Greetings dear reader.
I am reposting a re-write of this story for your enjoyment. It has been posted a few places, but hopefully it is new to you!
TA 2771
"I have never heard of one so young going West," Elladan shook his head, watching the old surgeon through the wooden shelf and the rows of brown glass vessels between them, "Perhaps you can convince him to let you attempt to make a prosthesis?"
"My Lord Aulë can treat the young one better than I." Master Tentaluntë assured his young lord. He mused, with a smile, how these young Moriquendi thought of Aman as a death sentence. "And he will live a life of peace and freedom in the West."
"Is that humility, Master Tentaluntë?" Elladan started to smile, but the stony look from the old Noldo told him that the matter was serious.
"If the amputation was below the knee, I might have been able to help him. But I can do nothing for his eye." The master healer responded, picking up one of the vessels and squinting at the label, "he will find healing and fulfillment in the gardens of Lorien, and he will be made whole by my teacher's hand." He shook the substance suspiciously as he held a phial up to the glowing crystalline lamp in the vaulted ceiling. "Some battles are not ours to fight, my lord." He bowed deeply with only a touch of sarcasm and, in a great plume of black silk, left the younger elf alone to ponder his words.
Elladan cradled a wax writing tablet in his arms. On it was written a long list of ingredients for his father's burn salve. It had to be made to certain specifications for their dwarven patients. He hummed as he bustled through the cold storage room behind the apothecary. He wore his hair in a practical braid down his back, and his white healer's robes swished gently as he searched the shelves of shining bottles, boxes, and vials for the ingredients he would need. The cold storage connected to the cave systems that opened in the valley walls and a cool draft from below ground kept their ingredients fresh.
Elladan worked his way back along the shelves. By the time he was at the far end of the cellar, his arms were full of an awkward assortment of ingredients. He was holding the largest one under his chin. He was thinking that he should have brought something to carry them in when a sound in the shadows made him pause.
Had his arms not been filled with a precarious heap of small and awkward items, he might have been fast enough to shake off the arms that grabbed him from behind. There was a great clatter of breaking glass as he let go of his burden, a strong arm closed around his neck, and at the same moment, a blinding agony shot through his side.
Elladan gasped in pain and instinctively slammed his attacker backward into a shelf full of clear, round flasks of spirits. A few crashed to the ground around them, but the shelves were secured to the floor and did not topple over as he had imagined.
The attacker took the opportunity to stab their weapon into Elladan's back again. The weapon stuck between his ribs and snapped. This time, Elladan gasped and went to his knees, one hand going to the wound and feeling hot liquid pulsing between his fingers.
His mind was reeling, trying to figure out what had happened. He stared numbly at his bloody hand. He could taste iron on his tongue. He was dimly aware that he was kneeling in broken glass, and the smell of spirits filled his nostrils. He shook his head and tried to cast away the black spots that were crowding his vision. He tried to take a breath to scream for help, but every gasping breath was growing more difficult. A moment later, the storage room seemed to tilt with a nauseating distortion, and Elladan crumpled onto his side onto the damp stones.
A dark figure stepped around him, using the tip of their boot to roll the elf onto his back. Blood had quickly soaked his healer's robes, spreading out in a thick puddle beneath his body. "rot in Mandos," the voice hissed, "Elrond Peredhil."
"No.." Elladan choked weakly. Where was his father? His mind raced as swirling oblivion threatened to swallow him.
At that moment, a sound came from the far end of the room. The door opened, and two nurses came in.
"See, I told you that I left it here!" One of the elf ladies said with a laugh.
Elladan heard his attacker slip away off down into the caverns. From where he was lying on the floor, he could see the cobwebbed underside of rows and rows of shelving receding towards the front of the chamber. It occurred to him that they would not see him if he did not make some sound.
"Have you seen Lord Elrondion?" One of them said to the other, "I had a question for him..."
Elladan raised his head an inch and tried to speak, but by the time he had choked out a wet plea for help, the doors to the apothecary were already swinging shut behind them.
His last fading thought was of his brother. As his mind was swallowed in darkness he reached out and touched Elrohir's spirit in farewell.
This was it, his last breaths would taste of alcohol and damp. He wondered, as his spirit fled his rapidly exasanguinating body, how long it wouldn't take them to find his corpse.
...
The wine was old and red as elf blood as Elrond filled two crystal glasses on his carved oaken desk. He handed one to his friend and sat back in his familiar chair, letting Mithrandir take his time with his story.
"I am afraid that the reports are entirely accurate." The Wizard said, allowing his ill news to hang in the air for a moment. He leaned heavily on his elbows and bowed his bare grey head. He sat stooped and weary in the delicate wooden chair across from Lord Elrond's desk. "Lord Girion is dead, along with most of the people of Dale. Few escaped the Mountain. The city was razed. They are calling it a firestorm."
The light of the low fire cast the study into dramatic tones of amber and sable. The high walls glittered with ancient artifacts, weapons, and books, and the air smelled of old paper and linseed oil.
