together. Glorfindel is just so wonderful. I hope for more inspiration as well! Thank you so much for your review!
EmySumei: Yes, they finally made it home. I'm glad you liked that part! And I understand about Mírhael/Michael… I didn't realize how close the names were until I had already named the character! Thanks for your review!
tineryn: Thank you! I can't help sympathizing with the Fëanorians… they were people, under all the hatred and misery and bloodshed. I'm a diehard Maglor fan too, and I can only imagine how horrible it would be to be the last of his family. His punishment was far worse than that of his brothers, in my opinion.
Ellie in ElfPajamas: I'm glad you liked it! Fear not for Erestor… if all else fails, then he'll eventually be happy in Valinor, right? ;) Thank you so much!
seeing-spots: Thank you! Yes, I feel sorry for Glorfindel, too… nothing is quite like the shock you get when you realized that you completely misjudged a person, for better or for worse. In Glorfindel's case, I think it would be "worse"! I can't wait for your Grinding Ice story… I want to hear the Elves:)
BanbieBunny: Wow, glad you liked "Snowballs"… take time to breathe! ;) I'm glad that you like FI so far… and I understand completely about siblings taking over the computer! Thank you for your reviews!
Erulasse: Thank you! No, I've never heard of Joyce Grenfeld, but I'll take a compliment any day! ;) I'll probably experiment with that format again in the future, since it's so much fun to climb into characters' heads (especially Erestor!). You're very welcome!
S. Eerandgel: Thank you so much for your reviews! I wondered what Merry and Pippin (especially Pippin!) did while they were there, and I wanted to show how drastically their Hobbit-culture clashed with Elf-culture, and how in the end they weren't all that different after all. And I couldn't resist sticking Pippin with Erestor. Yes, when the bunnies come, they bite hard and they don't let go! Thank you so much!
Svadilfari: Thanks for checking it out! Traditional Recipes is one of the reasons that this story waits so long between updates. I have to say that I don't have firsthand experience with Rasaras's plight either. I just tried to imagine how I would feel if I were placed in that kind of a situation, and then I climbed into Rasaras's head and tried to see it from his eyes. I feel so sorry for him… I mean, he's my character, and I love him dearly. I'm glad you like his name! That's actually the reason he survived the Númenórean attack in the first place. You see, I had planned to have all four of the accompanying warriors die, but I decided that I liked the name "Rasaras" too much to just kill off its bearer like that, so I decided to let him live. And then when I wrote the scene itself, I was extremely glad that I had decided to let him live, and I felt awful for having to let Belegon, Malchathol, and Arandur die. And yes, I'm afraid that that quote does indeed apply. Thank you!
Coming Soon: Chapter Twelve: Moving On
