Or else I am just making you angry. But I know anger. Anger I can work with…
"You call this luck?" Glorfindel growled. "This-" here, he made an extensive gesture with his hand, illustrating his current disgust with the world in general "-is not luck!"
"You-" Erestor veritably spat, and shook his head, showing just how fed up he was becoming with the seneschal's behavior "-You think you know so much… Tell me, Glorfindel, what do you know of the Last Alliance?"
"I know plenty! It was a war that failed to overthrow the one who sits in the Dark Tower, lieutenant to the evil one that I wished to defeat! It was a useless battle, as useless as my death and as useless as my resurrection!"
"Then you do not know enough!" This statement was practically shouted, and there was a keen furious gleam in the counselor's eyes, something utterly new that the blond, in his ire, failed to notice. "You think that you know despair, that you know death! You may have died, Glorfindel, but there are worse things in this world than dying, and there are certainly worse things than being brought back!"
"Like what?" His empty fist clenched, and the hand that was holding the teacup tightened so badly that the cup shattered. Glorfindel blinked, surprised, at that – he had not realized that he was holding it so forcefully. Erestor ignored it – there were plenty of teacups to be had, that one had not been special – and continued with his argument.
"Like being alive in a body that is as good as dead, like being truly useless! You have known none of these things!" He stood still for a moment, glaring, to let his words sink in.
Glorfindel's eyes widened – this was new. He had never seen Erestor like this before – furious and righteous and determined, all at once - and he immediately decided that this Erestor was not someone he wished to continue fighting with. Time for a change of subject… "I have glass in my hand."
This was true – there were shards of the broken cup sticking out of his palm and some of his fingers, but his hands were so callused that he barely felt it. He was not bleeding, and indeed, he set about to picking the pieces out as Erestor resumed his pacing.
"You will live…" Erestor snorted dismissively. "But then again, you do not want that, do you? You, the mighty Glorfindel, who knows so much about everything that he can freely scorn the gift of a second life! Hah!"
Those words effectively managed to shred whatever calm Glorfindel had been pretending at. "Then tell me, Erestor, what am I missing? What can you possibly know about despair that I do not? Tell me!" The distraction had not worked, and he was angry, too – angry and cynical and willing to contest any words that came out of the advisor's mouth.
Erestor's eyes narrowed. "I fought with the Last Alliance in that ever-so-useless – I believe that was your word, was it not? – battle."
"I was a warrior as well! So what? Spare me the platitudes about the grimness of a soldier's life Erestor – I do not care!"
"I speak of more than platitudes! You were not there, were you, on the plains of Dagorlad! You were not there when the Dark Lord went to war!" And thus he began his tale.
Erestor stood in the ranks, waiting. All around him were the soldiers of Gil-Galad, ready to do battle. He himself – commander of a regiment – held his shield ready, protection for the archers to his right and left. The world was so still, so unbelievably still, in the eerie grey light that passed for day in this place, a reminder that true dawn would never come.
So still, it was, as the soldiers stood to attention in their perfect, orderly files and waited. So still as the fiery mountain roared and sputtered and spewed in the distance, the only movement to be seen. So still, the soldiers and the soil they stood upon… so still.
Suddenly, movement came from the mountain, shattering the semi-tranquility with shrieks and howls and all sorts of raucous calls accompanied by the heavy pounding of iron-shod feet. The orcs – a writhing mass of grey among the still grey landscape – were coming.
They were coming and coming through the shadowy haze and then they could be seen clearly, from the hems of their filthy clothing to the glowing of their yellow eyes. Orders – coolly and carefully shouted in the odd morning-twilight – were given, and arrows were loosed. The first rank – little more than a rabble, really – of orcs fell, but there were thousands coming from behind. Thousands upon thousands rushed forward as another volley of arrows was loosed, and another.
And then they were too close for arrows, and the Elven line charged. Erestor – his unit behind him – ran into the conflict, shield deflecting the black blades and maces and clubs coming ferociously at him from the front. With luck, the plates of his suit of armor and the mail he wore underneath would take care of things coming from the other sides, as he had better things to worry about. He dodged and slashed and stabbed and hacked, and orcs fell all around him. His shield was especially useful, as he could use it to knock the orcs back. They were little, and they were easy to toss away, for he was tall and muscular and strong.
