50 – Impotence and Hope
Maethon finished another tune. He had been by Soronume's side in the healing rooms for nearly a full day, now. Distantly, he prided himself that he had not yet repeated any songs, but his fingers were now feeling the bite of the harp strings after such extensive use. Naturally, Elluin had noticed and asked the healers to give him a balm to prevent blistering a while ago. She seemed to be slightly more aware of her surroundings, now that some of her despair had lifted. The chamomile she had suggested had caused her father's breathing and pulse to become slightly less erratic. The situation was still grave, though, as Soronume had difficulty keeping it, or anything else, down and although the rate had slowed, he continued losing strength.
Elluin was indeed observant — it made her a good friend, and a fine palace servant and housekeeper. But Maethon wondered if this skill stretched to Thranduil at the moment. Maethon, trained to pick up on the king's moods through his many years as his body servant, noticed the way the Elvenking's eyes often landed on her with a look of sorrow and disappointment, then sometimes glanced about the room, then down at his hands. To the body servant, it was obvious that the king felt impotent, and not just where Soronume's healing was concerned. No, what bothered Thranduil most was that he had no further comfort to offer Elluin, and was frustrated with himself for it.
Maethon felt for him. Truly, Thranduil had done all he could. It would certainly be inappropriate to ask her to leave her father's side at this time. He regularly had food brought to the room and shared meals with her and Linalda, protocol dictating that they partake since the king was present. He had again sent for another close friend and a healer to take over the duty of Soronume's care for a few hours last night, allowing the two ellith to sleep. When he was not at his desk next door, he was right at Elluin's side, often holding her hand as he spoke with casual optimism about what Soronume would do once he was on the mend. But Maethon could plainly see that the mutedness of Elluin's reactions and her continued worry would not abate, and it was distressing Thranduil that he was so ineffective.
The problem was easy for Maethon to see, having been Elluin's friend since shortly after she arrived with her family in the Greenwood: she, too, felt impotent. Glancing again at the Elvenking, Maethon took a breath to gather his courage, preparing to take liberties.
"Elluin," he said quietly, "your father once introduced me to a melody from the Gray Havens, but I do not know the words. He was working happily as he sang it. Perhaps you could…"
The elleth looked up at him, a spark of hope in her eyes. Maethon glanced at Thranduil. The king's brow was slightly furrowed in thought as he realized what his servant was doing. He needlessly nodded his permission for Maethon to begin.
It was as fit for dancing as ever a tune from among the Sindar could be. The words were full of longing for what was lost and perhaps never re-attainable, just as most Sindar tunes were. It contained the memory of Arda before its marring, and the desire to behold firsthand the light of distant Valinor that was only ever represented in diminished reflections on the Hither Shores. The song was as dear to Elluin as it was to her father, and she did not hesitate to accompany the chiming rhythms of Maethon's harp with her voice.
*I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.
Thranduil had learned the tune, as well, during his time at the Havens. He was at first unsure whether his voice would be a welcome addition, but as she sang, Elluin's eyes met his and she nodded so slightly as to be perceptible only to him. They finished the song together.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
And there it was, as Maethon predicted — peace on Elluin's face, and appreciation in her eyes as she looked at the king, stemming from her ability to contribute in some small way to her father's care. And though she soon resumed her relentless study of her father's face, her countenance was not as grave as it was before.
Maethon rose and picked up his harp. "I must retire," he said to the room, hiding a wince as he curled his battered fingers around his instrument. "I shall return when I may, if it pleases the king," he added with a slight bow to Thranduil.
Thranduil had still been staring at Elluin, but then turned to acknowledge and thank Maethon. The words, however, were cut short as Gwedhil led another figure stalking in briskly through the door behind him. Maethon turned, also, and was unable to keep the surprise from his face.
"Great-grandsire," he greeted the ellon that walked in, bowing his head in respect and stepping aside.
"Maethon," came the fond reply. Sweeping aside a dusty brown cloak, an arm clad in green cloth and brown leather came around the younger Elf's shoulders in a brief embrace. Deep brown eyes studied the room and landed first on Soronume, and then on the king. Russet brown hair fell in simple braids past slim shoulders as he bowed.
Maethon took the initiative. "My king, I present my great-grandsire, Thalven, the chief healer in the village of Imrath Laer."
Thranduil stood. "You are most welcome, Thalven. I am grateful you responded so quickly to the summons."
"Of course, my king." The words were barely out before the Silvan Elf was moving, casting off the cloak and washing his hands quickly in a basin. "It was a hard ride, to be sure," he murmured almost to himself as he strode over to Soronume's bed. Thalven made a casual gesture toward Linalda and Elluin to move out of his way. The ellith obeyed automatically out of surprise.
Thalven's hands drifted over Soronume's clammy skin, the trembling chest and stomach, the glazed eyes, and finally the stitched wound beneath his shirt. After only a moment, he announced, "Wolfsbane."
Gwedhil released a shocked breath. "What is to be done?" she asked, as Thalven brought his face close to Soronume's to smell.
"You have been giving him chamomile?" he asked.
"Yes," Gwedhil confirmed.
"He also needs hawthorn."
Gwedhil waved a frantic hand at the assistant waiting in the hallway, who sprinted off.
