.
The wizard stepped down into the cold storage behind the apothecary. He sniffed the air and smelled the foul comingling of alcohol and blood. He scanned the large room, from the stairs he could see across the tops of the shelves, there was a small table just to his right. Elven lamps burned on unattended.
There were three sets of messy, bloody tracks leading up the stairs, which he carefully avoided as he descended them. Looking down the aisle of shelving into the back of the warehouse, he noted that the gate to the caverns beneath the valley was ajar. Following the footprints, he stopped where Elladan had been attacked. Blood covered the floor, reflecting the light of Fëanorian lamps. Glass crunched under the wizard's boots. Scattered boxes of ingredients lay all around. A wax tablet lay half under a shelf. He put his hands on his hips. Elladan must have been walking through the aisles for some time to gather all of that, slowly making his way back here with an armful of ingredients. His attacker must have been waiting for him.
And where were they now?
.
"Just try to relax," Finbaran instructed as Elrohir leaned back into the wooden chair that had been produced from somewhere. He averted his eyes as the old surgeon moved his arm to rest on the worktable and tied a length of black ribbon around his bicep, one of his braids falling loose at the end. Raniel stepped aside, and he saw that she had fitted an invasive-looking jeweled device over Elladan's upturned face; the large garnet at its center flickered weakly. Elladan was positioned with his legs turned one way so that they had access to the wounds, one of which his father's bloodied fingers were buried in, along with a glinting silver clip. The rebreather device covered Elladan's gaping mouth and fit a metal tube between his teeth. It was attached to a hand-cranked bellows that forced air down his windpipe and rose and fell with his chest.
"We have to help him breathe," Elrond explained, looking at Elrohir's bewildered expression with lowered brows. The edge of tension cut through his words. "It's only temporary." For a moment, his voice softened.
Elrohir felt something cool on the inner part of his arm and looked to see the Old Noldo cleaning his skin.
"Make a fist, good, this will hurt," Finbaran warned him bluntly before expertly stabbing a thick mithril needle into the pale skin at the inside of his elbow. Elrohir winced and frowned as he watched his blood draining, thick and deep burgundy, through a tube made of something yellow and transparent and into a blown glass vessel.
"Keep your arm straight and still; let us know if you feel faint." Finbaran untied the ribbon, and Elrohir nodded. He felt that his hand was beside his brother's on the table, and letting his body relax, he laced his fingers into his twin's and prayed to Estë that this mad plan would work. Elladan's hand was cool to his touch and sticky with blood. He sang along with the healers, but his mouth was dry and his voice was raspy, soon reducing to a whisper as he let his head rest against the table.
"Air bubbles will be deadly." Finbaran addressed Elrond, explaining as he hung the vessel from an iron hook attatched to the ceiling. There was some kind of mechanical valve hanging from it and another tube which Finbaran attatched to a second needle. He carefully drew the blood to the very tip until it spilled over onto his brown stained fingers.
Elrond barely acknowledged him as he worked to staunch the bleeding with clever clips and delicate sutures. He seemed to have gone as cold and focused as a general as his healing staff took his orders with perfect coordination. Finbaran placed a hand on Elladan's ribs.
"I fear that we will have to open his chest, my lord," Finbaran said, and Elrohir noted the old-fashioned way that the surgeon spoke, his accent was a bit like Glorfindel's, but with that almost undetectable lisp. His thoughts were wandering and part of him knew that he was dissociating. His shocked and fearful mind refused to accept what he was witnessing. The elfling inside of him was screaming for his brother. "There is much blood around his heart and it will need to be drained to restore a normal rhythm."
"Do you have enough?" Elrond glanced up at the slowly filling vessel and then down at Elrohir, who was gazing at his brother's still face with a lost expression.
"A few more minutes, my lord."
.
Barely a half hour before, Lyra, the mouse haired, apprentice healer had come bursting into the study where Mithrandir and Elrond were consoling the Sylvan elf named Lhossiel. In a whirl of healer's garments and brown braids, the nurse had breathlessly informed them that she did not know what was wrong but that Elrohir urgently needed Lord Elrond in the infirmary. A look of grave concern crossed the Elf Lord's brows as he realized the sounds of sparring from outside had gone silent. Lyra was charged with getting the still tearful wood elf back to her room as Elrond and Mithrandir rushed down the deep maroon carpet towards the grand stairs.
"What do you suppose that was about?" Lhossiel asked as she was led up to the rooms on the next floor.
"Oh," Lyra glanced back at their guest. She did not want to burden her with the dramas of their hospital wing. "He is often called for emergencies of one sort or another. He is a great healer, after all."
"Of course," she answered, "I would not want to keep him."
"He is not stingy with his time, for such a great lord, he will not begrudge you, his counsel." The two ellith turned into the guest room, and a gust of cool night air hit their faces. Glorfindel, Arwen, and Erestor stood near the open window, studying something on the floor.
