It's come to my attention that I've been misspelling Dol Guldur. My apologies! I'm not going to go back and fix the earlier chapters just for this, but I will endeavor to double-check all Middle Earth spellings from now on.
Refeeding syndrome is a syndrome consisting of metabolic disturbances that occur as a result of reinstitution of nutrition to patients who are starved or severely malnourished. The syndrome was first described after World War II in Americans who, held by theJapanese as prisoners of war, had become malnourished during captivity and who were then released to the care of United States personnel in the Philippines.
-Wikipedia
26 April TA 2850, Guest Quarters, the House of Elrond:
Natia Brosca awoke in a bright, cheery room that was completely unfamiliar to her. She wondered for a moment whether she'd gotten drunk and found herself in someone's bed for the night, but she didn't smell sex on the sheets around her, and it looked more like hastily prepared guest quarters than a man's personal chambers. It could belong to a woman, she supposed, but that still didn't explain the lack of personal effects. She'd seen ceilings as flat as this in buildings that had more than one floor, though none of them had dark beams so richly carved. She lay still a little while, listening to the waterfall and the sound of someone smoking a pipe.
"Where am I, and what time is it?" she asked the ceiling.
"You are in the house of Elrond, and it is very nearly noon," said Gandalf, and suddenly she recalled that she was now in Middle Earth. "If you would like the date, it is now the twenty-seventh of April."
She sat up, realizing as she did so that she no longer felt ill at all—though she still felt very weak and hungry, and her arms at least still looked very thin. Gandalf sat beside her bed on a comfortable chair, a long in one hand; a decanter of water and a cup stood on the bedside table between them, and his staff leaned against the wall near the door. "Thanks, Gandalf, but what's April? Which month is that?"
"How interesting!" said Gandalf. "We don't share the same calendar. Ours is thus: January, February, March, April, which is the fourth month, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December."
"I know August! That's our eighth month, I think," she said, counting on her fingers. "Wintermarch, Guardian, Drakonis, Cloudreach, Bloomingtide, Justinian, Solace, August—yeah, the eighth month. Then there's Kingsway, Harvestmere, Firstfall, and Haring."
"Not everyone uses this calendar, but I wonder why we share only August?" Gandalf mused. He tapped his pipe into an ash-tray to clear its contents, then stowed it somewhere in his robe.
"What happened? How long have I been sleeping?" Brosca looked around the room, this time taking more of it in. A windowseat sat underneath a grand glass window, curtains pulled aside, which let in a great deal of sunlight and a view of the mountains to the west; there was an armoire, half-hidden by a dressing screen; on the other side of her bed there was a simple desk and chair. The door was shut, but not locked; there were only two exits, but a dozen ways to leave if she had to get creative. The window didn't look difficult to open, even with her meagre strength.
"You passed out when we reached the front door," Gandalf said, reaching behind her to plump her pillow. "You've slept for two nights and the day in between—Elrond healed your cold the morning after you arrived, but insisted that you must be allowed to wake on your own, for you were fighting a darkness that had gotten into your very blood. His sons are not quite his equal in the healing arts, but they have helped as well, and they have attended you faithfully since then. Elrohir, the younger, sat by you until about an hour ago, when I came by to sit with you myself."
"That's a long time to be asleep," she said, laying back down. "I don't think I've ever slept so long in my life. Have you had council with the Elf-lord, then? What has he said? What's to be done about the Necromancer?"
"All in good time! You are not supposed to talk or worry about anything today, by Elrond's orders." Gandalf folded his hands in his lap. "In fact, you slept for a week after I rescued you from Dol Guldur. It took about that long to get to the Old Forest Road."
"A week! I do not want to sleep that long again. But talking would stop me thinking and wondering and remembering, all of which are just as likely to tire me out," said Brosca, quite reasonably in her opinion, before suddenly coming completely to attention. "I'm quite awake now, and besides, I'm hungry—Did you say something about my blood?"
"I did. Elrond said he hadn't seen something like that for many years." Here Gandalf turned grave. "Brosca, I am afraid I must ask you to recount what happened to you in the Necromancer's clutches. We shall have a council with Elrond, as soon as you are well enough."
"Has anyone touched my blood?" Brosca sat up and looked at the wizard with urgency. "This is important! Has anyone touched even a drop of my blood?"
"No," said Gandalf, surprised by her vehemence. "You had no open wounds, and Elrond does not hold to the Mannish belief that bleeding someone is a healthful practice."