They were also hideously quick, but Erestor was quicker and he advanced far afield. Elven warriors were next to him, behind him, but the orcs were going after them too and soon he was separated. That was bad; he began fighting his way back to his allies and noticed that the orcs were not as disorganized as they had first seemed. A company of archers was aiming at his unit, and he yelled and ran and shoved enemies with his shield for all he was worth. But in the midst of the fray, no one took notice.
He got to them in time to see them fall, and to feel something punch through the links of the mail coif at his neck. It grazed his flesh but did not pierce him – he was lucky. Not so for his allies, and most of them fell. The others were surrounded, and kept on fighting just as he did.
They fought and fought, but they were all eventually broken apart and cut off from each other. In front of Erestor there was a nasty-looking orc carrying a falchion; behind him there was one with a spear and there were doubtlessly many more.
Dimly, sometime during all this, he realized that his helm was gone and that the leather articulations to his right breastplates had been cut, leaving gaps for his enemies to exploit. He fought doubly hard, then, trying to take care of the one in front of him first. That orc fell, but then there was a crushing, blinding pain on the back of his head and he knew that he had been hit. He turned round, dazed but determined, to go after the one who had struck him, and then he felt something – it was probably a spear-tip, to hurt him as it did – strike him in the back. His plates, articulations gone from both sides now, were hanging loose, open to weapons, and he discovered this when he was again hit from behind. And again.
He tried to fight back, to defend himself, but he was losing blood and he could not make his body do as he wanted it to. It would not move, his arms hanging limply and his legs threatening to give out. They did give out, just as an orc-sword came swinging for his head, and he was lucky to fall when he did – the blow missed.
That meant little, however, as it would still be all too easy for them to run him through while he lay there on the ground. The one with the sword raised its weapon high –
- and fell on top of him, an arrow through its throat. Oropher's bowmen were at work. The other orcs fell likewise, and Erestor was buried underneath the pile of stinking, filthy, bleeding corpses. It was hard to breathe, and he noticed that his arms and legs had landed in an odd way, and he tried to move them and get himself un-buried, but he could not. He could only lie there, and be still as his world began to go black. So still…
"So you were injured," the seneschal snorted, "So what? We all have battle scars, Erestor – you are no different! If such things bothered you, you should not have become a soldier!"
Glorfindel was still angry, still harsh. The question for Erestor was how much of it was real and how much was pretend. There was only one way to find out – keep talking.
"Nay, Glorfindel, such things did not bother me," the dark-haired Elf shook his head, and continued calmly with his tale. "They did not bother me at all. I even reveled in them, on occasion. Until that day…"
He awoke to a blackness caused by his closed eyelids, unsure of where he was. The first thing he noticed was how much of an effort it took to breathe, an effort made all the greater because he was tired.
He concentrated on breathing for a while, gradually finding a rhythm that supplied him with enough air and kept him from complete exhaustion. Once he had that down, he worked on opening his eyes.
This was harder to do, and he groaned faintly, expressing his displeasure with his uncooperative eyelids. By the time he got them open, there was someone standing over him, looking on with concern.
"Erestor?" said person started. It was Elrond, and Erestor realized that he was not where he had been, was not in Mordor. It was Rivendell, most likely, as this room – well-lit, clean, rather nice woodwork on the ceilings – was beginning to look familiar. But that meant…
"How long… have… I been… out? What… happened?" It took a while to say that, and just trying to speak and breathe in between the words sent his head spinning. Dizzy, he was not even able to focus his vision on Elrond as he replied,
"You were badly wounded. One of Oropher's men found you under a pile of corpses – he thought that you were dead; you were barely breathing. You have been out for quite a while – I was beginning to wonder if you would wake up at all." Elrond sounded extremely concerned as he said that, and the dark-haired invalid grew worried – Elrond was used to taking care of the aftermath of battles; he should not have been so bothered.
Erestor wanted to know more than what had already been said, wanted to know details, but had no more energy for talking. Elrond saw this, recognized the frustrated look in his dazed dark eyes, and went on, "You were hit in the back of the head; we had to shave off your hair to stitch you up."
Erestor nodded. He was not looking forward to being bald, but it was not as though he could do anything about it.
The Half-Elf went on, "You were also hit three times in the back. A small wound here –" he pointed at the small of his back to clarify "– another small wound here –" just beside the first "– and a gash going from your right shoulder to your waist. I think that it was caused by an axe. The small wounds may have hit your spine."
