Chapter Ten Waking Realities

Silence filled the air around her as she searched with her eyes. Birds stopped chirping, the owls stopped their hoots for small prey, and even the songs of the trees became quiet as the thudding of footsteps became greater. For a brief moment her heart stopped, fear taking over every sense of wisdom and logic she had been taught over her years. Shaking her head furiously, her fathers' words came back to her in a rush, causing her to race back to the fire to retrieve the small dagger and knuckler her father had left.

Branches snapped near the campsite, and with all haste, she ran back to the boys' side. Narrowing her eyes she snarled quietly as instinct took over. Survival was the first thing on her mind now, as the sense of danger grew closer.

Erestor flew after the orcs, knowing they were on the hunt of something that had grabbed their uncanny sense of smell. He knew what they were after, and he was not about to let them succeed in their feral race for new blood.

Erestor knew that he was not alone in his pursuit, and for that he was grateful. Picking up his pace, he flew through the trees, his instincts from his forest birth home coming back to him with every footfall he made. Rounding a corner, he approached a clearing and caught a glimpse of two orcs running towards the west where they would surely be caught unawares. Roaring with fury, Erestor took on the remaining two who frantically ripped apart bedding and cooking ware for something of value. Taken by surprise, the orcs within the camp had no time to react against the fury of the warrior who raised his sword swiftly and accurately.

Erestor sliced through the air with his gleaming sword and took the two orcs down within a space of a breath. Standing there slightly disappointed, he lowered his sword and cocked his head to the side when two faint cries from the distance drifted into the clearing on the wind. Nodding once satisfied, he looked over the now destroyed camp instantly knowing that two small children were here. His heart pounded fearfully, searching with his eyes, swallowing against the slight horrifying images that filled his mind.

Before he could begin to make sense of the surrounding areas, images of two small children, broken and torn to bits filled his brain. Frantically, he tore bedding from the ground, anxiously searching with all his senses. He stopped quickly, and cocked his head to the side. A soft whimper reached his ears. He wasn't imaging it. Standing straight, he whistled to the other hunters for aid in finding the source of the faint cries.

Within minutes, Figwit entered the clearing holding a small girl in his arms. Her eyes were red from tears and fear, and her face was pallid. Another elf entered the clearing cradling a small elfling gently in his arms, a look of worry marring his face. Choking back a cry, Erestor scrambled forward and knelt down beside the young elf, who placed Elrohir down on the packed earth.

Gentle fingers drifted over the small-injured boy. Analyzing the damage to Elrond's son, Erestor barked out commands, for his hunters to travel to Rivendell for aid. Elrohir was too injured for travel. Broken ribs bruised the boys' chest. Purple and black marks surrounded the upper frame, the most painful looking one right above the boys' collarbone. A large gash on Elrohir's head caused Erestor to gasp in fear. Looking further down Elrohir, Erestor noticed the seriously broken legs, that would cause the child great pain in healing fully. If the bones were not set soon the small elfling would be left with a slight limp causing him trouble in the future. Closing his eyes, Erestor prayed to the Valar for strength. He needed to be strong for the son of Elrond, if he were to be any help whatsoever. A whistle caused Erestor to lift his head, as Thranduil and Galathil stumbled into the clearing. They carried the unconscious elf to the fireside and stood back shocked at the condition of Elrohir. Hissing fearfully, Thranduil knelt down beside Erestor his eyes never leaving the small boys tattered body.

Lifting his hand, the king of Mirkwood rested it gently on Elrohir's forehead and smoothed back the blood soaked hair. Taking a deep breath, he tore his tunic off and dipped the corner in a small pot near the fire. Gently he wiped away the blood and dirt from the boys face, his mind set on cleaning at least a few of the wounds. Being a father himself he felt the throbbing of his heart seeing a child so young a full of lift in such a state, caused to think back on his own family who were safe in his homeland. Sitting back on his heels, Thranduil shook his head as comprehension dawned on him.

He glanced at Erestor confused. "They look so alike. Twins?" He whispered fearing to disturb the quiet around them.

Nodding Erestor squeezed the cloth in his hands, and pressed it gently to the gash in Elrohir's head. The wound had scabbed over, slowing the bleeding, but as soon as the water touched it, the wound began to flow freely.

Cursing aloud, Erestor put pressure on the wound to ebb the flow of blood. Silent tears filled his eyes as he felt helplessness take over him. "I do not know what to do." He whispered glancing over at the king.

Thranduil shook his head lost for words. They were helpless. Silently they attended the small elfling who needed so much attention and love from those around him. Erestor and Thranduil didn't notice the little girl who knelt beside her father, fresh tears running down her face at the sight of Celanos.

Elrond felt the warriors return before they had entered the courtyard, and instantly he knew they had come for him. His son had been found. With a gentle nod to the healer still locked furiously with his eldest son, Elrond stood and motioned for Gandalf to remain with his wife until his return. Celebrían was far from happy when he ran out of the room, but with all haste retreated before she could utter words of protest.