"Oh yeah, I'd forgotten humans did that," she shook her head, laughing a little with relief. "That's good. I suppose I'll tell you both when we talk with Lord Elrond, but it's very important that nobody comes in contact with even a drop, and anything with my blood on it must be burned."
She wondered, briefly, what effect her tainted blood would have on the already evil orcs of Dol Guldur. The Necromancer had sensed the darkness within her, but he had thought it a taint on her heart, a remnant of serving some other evil. She supposed that it was; however briefly, she had served the Archdemon, before mastering the Taint. Would the orcs go mad with the Blight, become ghouls as all non-Wardens did? Or would they merely grow stronger? Her blood, with the power of an Archdemon in her veins, had more potency than the average darkspawn's.
"Duly noted," said Gandalf with raised eyebrows. "Are you hungry, Miss Brosca?"
"It's just Brosca, no miss, please," she said. "Am I hungry! Sodding stone, I'm so hungry I could eat a bronto."
"Then there is nothing more to say," said Gandalf, getting to his feet. "Elladan and Elrohir have been feeding you broth while you slept. I believe it is time for a change in your diet. I must apologize for the rations which I had to offer you while we travelled together; I had only taken enough for myself, and I am no great hunter. I certainly could not have procured a 'bronto' for you."
"No harm done," she said, swinging her legs out from under the elaborately embroidered blanket. They dangled over the side of the bed, and she gave a short hop to get down to the floor, which was covered with a pleasantly thick rug that her toes sank into. Sometime during her healing, she had been changed into a silky nightdress, which came down past her ankles to puddle on the floor. It clearly wasn't meant to be worn by a dwarf. "So where do we go to get food?"
"Oh, no, Brosca, you aren't well enough to get up yet," said Gandalf, "I shall have Elrohir bring you a proper meal."
Brosca sank back onto the bed with a scowl, relieved but not wanting to show it: she did still feel weak and trembly in her limbs, especially her legs, which hadn't seen much use for too long. When she recovered her old weight, she would have to work hard to get back her former strength. She had been comfortable and warm when in bed, but now that she was out, she wanted to stay out.
She explored the room slowly after Gandalf left, running her hands over the delicate carvings in the bedframe and fingering the lacquerware of the dressing screen. It seemed to depict a scene out of a child's bed-time tale: a fair prince and a beautiful maiden, gathered together beneath a full moon, with various forest animals looking on in wonder. More of their tale was told in the tapestry decorating the wall adjacent, with a rich light fabric embroidered with fine dark thread, but she had never really been interested in stories such as these. Dusters don't get happy endings.
Her fingers trailed down the tapestry and off as she turned away to examine the closed armoire; it, too, was finely made of rich dark wood, and she opened it to find several garments that looked to fit her. She got dressed in a loose green tunic and fawn-soft leggings, which had been better tailored to her than the nightgown, and chose a pair of thick socks from a drawer full of them. Her feet warmed almost immediately after she put them on. She hadn't been cold, precisely, but the wooden floor wasn't heated like the stone in Orzammar.
Thus clad, she padded across the room to the window. She examined the gilded glass with interest: her people had never managed such intricate glasswork. They didn't really need it in dwarven thaigs, but they had made glass for surfacers. The Orlesians, she thought, probably had glass as delicate as this; they cared for such things. Through the window she overlooked the well-kept garden, which was vast and beautiful, filled with plants of all kinds. There was a small wood beyond, with lamp-posts strewn along the pathways, and beyond that the valley rose sharply up to meet the moorlands and then the Misty Mountains themselves, swathed in clouds that looked like they were about to break open with rain.
Someone knocked. The door opened and Glorfindel stepped light as air into the room, just as Brosca turned to see who it was. She hadn't properly been able to appreciate his beauty before. She'd always thought that dwarves were at their best when they had handsome, thick beards, well-kept hair, and broad, muscular bodies. The slenderness of elves and the height of humans had always put her off. But this elf was something else. She'd never believed in the Chantry's teachings, other than what they spoke of the origins of darkspawn (Tevinter magisters messing with something beyond their understanding seemed very believable), but he looked like a denizen of the Maker's heaven that they spoke of.
*Glorfindel was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength. He wore fine white garments with gold trimmings, but he walked with the easy confidence of a warrior in his prime, and she would have bet any amount of money that he would have been more comfortable in armour than these fancy robes.
"Lo! and there she is!" he said in a voice like music. "I met Mithrandir on his way to the kitchens: he said you had awoken. He did not say that you had gotten up. Well met, Madam Dwarf."
"M'name's Brosca," she said, and went to sit back down on the bed. She had to jump a little to get on. "Glorfindel, right?"