"Lhossiel!" Arwen exclaimed.
"My lady," the Sylvan elleth glanced around the chamber, "Has my husband been taken somewhere?" her eyes met Glorfindel's in a frown.
The golden warrior folded his arms, taking a deep breath, "I am afraid he is not here."
"What do you mean?" She looked from him to Arwen with wide eyes.
"My dear," Erestor looked up from where he was crouched on the floor, "Do you know where he might have gone?"
"Oh stars, Iston!" she swore, stomping one delicately shod foot and squeezing shut her eyes, "I should have insisted that we sleep outside!" She turned to Glorfindel, "he'll be up a tree, I'm sure of it, never liked stone houses."
"Can you assist me in finding…" Glorfindel cut himself off as the dark figure of Mithrandir appeared at the open door. The wizard's grim energy made everyone present turn to hear his tidings.
"Elladan was attacked in the healing hall," was his concise message. Arwen's hands went to her mouth in a gasp of horror, and Erestor stood to his full height.
"By whom?" the librarian demanded.
"How fares he?" Arwen asked from behind her hands.
Mithrandir looked between them, "He was found unconscious a few minutes ago and taken into surgery. They are doing everything in their power..." Arwen sat down heavily on the bed, hugging her bare arms.
"That was why Lord Elrohir came running?" Lyra shook her head, her healer's instincts taking over, and she sat beside Arwen, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Tell us what you saw." Erestor folded his arms, burying his hands in the long midnight blue drapery of his sleeves.
"Master Tentaluntë went into the cold storage room with lord Elladan," Lyra reported, "I… I was at the front desk with Raniel. He came out alone. I had left my wax tablet on the desk at the front of the storage room, so I went back to get it." Her voice broke, and her chin quivered, "Lord Elladan must have been lying right there, and we didn't see him!"
"Was the gate to the caverns open?" Mithrandir's voice was both firm and gentle.
"I… don't…" she shook her head tearfully.
"Go back in your memory…" Mithrandir suggested with the gentlest psychic push. Her eyes fluttered for a moment before she shook her head definitively.
"In truth, I did not see it!" she insisted.
"Did you hear any sounds of a struggle or something falling?" Mithrandir asked her gently.
"No sir," she seemed confused by the question.
"I took a moment to look at the scene of the attack before coming to find you. There were many broken bottles. You didn't hear any of them falling?" he probed.
"We were at the front desk. Like I said, only Ataxo and lord Elrondion were in the back part of the healing halls." She looked up at Mithrandir. Her eyes were blue-grey like the sea.
"So Tentaluntë should have heard the struggle?" Erestor frowned deeply. He was arranging the shards of glass on the floor.
"Aye, any of us would have at that distance!" she insisted, and then the significance of her words sank in, "He wouldn't hurt Lord Elladan! Do you think?" She looked from Erestor to the wizard to Glorfindel in horror.
"What possible motivation would he have to hurt Elladan?" Arwen asked, the tone of numb shock still gripping her voice. "He has served our house for millennia!"
"Now, let's not rush to any conclusions," the wizard warned.
"Well," the Sylvan elleth's voice shook, "I don't think my husband had any motivation either!" she looked up at Glorfindel defensively, "He has never met Lord Elladan in his life, and he is in no Kinslayer!"
"No one is making any accusations, my good lady," Glorfindel held up both hands in a placating gesture, "We only want to make sure that he is safe."
"And what of these Naugrim?" she continued, "I saw Lord Elrohir making sport with one of the brutes out this very window. Would you trust them above your own people?"
"I assure you that everyone will be questioned, and we will get to the bottom of this," Mithrandir said, folding his hands sincerely.
"But the only member of the dwarven company who might be capable of such an attack was sparring with Elrohir when it occurred," Arwen pointed out, "Unless you suspect one of the women?"
"We are not suspecting anyone!" Mithrandir snapped, "Elladan may yet tell us himself."
"Not if his killer has his life in his hands," Lhossiel said to a suddenly quiet room. There was a beat of silence.
"I struggle to imagine one of the Sylvan people, having just escaped the dungeon of Dul-Guldur, taking refuge in strange caverns willingly," Lyra added, "but our Sylvan guest may not be behaving as expected."
"We cannot discount the possibility that his mind was compromised during captivity." Erestor said, standing up in a way that implied he had an announcement, "Especially because he may be armed." Lhossiel gasped in offense, shrugging away from Arwen's gentle touch.
"The party was searched for weapons," said Glorfindel, irked that his security protocols were being called into question, "As is standard procedure."
"He only wanted to sleep under the stars! As is natural!" Lhossiel insisted, near tears at the suggestion that her husband could have attacked another elf.
"Then explain why he broke an unlocked window, except to get a weapon?" Erestor gestured at the broken glass at his feet. It had been arranged in a circular shape, a fragmented version of the other rondels in the high window, but notably missing one long, curved section along the outer edge.