It took Elrond less time to run down the steps then it did for his hunters to enter the house, and he barked his orders for them to follow him. Stunned the warriors followed their lord through the courtyard. Somehow, Elrond knew exactly where he was headed. Right outside the borders of Imladris.

Galathil watched sadly as Thranduil and Erestor cleaned Elrohir's wounds. The state the small boy was in was dreadful. The wounds appeared to be painful, which was why the child had yet to waken. Elrohir was in immense pain and was suffering greatly. The only safe place the son of Elrond knew, was inside his fëa. Galathil felt tears well up in his eyes. Elven children were so rare these days that when one was born, great festivities were given to celebrate. The darkness of the world was too great for the elves to even consider bringing a small child into a world of hatred and war.

Shaking his head, he glanced away. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he nodded glumly as Figwit attempted to comfort him. Taking a deep breath, Galathil was becoming increasingly aware of the growing discomfort of his broken or cracked ribs. Raising his arm, he wiped the tears out of his eyes, and walked away from the small group. He couldn't stand there helplessly and watch an elfling, especially a student of his pass from this world in front of him. Leaning against a nearby tree, Galathil waited and silently watched for danger. He needed to take his mind off the situation, before he went crazy from growing grief. Smiling softly, he knew he loved the boy as he would one of his own children. Having never been bound to anyone, or having children of his own, Galathil knew all his students were like his own children. Loosing one in battle, or injuries he knew he would never get over the feeling of loss.

Figwit watched sadly as Galathil wandered to the edge of the camp, silently scanning the area for danger. He knew the lessons master was close with his students and had also lost many in battle. He remembered the care and devotion Galathil gave everyone of his students. Nothing ever caused him to sway from the importance of safety, or teaching his students the proper sword techniques. His teacher had always been attentive of aches and pains of growing muscles, hints towards soothing those aches. Always giving without asking for anything in return.

Figwit knew his teacher needed someone to talk to. However, Figwit had no idea how to comfort his teacher, nor to reassure him that Elrohir would be all right. He was unsure of it himself. Lifting his head suddenly, his thoughts momentarily paused, Figwit quickly smiled relieved that Elrond had arrived.

Turning around quickly, he raced to the edge of the campsite and waited anxiously for the Lord to enter. Within moments, Elrond rounded the corner at a dead run, and passed Figwit with a wave of his hand, motioning him to follow. Galathil was beside them instantly.

Elrond fell to his knees beside his son and choked back a cry of despair. The small figure of his son so wounded caused tears to form in his eyes. Laying his hand on Elrohir's chest, Elrond searched with his fëa for the twins' connection. Almost instantly he found it, weak and thready. They were holding onto each other with all their strength, neither letting go as Elrond gently eased the tension. Feeling a sigh of relief, Elrond felt his eldest son release Elrohir and grin impishly.

Elladan knew his brother was now in good hands and headed back to his own injured and tattered body. Elrohir's fëa turned instantly to his father for safety. Elrond calmly and gently pulled Elrohir to consciousness, and waited patiently for his son to waken.

The eyes fluttered slowly, then opened with a small moan of protest. Elrond gently eased the stress on his son and helped him with some of the pain. Grey eyes met his blue ones, confused and frightened. Whispering softly, Elrond called to the Valar for aid. His sons' injuries were beyond his skills, and he needed help. Silently, Elrond felt a strong presence beside him rest their hands upon his to aid in his task. He knew who it was, and smiling softly, gathered all his strength lending it to his helper.

Elrond opened his eyes seemingly minutes later, only to discover that it had been for a better part of the afternoon, to see his sons colour deepen to a healthy glow. Galathil, who knelt beside him swallowed and staggered to his feet. Startled, Elrond lifted his head and noticed that it was the lessons master who had aided him in healing some of his sons' injuries. He watched horrified as Galathil stumbled then fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. Jumping to his feet, Elrond raced to Galathil's side and searched for a pulse. Sighing in relief, Elrond found one, faint and erratic, but strong.

Calling out to the men around them, Elrond ordered that litters be made to transport the injured back to the safety of Rivendell. Closing his eyes, Elrond knew that there was no healing wing left to treat the injured, but perhaps just enough to heal those who still lived. Feeling defeated, Elrond stood and watched silently as litters were constructed quickly, and he turned his head and caught a nod from the King of Mirkwood. Rubbing his eyes, he walked over to his long time friend.

"How do they fare, Elrond?" The king asked.

Nodding, he whispered. "They live, but I do not know what I will do once I am home."

Raising an eyebrow, Thranduil looked at Elrond. "I don't understand."

"Nothing is left of Imladris, my friend. I do not have the tools to heal everyone, nor the space now to house them till they are well enough on their own."

Pursing his lips, Thranduil nodded. Walking away from the preoccupied lord, the king motioned for one of his hunters. Whispering into his ear, he smiled briefly and watched the young elf race from the clearing with two others in hot pursuit. Walking back to the group, Thranduil lifted one end of the smallest litter carrying Elrohir, and waited until Elrond grabbed the other end. Slowly, they walked across dirt paths towards Rivendell, or what was left of the beautiful city. It was bound to be a long night, and long painful few years to rebuild Imladris to its splendour.