"I am indeed," he said, and dipped his head in graceful acknowledgement. "I am very interested in hearing your tale! How is it that you came to be held prisoner in the Hill of Sorcery?"
"Dol Guldur?" A little shudder rippled over her when she recalled it. "I would rather not repeat my tale more than once...suffice it to say, it was a surprise for both me and the Necromancer when I was captured by his servant orcs. Lord Elrond has requested a council with me and Gandalf when I'm healed; perhaps you would attend then?"
"I would be honored." He smiled, and it was like the sun breaking out from behind dark clouds. "In the meantime, I would like to know more about you before you were imprisoned. From which mountain hall do you hail?"
"That's part of my tale," she said with a little laugh. "I'm from Orzammar, which I'm sure you've never heard of; Gandalf hadn't. Sit down, will you? You're very tall."
"Very well." He sat in the seat Gandalf had vacated and looked at her intently. "Orzammar? What was it like there? Who is the King (or Queen) that rules?"
Brosca had just finished detailing the ruling system, and how Harrowmont had not worked well with the deshyrs, when someone else knocked on the bottom of the door with their foot. Glorfindel, who had been following her explanations with absolute fascination, immediately got up and opened it. Another elf entered carrying a tray loaded down with food, this one with dark hair pinned back from his face with multiple small braids in contrast to Glorfindel's which had been kept loose. He wore loose trousers and a mostly-laced tunic of gold and silver that looked rumpled, as if he had thrown it on the floor before wearing it.
"A, Glorfindel," he said. "Be a friend and give me a hand with this, would you?"
"Of course," he said, taking a small bowl filled with berries and setting it down on the bedside table as he introduced them. "This is Elrohir, Elrond's youngest son. Elrohir, this is Miss Brosca."
"Mae g'ovannen, Miss Brosca!" The dark-haired elf didn't look any younger than Glorfindel in face or body, but there was an indefinable twinkle in his eyes that made him look like a mischievous youth, and his facial structure looked—less elfy, if that were possible. He dipped his head quickly. "My arms are going to fall off, Glorfindel. Gandalf said you are hungry?"
"Hungry enough to eat a dozen nugs!" she agreed wholeheartedly, moving so that she sat against the wall behind her bed. "What does may governon mean? That looks incredible. I haven't had fresh fruit in such a long time. What sort of berries are these?"
"Mae g'ovannen. It means 'well met' in Sindarin," said Glorfindel, putting another bowl of fruit down on the bedside table. He tucked the blanket over her legs, then nodded to Elrohir. "I think you may put that down now."
Elrohir set up the tray over her legs before moving to sit on the chair; Glorfindel went over to sit on the chair by the desk, though it was shorter than he was probably comfortable with. Neither of them closed the door. Brosca examined everything carefully. She didn't know how long she was going to stay in Rivendell or how many more meals like this she was going to get, but the longer she took to eat, the more likely it was that she wouldn't vomit it all back up.
"This looks good," she said, considering first the root-like vegetables and meat on the central plate. The roots had been roasted with several thick slices of venison, along with several spices she didn't know. A rich sauce drenched the entire plate. Knowing she was under close scrutiny by Elrohir, who watched her with curious grey eyes, she picked up the slender silver cutlery and started in.
"We haven't hosted any dwarves here for many years," said Elrohir. "Our beloved head cook wasn't sure what you would like to eat. We have been slowly giving you more and more broth every few hours since you arrived, so you should be able to eat quite a bit."
Brosca nodded, too intent on eating the sweet vegetables and meat. She didn't remember drinking any broth; she supposed she must have been half-unconscious and forgotten it entirely. Already she had consumed half of the vegetables and an entire slice of venison. It was delicious, and she said as much before moving on to try one of the small, puffy pastry on a smaller plate. It tasted like sweet bread and melted on her tongue. It wasn't as sweet or filling as lembas, but it was still very good.
"I'm glad you like it," Elrohir said, leaning forward and plucking another pastry for himself with long fingers. "The fruit and grapes we'll leave here for you to eat throughout the day."
"Baw, pe-channas," said Glorfindel, standing and rounding the bed to snatch the pastry out of Elrohir's fingers just as he was about to pop it in his mouth. The grin on his face belied his scolding tone. "That's hers, not yours! I'm sure Maerthel will allow you to eat an early lunch if you wish."
"Glorfindel, my dear friend," said Elrohir, staring intently at his target before abruptly turning to look at her. "Miss Brosca doesn't mind! Do you, miss?"
"No," said Brosca after a momentary pause. "Please, call me Brosca. I'm not used to being called 'miss.'"