The lord of Imladris placed his wine glass on his desktop, his eyes fixed on the first stray flurries of winter outside his study window. Far below he could hear the clack, clack, clack of Elrohir sparring with their Dwarven guest. He let the ill tidings pass over him as so many historical events had throughout his long life, "A dragon…" he mused darkly, "how traditional."
"Hopefully," The wizard sat up straighter, "Smaug is an anomaly."
"Anomalies write history." The elf responded, "Where there are dragons, there must be dragon slayers." He raised his glass to the shadowed portrait of Earendil above the mantel and drained it in one sip. A dark sense of foreboding settled in his chest.
"I doubt that Vigliot would fit inside the great treasury of Erabor where the beast now makes his nest."
Elrond snorted in a dark chuckle, then shook his head, remembering his empathy, "How many survivors?" He asked after a long moment shifting his starlit gaze back to his old friend.
"I have heard that King Thror and his family survived and are gathering refugees in the Iron Hills. There is already talk of retaking the mountain." Gandalf said with what was attempting to be a smile. "Those who have accompanied me are those who would not have survived their wounds in the wild."
"I am glad you could convince them to seek my aid." Elrond nodded earnestly, "I have not treated such burns in an age," a shiver of memory passed through him, "but I have seen how burns will fester if they are not properly treated. Even in Mahal's sturdy children." Mithrandir had appeared the previous evening with six rather travel-worn-looking dwarves in tow. There were three dwarf women who looked as if they had never seen the sky before, one small dwarfling with badly burned hands, and two warriors, one with terrible burns to his face, and the other, a big ginger bearded warrior named Fundin who was serving as guardian to the rest. Elrond had spent most of the day cleaning and treating their burns and had left Master Tentaluntë in charge of the infirmary for the evening with Elladan.
"I hope they aren't giving our dear Ataxo too much trouble," Mithrandir sipped his wine with a twinkle in his eye.
Elrond laughed, Tentaluntë's worshipful affection for Aulë and his people was common knowledge, but it still came as a shock to all in the healing halls when the ancient, intimidating Noldorin surgeon, nicknamed "bonebreaker" had scooped up the tearful dwarfling, her tiny hands wrapped in gauze, into his arms and comforted her with a flawless gesture of iglishmêk.
"Where did he learn it I wonder?" Mithrandir mused.
"And how can I get him to teach me." Elrond narrowed his eyes at the wizard, an almost painful curiosity clawing at his mind and his long fingers drummed on the desktop in frustration. He was renowned as the greatest lore master in Middle Earth, his libraries were sought out as reliquaries of ancient knowledge in every field of study known to men and elves, and yet his knowledge of the dwarven sign language was, at best, rudimentary. He could grapple his way through Kudzul with a dictionary and a lot of patience, but the gestural language of Mahal's people was an utter mystery to him. He told himself that he was not a proud elf, that he was content with his hoarded knowledge. But the very idea that somewhere in Arda there was a language that he could not understand awoke some dragon-like jealousy in his heart that he struggled to overcome.
"I wish you all the best of luck, my friend," Mithrandir said with a laugh, and Elrond was about to ask if he spoke Kudzul when a hasty knock came from the door.
"Enter!" Elrond unconsciously sat up straight and smoothed down his robes as Glorfindel stepped around the door, acknowledging his lord and the wizard with a nod.
"A party from the Greenwood has just arrived, my Lord." The Commander informed them evenly.
"Very well." Elrond nodded, making as if he was going to stand up.
"Pardon," Glorfindel nodded politely, "but my Lady Arwen has seen that our guests are suitably accommodated. She was concerned about disturbing you."
"Is anyone in need of medical attention?" he asked, suddenly aware that he had a delicate diplomatic situation on his hands with dwarves and wood elves under the same roof.
"Nay," he shook his head, and his braid wobbled, "but one of the company has asked for an audience with the lord of the house." Glorfindel indicated that their guest was immediately outside the doors.
"Let them in." Elrond nodded graciously and shared a knowing glance with Mithrandir as he sank back into his chair.
Glorfindel opened the study doors and gestured in a small sylvan elleth. Her brown head came up to Glorfindel's chest, and although she seemed travel-stained from many long days in the wilderness, she wore the deep green uniform and neat warrior braids of Thranduil's march wardens. She stepped before the desk and looked from the Wizard to the Elf Lord with wide, frightened eyes.
"My lords, my name is Lhossiel; I have come with the company from Eryn Galen." Her voice carried the accent of the Sylvan tongues and a note of deep sorrow. "I regret that we cannot stay in this refuge for more than a few days, as our journey must take us further West."
"Come," Elrond gestured to the empty seat beside the wizard, "There is some sorrow in your Fea, which I would better understand." He put on his most fatherly tone and found himself stepping around the desk to observe her more carefully. He knelt at her side, gently taking one bow-calloused hand and looking into her mossy green eyes. Her long hair was beaded with porcupine quills, and she had abstract tattoos at her temples. This was a wild creature, a predator who had been made into prey and had run far, far away from her homeland in fear.