This earned another nod from Erestor. What Elrond said made sense. He could not feel much right now – he was probably under the influence of a heavy dose of pain medicine – though the back of his head did ache.
Elrond, not yet done, went on, "When you fell, and the others landed on top of you, you broke your left leg and three of your ribs. The bones have not healed yet, though they should have, because your body is currently too weak to let them heal. You will not be able to move around for some time."
A third nod. Right now, Erestor did not want to move around. He wanted to sleep…involuntarily, his eyelids began to close, and Elrond instructed, "Get some rest, Erestor. You need it…"
000
He awoke again much later, pleased to discover that it was no longer as difficult to breathe or see. Not only could he keep his eyes open; he could focus them, as well. How lovely…he merely lay still for a while, enjoying the peace.
Not for long, however, as Elrond was soon standing over him and Erestor was now able to fully see the worry lines etched on his once unlined features. Before the warrior could even say anything, Elrond asked, anxiously, "Erestor, tell me, can you move?"
"What?"
"Can you move your arms and legs?"
Of course I can move my arms and legs! he wanted to say – it seemed like such a stupid question. However, Elrond was not in the habit of asking stupid questions, and something in his voice made Erestor test his limbs, to make sure.
He tried to raise his hand up, to wave it in his friend's face and assure him that everything was fine, but… he could not.
He gritted his teeth and tried again, concentrating all his willpower, all his energy on making his hand move.
Nothing.
He tried the other hand. Nothing again. Panting from the effort, he looked at Elrond, panic flaring wildly in his eyes. "I cannot move!"
The Elf-Lord's brows furrowed. "I was afraid of that. We changed the bandages on your wounds earlier. It should have been painful, but you did not react... it was as though you did not feel it."
That was true – Erestor had attributed it to a medicine-induced stupor, earlier, but now that he was paying attention, he did not feel… right. He could sort of feel the blanket that he was underneath, sort of feel the mattress he was on top of, but not really, and not everywhere. His feet, and the majority of the area on his legs, as well as the lower parts of his arms, were numb.
"What – what has happened to me?"
Elrond shook his head. "The wounds you took… I have seen this happen before."
Dread freezing his already-frozen body, Erestor managed to ask, "And the people… do they get better?"
"Sometimes…"
The warrior breathed a sigh of relief. So then this would not be forever – he could not even imagine living that way.
"Sometimes not. I cannot make you any promises, Erestor."
"So I could be stuck like this!" He was panicking again, breath coming shorter and faster than was normal, and had he been able to move he would have thumped his fist on the bedcovers for emphasis. He could not, of course, and it only added fuel to the fire. "I could be this way for the rest of my life?"
Spending eternity unable to move – "No, Elrond! No! There has to be something that can be done –"
Again, the half-Elf shook his head. "I do not know." This worried him, too, nearly as much as it did Erestor. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder, and began, "But… I can tell you this much. I have seen this sort of thing happen in battles – a warrior takes a blow to the head or the neck or the spine, and then perhaps he cannot feel one leg, or his arm does not move right, or even, as in your case, he cannot move at all. This happens to mortals and immortals alike, but nearly every Elf I have seen afflicted with it has healed, eventually."
"Eventually? Elrond, how long is this going to last?" His voice broke, saying that, and he sounded desperate. Desperate and frightened and angry, all at the same time.
The most Elrond could do was stay calm, and hope that that would help. "I do not know."
"And?" The seneschal was still holding onto his callous attitude, mostly because he knew that doing so would keep the conversation on this topic and away from him – he could tell where this was heading. "You obviously got better. Why should I care?"
Truth be told, he did not believe in what he was saying – he had never known Erestor to be a warrior, would never have guessed it at all. The advisor was bookish to the extreme, always found buried in some dusty tome or studying something equally tedious and trivial. That he could have been a soldier – indeed, in charge of a group of soldiers – was an utterly foreign idea.
Strange as it was, it was beginning to make Glorfindel think. He did not wish to, however, and knew that the easiest way to avoid it was to keep Erestor talking. Talking and hopefully angry… but to do that, Glorfindel had to keep the conversation going. He knew of a way…
Erestor – currently raising an eyebrow and looking at him in a way that was either analytical or disbelieving or haughty – was going to hate him forever for this – it was mean. Very mean. Right now, though, Glorfindel was too occupied with the here and now to think about forever, and if he had his way, forever would not be much longer…
Reasoning thusly, he opened his mouth and began a reply.