"Oh, good!" he said cheerfully, and with a lightning-fast move he snatched the pastry back from Glorfindel and ate it in one bite. It wasn't quite bite-sized, however, so his cheeks puffed out and he looked a bit ridiculous.
"Elrohir," sighed Glorfindel, shaking his head. "What would your father say?"
"What would I say about what?"
Lord Elrond looked more human than the other two elves, though still nothing like any of the races on Thedas. His hair, black like his son's, was pulled back from his face save for a thin braid by both ears. A slender silver circlet rested snugly on his head. He wore rich, dark red robes with gold trim over an undertunic also of gold; the sleeves were long enough to hide his hands. His eyebrows were raised in a way that let Brosca know instantly that he was quite used to the shenanigans of his son.
Elrohir swallowed hastily and jumped up to bow to his father. "Adar! It was nothing, really!"
Brosca picked up the glass cup on the table and was about to try and lift the decanter when Glorfindel took it instead. "Don't make excuses, Elrohir," he said, winking at Brosca and flashing her a bright grin, pouring the water unwaveringly in her cup. "You stole this poor dwarf's food!"
"There's plenty left!" Elrohir said indignantly. He motioned to the tray, still half-full of food. "Persecution! I took one little pastry—It really was quite delicious, I must entreat Maerthel to make—"
"Ion," said Elrond, his eyebrows raising further. Elrohir shut up at once, though he didn't look cowed. Brosca took a sip of water, amused, as the elven lord studied his son for a moment. "Your brother is with Celephinnel again."
"Oh, very well," Elrohir said with a put-upon sigh. He bowed deeply and dramatically to Brosca and flipped a hand at Glorfindel, who only grinned. "Novaer, galu, savo 'lass a lalaith...boe annin gwad! Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham!"
At that Glorfindel broke out into bright, merry laughter and Elrond gave his son a stern look before melting into a bout of chuckles himself. "Get on with you!"
"At once, adar!" Elrohir high-tailed it away with a merry chuckle and Elrond shook his head in fond exasperation. Glorfindel, taking that as his cue to leave as well, dipped his head to Elrond and closed the door behind him on his way out.
"That must have been a terrible first impression," he said with apology, moving to stand beside her bed.
"Actually, that wasn't that bad," Brosca said with a smile. "It's nothing compared to how I met King Alistair. And this food is great. I was on the road for months before I—got to Dol Guldur, so I haven't had a decent meal in a long time."
"King Alistair..? No, don't explain it now." He sounded very curious, but also had the attentive patience of a healer dealing with someone who wanted to do too much before they recovered fully. "How are you feeling, Miss Brosca? Is your stomach handling it well?"
"I don't feel sick at all," she told him truthfully. "My stomach's feeling a little stretched, and my muscles are terribly weak, though."
"That's not unexpected." Elrond gestured toward the tray, and she nodded, indicating that she wasn't going to eat any more; he carried it over to the desk, then came back to her side. He drew down the covers and looked her over with healer's eyes. "Do you mind if I give you a physical examination?"
"No, go ahead." She slid down to lie flat to make it easier for him. He adjusted the pillow so her head was better supported, then started examining her with gentle fingers. Like Glorfindel and Elrohir, he was handsome, but his appearance did nothing for her.
"You will most likely be too weak to do very much for some time," he said as he worked his way up one arm and then down the other. "Your muscles have degenerated: you were underfed for so long that your body began to eat itself. You will have to eat as much as you can over the next few weeks, and then after you have regained a healthy weight you will be able to start a physical therapy which will allow the recovery of—"
"Fuck—!" she gasped, interrupting him and startling him with the crudeness of the expletive. All of a sudden her stomach felt as though it were about to burst; her heart raced, her muscles seized, and then she began convulsing and vomiting, eyes rolling back into her skull. Elrond immediately rolled her on her side and shouted for assistance. A nearby elf raced into the room to hold her still while he applied his knowledge of healing. But the convulsions and vomiting did not cease for several minutes, and when they did, she was unconscious once more.
*One paragraph is taken from Tolkien; I had to use his description for Glorfindel, because he is glorious. No, I'm not in love with a fictional character, what.
Sindarin taken from Sindarin 101:
a: hi
baw: no/don't
pe-channas: idiot (usually an insult, but here used in a familiar, joking way)
Adar: father; ion: son
novaer: farewell
galu: goodbye
savo 'lass a lalaith: have joy and laughter
boe annin gwad: I must go
guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham: My heart shall weep until I see you again (Elrohir's being very dramatic, isn't he)