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Chapter 3: Water-Warrior
…wargs…unexpected…distressing…ill portent…countermeasures…scouts will depart at once…
Words swirled in Anomen's brain, and light flickered in and out of his consciousness as his eyelids fluttered. At length he forced his eyes completely open. He was in a room in the House of Healing. At the foot of his bed stood those whom he loved: Elrond, Erestor, Glorfindel, and Mithrandir. They were engaged in a whispered, urgent consultation, which they immediately broke off when they saw that Anomen was awake.
"My dear lad," exclaimed Mithrandir, coming at once to stand by the side of Anomen's bed. "Thank the Valar you are still in one piece. An arm that goes down a warg's gullet generally does not remain attached to its owner's shoulder!"
"Warg?" said Anomen confusedly.
"Never you mind that," said Erestor quickly, shooting an angry look at the wizard. "Regaining your strength should be the only thought to occupy your mind."
"Am I hurt very badly?"
"Not as badly as you might have been," said Glorfindel. "Your companions stabbed at the warg as you grappled with it, so it could not give its full attention to dismembering you."
"Glorfindel!" exclaimed Erestor indignantly.
"There is no need to shelter him from the truth," said Elrond calmly. "He confronted a warg in the flesh, aye, and bravely, too; surely he is capable of addressing one in the course of a conversation."
Elrond was right. Anomen was eager to learn more.
"What happened after I fainted?" he asked.
"Your companions made sure of the warg," replied Glorfindel, "and then carefully drew your arm from its jaw and dragged the beast from atop you. Then Nenmaethor swam to shore and ran for help.
Anomen was puzzled. Nenmaethor? Water-warrior? He did not remember any elfling who went by that name.
Glorfindel saw his puzzled expression. "Ah, I had forgotten. Formerly he was called Tirndínen, but his fellows renamed him on account of the way he cut through the water on his way to shore. An excellent swimmer, seemingly." Here Glorfindel winked at Anomen, and the young Elf felt a comfortable sort of warmth spreading throughout his chest. It was quickly replaced by a chill, however, as Anomen suddenly realized what would have occurred if Tirndínen had still been sitting upon the shore, alone and forlorn. Anomen gasped in horror at the dreadful image that took shape in his mind.
"But that is not what happened," said Elrond, who at once divined the cause of Anomen's distress. "Disaster was averted by your efforts, for you behaved responsibly, with both kindness and courage. Do not waste your thoughts upon what might have been, lest doing so rob you of the ability to face the future."
Anomen took a deep breath. His curiosity returned. "Those beasts, you called them wargs. What is a warg?"
"A warg is a species of wolf," Erestor began.
"Not so," interrupted Glorfindel. "Wolves we can live with; wargs we cannot. A warg is a creature of the Dark Lord."
Anomen shuddered. "How, how," he faltered.
"How did the beasts come to be within the bounds of Imladris?" Elrond finished his sentence for him. "We do not know whether they strayed within the borders, renegades perhaps, or whether they were scouts sent by their masters. As we speak, Glorfindel's scouts are scouring the land, seeking answers to our questions."
"And it is high time that I join them," declared Glorfindel. He laid a hand upon Anomen's good shoulder. "You have done well. Now rest and recover your strength." He turned to depart, but Anomen called to him.
"Lord Glorfindel, may I still assist with the elflings?" he asked anxiously.
"Oh, assuredly," Glorfindel replied gravely, "for I find that you have become indispensable. I had not realized how burdensome it was to marshal so many younglings, and now I do not believe I could go back to my old ways." He respectfully inclined his head toward Anomen, and then strode away.
The warm feeling returned to Anomen's chest, and his face fairly glowed.
"When may I return to the training field?" he eagerly asked Elrond.
"When I deem you recovered," said Elrond, smiling.
"Mithrandir," Anomen appealed to the wizard, "have you a spell—"
"Anomen," the Istar gently chided, "you know that my magic is not to be trifled with—witness the events that but lately took place in the garden!"
"Do not fret, Anomen," Erestor offered. "I am sure that I will be able to find something to keep you occupied.