"We'll arrange two search parties," Glorfindel suddenly felt the urge to take command, "I will search the caves with Mithrandir." He turned to Erestor, "You take Lhossiel and begin searching the treetops for our wayward Sylvan. I hope you have the power to break through to him. Arwen," he turned and met her eyes, and for a moment, she bore a striking likeness to Earendil, "Go look after your father." Something in the Balrog Slayer's tone made her heart clench, and Arwen nearly sprinted from the room.
"Go with her, and do not let her go unescorted, "he commanded the young healer who was already following her lady out into the corridor.
.
"He might have survived had we had gotten here sooner." The Dwarven warrior sighed, pulling the dwarfling closer, minding her bandaged hands. He had traded his mail jerkin for an insulated tunic with bright beading along the collar. The mingled music of Dwarven funerary chanting (traditionally a women's duty) and elvish healing songs filtered through closed doors.
"Was he kin?" Elrohir asked in a monotone voice. He slumped back against the carved water lilies on the wooden bench. They occupied a seating area under one of the bright frescoes in the main hall of the infirmary. Above their heads, the gardens of Lorien spread in wandering mazes of eternal springtime. Across from them were two sets of double doors. Behind one of them, the Dwarf women were bidding farewell to their fallen warrior, and behind the other, his father was desperately trying to save the life of his twin. Elrohir pressed on the bandage wrapped around his elbow and stared unblinking at the doors to the surgery.
"Nay," Fundin shook his head, "but a brother in arms." The Dwarf sniffed loudly and put his arms around the girl's body as far as he could.
"Where is Balin?" the girl asked her father in Kudzul, which Elrohir understood very little.
"He is with your cousins." He assured his daughter, but the confessional glance he sent Elrohir let him know that his worry for his son was deep.
"I want to go home!" the girl complained, itching at her bandages.
"Me too." He pressed one ruddy cheek to the girl's hair and held her hands still in his own.
They both sat in silence for a long moment, only interrupted by the appearance of Arwen and Lyra.
"Is there any news?" Arwen asked her brother. Elrohir looked defeated and grey. His hair was still flecked with drying mud.
"They haven't stopped singing." Was all he said.
"Your braids, Ro," Arwen shook her head, "may I fix them?" He only shrugged, but Arwen took that as an invitation and went to untie them.
"Ataxo took some blood from me," he told her, leaning into her touch as she untied his long hair.
"He did what?" Arwen's eyebrows shot upward.
"He had a whole… device for moving blood from one body to another. I've never seen anything like it." Elrohir rubbed at his arm again.
Lyra visibly shuddered, "Can you do that?" She looked scandalized and disgusted.
"He said that it could save his life." Elrohir's voice cracked, and he felt his little sister putting her arms around his neck, "then they said I needed to rest and sent me out here." He felt the keen black eyes of the dwarf warrior upon him. Any other time, he would have felt that showing such emotions in front of a stranger would have hobbled his pride, but now he could not bring himself to care.
"I have certainly never heard of such a barbaric practice!" Lyra asserted.
"It's not barbaric if it works!" Elrohir snapped, sitting up and pushing Arwen away. He put his hands on his face and took a long, calming breath.
At that moment, the front doors opened again, and Glorfindel, Mithrandir, and about fifteen armed elven warriors appeared, suddenly crowding the broad passageway.
"How fares lord Elladan?" Glorfindel asked the two other Peredhils. Mithrandir had immediately gone to kneel in front of him, placing a gnarled hand on his shoulder. His heart clenched when he saw Elrohir's posture, his hair half braided, and his eyes on the floor.
"They haven't stopped singing." Arwen echoed her brother.
Glorfindel nodded once. His mouth was a thin line, and his back was straight as he went to the surgery doors. He slipped inside and took in the scene. The air smelled of spirits and blood. Half filled with dark liquid, a blown glass vessel, hung above the worktable. That must be Elrohir's blood. Two assistants were working a mechanical bellows device fixed to their patient's face. Elrond squeezed his eyes shut as he chanted, his folded hands over his son's breastbone. Tentaluntë stooped over where an elegant silver clamp wrought like a flying crane held Elladan's ribs apart. One of the assistants held a tray into which he was depositing the curved shards of the weapon. The elfling, for that, was still how Glorfindel thought of them, was laid on his back, his long dark braid falling nearly to the ground at the assistant's feet.
"I think that's the last of it, my lord," Finbaran announced. But as was protocol, they would check each other's work and seamlessly switched places. As they moved, Elrond caught sight of his Golden commander's gaze.
"We are going to search the caverns, my lord." Glorfindel informed him. "How fares lord Elladan."
"He yet lives," Tentaluntë placed his hands on his patient's chest and took over the chant that his lord handed over to him, one of cleaning and knitting and healing.
"And we have a weapon." Elrond handed Glorfindel the bloody bowl. At the bottom of it, broken into three pieces, was a shard of glass that fits perfectly into the guest room window.