"Tell me what it is that has so wounded your soul my dear?" Elrond asked gently as Mithrandir pressed a goblet of wine into her other hand. She sipped the rich, un-watered drink and it seemed to revive her fading spirit somewhat.
"I came with a company of seven over the mountains. My husband is among them," she swallowed, looking East out the paned window. "We… we make for the havens." She paused for a long moment, sipping her wine from a shaking hand, "My husband was taken captive near…" she glanced around as if there might be goblins hiding in the rafters, "the Hill of Dark Sorcery," she whispered, "two months ago."
With a rush of empathy, Elrond understood what had happened. He had seen this so many times before, and had made the same harrowing choices. He touched the surface of her mind in a gesture of comfort, and it was all the elleth needed to fold over into his arms in tears. Mithrandir took her glass of wine away before she could spill it and laid one gnarled hand on her shoulder.
"He, he won't even say my name!" she sobbed, all her soldier's discipline discarded to reveal the horrific, gaping wound in her soul where her bond with her mate had been. "He just sits there rocking and pulling his hair." She explained, rocking through gasping breaths, her knuckles were white as they clutched Elrond's hand. "Ai, Eru, I wish he had died and spared me this torment, my lord. I cannot bear it!"
"I know," Was the only thing that Elrond could say in solidarity. His eyes shone with old grief. He stroked the elleth's brown hair and pulled her into a fatherly embrace. He wished that this was fixable, but he knew in his heart that the only place where her mate would be free from his torment now lay across the sea. He looked at Glorfindel above the elleth's shoulder and wordlessly instructed him to check on the new arrivals. "My dear," Elrond rubbed her narrow shoulders and peered into her face, "Lhossiel," he spoke her name to call her back to the world of light. "Lhossiel, tell me his name."
"Iston." She answered as if it was a prayer, "his name is Iston, and he has been mine for three ages of this world." Her voice broke, and the three listeners all felt how acutely this severance had violated the deepest parts of her spirit.
"Lhossiel," he called her again and turned her face towards his, "I promise that you and Iston will both find healing at the end of your journey."
With a grim nod of understanding, the golden warrior slipped back out into the hallway. The outer corridor was abandoned, and the sound of the door latching echoed on the stone floor. The company from the Greenwood had been ushered into guest rooms on the upper level of the house. They were more comfortable for their Sylvan guests because the balconies opened to the level of the treetops. Glorfindel climbed the servant's stairs, quickly leading him to the upper floors. As he walked, he could not help but think of Celebrian and her downfall. Elrond was too close to this situation to properly assess the danger that they were in.
He heard Arwen's musical voice before he could identify which room she was in. She was using a tone of voice that she had inherited from her mother and her grandmother, which conveyed both authority and hospitality.
"Yes, they say the forests of Lorien have flowers that glow in the starlight and mists of pink and gold. Can you imagine!"
"The healers say that Aule can form me a new leg!" the eager young soldier was boasting, "with solid mithril bones, good as the one that Eru gave me!"
"Will that make you part dwarf?" Arwen teased. She was standing in the doorframe of one of the guestrooms, smiling at the young soldier with a raised eyebrow.
"I should hope not, my lady." The wood elf sounded offended, and Glorfindel decided to take the opportunity to intervene.
"My lady," the Balrog Slayer approached her from behind. He nodded to the Greenwood elf, taking in his injuries without appearing to stare. His left leg was gone above the knee and the half of his face that was not scarred beyond recognition still held the starlit beauty of the Eldar. It was odd to see such a vibrant young spirit, barely a yen in this world, taking the straight road with clear eyes and a song in his heart. "In which room have you placed the one called Iston?" A light touch on her shoulder told her the matter was urgent.
"Has something happened, my lord?" the wood elf asked from his bed.
"Do you know of whom I speak?" Glorfindel stepped into the room, "your name, soldier?"
"Dagnir, Sir, captain of the Woodland guard," he pushed himself up to sit straight and regarded Glorfindel with his one good eye, "Iston was part of my patrol," a grim look fell over the young elf's face, "Sir, you should know, we were on a scouting mission together." He paused while the other two held their breath, "He was taken alive while I was left to die from my wounds… his body is hale and yet I would not trade my missing leg for what they took from him." Dagnir shuddered, "he has spoken nothing but gibberish since he was rescued."
"Has he shown any form of aggression?" Glorfindel pressed.
"No, sir." The captain sighed, "he will hardly respond to his own wife. Just let him be, he will find peace in the West."
Glorfindel nodded grimly, "What room was he put in?" he asked Arwen. She bid farewell to Dagnir and led Glorfindel to another room further down the corridor. As they approached, Glorfindel felt a prickle of foreboding, and he held her back when she reached for the door.
"Let me go first," he whispered. Slowly, he opened the door peering into the chamber, "Iston?" he called gently. A cool breeze hit his face as he stepped into the room. Looking around, he saw immediately that the wood elf was not there. One of the windows had been shattered. Shards of glass as long as his forearm littered the carpet beside the open window. The bows of a tall oak tree were just close enough for a jump from the balcony.