Anomen sighed and sank back upon his pillow. Oh, yes, doubtless Erestor would find some way to 'occupy' him—probably something along the lines of a massive tome devoted to the history of all Eriador. Just then there was a knock upon the door.
"Ah, Nenmaethor," said Elrond. "You are very welcome in this room."
"Thank you, Lord Elrond. I passed Lord Glorfindel in the corridor, and he said you would speak with me."
"Yes, I need a messenger, and I am told that not only are you a fast swimmer, but you are a fleet runner."
Nenmaethor beamed just as Anomen had done.
"Thank you, my Lord."
"Your duty shall be to remain here with Anomen so that you will be available to fetch whatsoever or whomsoever he may require. Is that task agreeable to you?"
"Oh, yes, Lord Elrond!"
"Excellent. We Elves will now take our leave. Anomen, you may send Nenmaethor for us if you are in pain or want for anything."
"Yes, Ada."
As soon as the older Elves were gone, Nenmaethor began to speak with great rapidity. "Anomen you were so brave you drove your sword right down the throat of a warg and wargs are fearsome creatures and everybody says even grown Elves are afraid of them but you—"
"Nenmaethor," laughed Anomen, "stop for breath, else you will faint. And then I shall have to be the runner who fetches you assistance."
Nenmaethor took a deep breath. "Well, you were very brave, is all. You are surely going to be great elf-lord when you grown up, just like Glorfindel. Why, you even look like Glorfindel. At first I thought your hair was light brown, but now I see that it is golden and the very same shade as his hair."
Nenmaethor was correct. Anomen's hair had been tinged with ink when he began his apprenticeship, but enough days had passed so that it had returned to its former color. No doubt this metamorphosis had also been assisted by the daily plunge into the lake. Nenmaethor studied the golden-haired elfling thoughtfully, and an idea suddenly sprang into his mind.
"Anomen, the Lord Elrond is your foster-father, but who is your birth father?"
"That is never spoken of," Anomen said uncomfortably.
"But you do know your parentage, don't you?"
"Yes," said Anomen, "but it is not necessary that it be known by others."
"It's Glorfindel, isn't it," Nenmaethor said excitedly. "He is the only Elf hereabouts with golden hair—oh!" All at once Nenmaethor hit upon a reason for Anomen's reticence. Glorfindel had never been espoused, so any child of his would be a 'gift of nature', as the Elves were wont to say. Usually such a child was acknowledged by his father, but apparently Glorfindel had not chosen to do so in Anomen's case.
"I am sorry," Nenmaethor apologized. "I did not mean to say anything hurtful."
Anomen wondered whether he should try to disabuse Nenmaethor of the notion that Glorfindel had fathered him, but after a moment he abandoned the idea. If he convinced Nenmaethor that he had not been sired by the balrog-slayer, then perchance the elfling, his curiosity unabated, would cast about for another candidate. If he continued puzzling over Anomen's parentage, he might at length draw conclusions that would imperil Anomen's continued residence in Imladris.
"You haven't said anything hurtful, Nenmaethor, but you must promise never again to speak of this matter."
With an air of high seriousness, Nenmaethor swore to keep silent, but then his face lit up. He and Anomen now shared a secret. What a delightful development! It made the little elfling feel very special to be in Anomen's confidence and to know something that none of the other elflings did.
As for Anomen, he was quite satisfied at the turn the conversation had taken. He had avoided telling an outright lie, but had merely allowed Nenmaethor to continue believing that Glorfindel was his father. And what harm could there be in that? The tale would go no further, for Nenmaethor had promised to say nothing. Yes, the conversation had concluded in quite a satisfactory fashion. Now another matter began to preoccupy the young Elf. He shifted uncomfortably on his mattress. Elrond had spread a soothing poultice on the elfling's arm, but its effect was beginning to wear off.
"Is something wrong?" Nenmaethor asked anxiously.
"I think," said Anomen, trying to speak lightly, "that you will now have an opportunity to demonstrate your abilities as a runner. Will you seek out Lord Elrond and tell him that I fear the poultice may need to be changed?"
Nenmaethor truly was a fast runner, for it seemed to Anomen that the elfling had hardly gone before he returned with Elrond. The elf-lord unbound Anomen's arm and examined it.
"This deep gash may be at risk of infection, Anomen. I will need to clean it anew."
Anomen winced at the thought, but he resolved to behave stoically because Nenmaethor was in attendance. He was touched at having won the younger Elf's respect, and he did not wish to do anything to shake his confidence in him.
As Elrond tended to Anomen's arm, Nenmaethor stayed close, handing Elrond whatsoever was necessary almost before Elrond asked for it.
"Thank you, Nenmaethor," Elrond said at last, impressed by the elfling's quickness. "You have watched with great attentiveness," he continued. "Almost you have read my mind, so carefully you have observed. It is plain you were called Tirndínen with good reason! Tell me, have you ever desired to study the art of the healer? Your careful attentiveness, seconded by your quickness and curiosity, make you well suited for such a craft."
Nenmaethor's reply was uttered in a wistful tone. "There are no healers of any account in Greenwood to whom I could be apprenticed. When the need is great, we send to Lothlórien."
"But you are not in Greenwood at the moment," Elrond pointed out. "You are in Imladris, where the art of the healer has been preserved. Whilst you are here, you may as well learn not only how to inflict injuries but how to treat them. It is a rare battle from which our folk escape entirely unscathed!"
"I would very much like to learn as much as I may of that art," Nenmaethor replied earnestly. "Would you recommend me to a master, Lord Elrond?" Anomen, who knew what the elf-lord was about, giggled at the innocence of the younger Elf, but he fell silent when Elrond cocked an eyebrow warningly. Then, returning his attention to Nenmaethor, the elf-lord replied with a gravity to match the elfling's.
"I must admit that I am not disinterested in this matter. I myself am in need of an apprentice. Anomen, while he understands the rudiments of my art, is destined to win his fame on the battlefield. I do not doubt but that his deeds as a warrior will be such as will be celebrated even in the tales of Men." Here Nenmaethor shot a triumphant look at Anomen, who grimaced. Elrond pretended not to notice the exchange. "You have yet to meet my twin sons, Elrohir and Elladan," the elf-lord continued, "but when they return from visiting their grandparents in Lothlórien, it will not take you long to discover that neither is suited to the particular sort of concentration required of a healer. Elrohir in particular is ill-equipped for the task! I would be very grateful, then, if you would agree to serve as my apprentice. My need is great."
"Greenwood's need is great as well," Nenmaethor replied excitedly. "They want healers as well as warriors. I am a very little elf for my age, and that is why my Adar and Naneth sent me here. They said that if I were trained by Lord Glorfindel, I might make up in skill what I lack in size. But wouldn't that still be true if I became a healer?"
"I believe it would," Elrond replied. "We are agreed, then. You shall still spend a certain portion of each day on the training field, for all Elves must be prepared to fight in the last defense of their homes, should such a need ever arise. But the most part of each day you shall spend under my tutelage."
Nenmaethor suddenly looked a little uneasy.
"Something troubles you, ion-nîn?" said Elrond inquiringly.
"Shall I have no time to swim?" Nenmaethor said unhappily.
Elrond smiled. "It would not be right to deprive you of the opportunity to swim. For you are the Silent-watcher and the Water-warrior at one and the same time. You do not have to give up one to be the other. Here Elrond suddenly looked at Anomen, who had the uncomfortable feeling that Elrond was directing his words not only at Nenmaethor but at him as well. He developed a sudden interest in his hand, flexing it as if checking to see how his wound had affected its range of motion."
"If you don't leave off doing that," Elrond said mildly, "you will do yourself an injury."
Anomen stilled his hand, but he could not still his mind. Caught between the Elrond's words and Nenmaethor's theories about his parentage, he found himself confronting the matter of his own identity when he very much wished to avoid doing so. 'I think right now I had rather be in the company of a warg', Anomen thought ruefully as Elrond continued to gaze searchingly at him. As there was no prospect of that, however, the young Elf had to make do with yawning as if he were tired. Elrond smiled and decided that enough had been said for the time being. As he took his leave, though, the elf-lord looked back and gave Anomen one final knowing look. Catching the elf-lord's glance, Anomen knew that the matter was not yet at an end.