"Have you noticed that wolfsbane usually grows right next to hawthorn?" Thalven continued moving around his patient, testing his limbs, again seeming to speak mostly to himself. "It is no accident, for one counters the work of the other, just as the sweetest berries are surrounded by the sharpest thorns. But it is also not a cure."
The old Silvan now looked directly at Linalda, apparently sensing that she was his wife.
"It is not a cure," he repeated. "But it could help."
Linalda's tears fell as she nodded silently. There was a name to it, now—the evil that was coursing through her bond-mate's veins. And there was a treatment, but it was not an antidote. Elluin steadied her mother with a hold on her arm.
Thalven motioned Gwedhil closer.
"Add honey to the brew," he called unceremoniously to the hallway as the other healer obeyed. "We must help him keep it down."
Under Thalven's guidance, the two healers maneuvered Soronume to an almost-upright position, allowing Thalven to slip behind him to kneel on the cot. Letting Soronume's head rest on his shoulder, Thalven reached across to pull, gently twisting the unconscious Elf's torso. They held this position for a while before they twisted the other way.
"What are they doing?" Linalda asked in a whisper.
Maethon heard her, and stepped closer to respond. "The twisting helps relax the muscles around the stomach. Hopefully it will help prevent him bringing up the brew, once it comes."
Thranduil, still observing, realized why his body servant was so talented at soothing his aches and caring for his minor injuries.
Within moments, the assistant rushed in holding a kettle, bringing it closer to Thalven for his approval. The ellon sniffed the steam and nodded curtly. "That will do for the first try. Pour it. For the next one, more hawthorn and less honey."
Thranduil soon dismissed Maethon, and the next several hours seemed an eternity. The healers spent their time moving Soronume's body into different positions, pouring the tea down his throat, holding basins for when it came back up, and easing him down for brief periods of rest, in a seemingly endless cycle. Thranduil had coaxed Elluin and Linalda to sit at the edge of the room, allowing the healers their space to work. He felt hope rising cautiously in his chest as he looked on, not daring to say that it seemed Soronume's breathing was evening out, not daring to notice that the twitching and muttering from his troubled dreams had all but ceased completely.
They were all caught by surprise when Turiel sprinted into the room, skidding to a halt in a swish of Silvan skirts with the briefest bow.
"Sire, a messenger bird from the westernmost outpost brought this note for Soronume's healers."
Gwedhil jumped up from her post by the bedside and Turiel quickly thrust the small piece of rolled parchment into her waiting hands. The room was silent as she read. Turiel exchanged a hopeful nod with Elluin before she retreated with another bow.
Suddenly, Gwedhil laughed.
"It seems our Thalven is equal to the great Lord Elrond in healing skill," she concluded, and read it aloud for them: "'First, a strong brew of hawthorn, chamomile, and honey to regulate the pulse and calm the stomach.' This is exactly as you have said, Thalven."
The Sindar Elves' eyes were wide in shock, but Thalven barked a laugh of his own.
"The Half-Elven Lord has greater skill than I," he said. "It is due to his heritage, and friendship with his brother's kin — he understands the ailments that can affect the fragile bodies of mortals better than an Elf ever could, and so has devised cures that the Firstborn seldom need, if ever. But wolfsbane has existed since the First Age in the forests where my people have ever dwelt, and it is indeed rare for any among Men to tolerate it long enough for the treatment to work.
"So, what else does Elrond say?" Thalven finished, raising an expectant eyebrow.
Gwedhil smiled and kept reading. "'Then a paste of oil, egg, and ground flax seeds to raise the body temperature. He will reject much of it, but keep forcing it, and keep him as warm as possible. There is no cure for wolfsbane, but he may survive if you help him weather its effects until it has run its course. If he prevails, support his recovery with milk thistle and apples, along with plenty of water.'"
Thalven nodded. "You heard the lord," he said to the assistant next to them. "Oil, egg, and flax seeds."
~.~.~
Maluven had been exhausted when he reached the first of Greenwood's guard outposts, from which he sent Lord Elrond's instructions. Another of the soldiers there had taken a fast horse with the verbal recipe, in case something were to happen to the messenger bird. But Maluven was not so exhausted as to stay for more than a few hours to rest. He was given a fresh mount, and made his way at a much more leisurely pace back to the palace.
The horse's hoofbeats on the path leading up to the royal buildings four days later, he visited the barracks to bathe and provide his unremarkable report to Captain Telior. Then he walked the short distance to the talan above the stables where Turiel kept her birds. His next most important duty as a Silvan soldier was, after all, to catch up on all the goings-on. He found her there among them, singing to them of all the beings to be found in the forest, tapping and whistling signals throughout that she hoped they could learn. She turned to him when he entered and they exchanged greetings.
"How fares the patient?" he asked with some reluctance, remembering well the doubt in Elrond's eyes as the instructions were conveyed.
"Soronume awoke yesterday," she gladly informed him. "He no longer suffers from the effects of the wolfsbane, and they now have him on a diet of —"
"Apples and milk thistle," Maluven interrupted with a pleased smile and a sigh of relief.
"Of course, the healer Thalven from Imrath Laer had already begun administering the hawthorn, chamomile, and honey," Turiel continued. "But the remedy for raising the body temperature was new."
The ellon nodded his understanding, still somewhat giddy to learn that his mission was successful.
"And his family?" he asked.
"Linalda has not left his side, but the king insists that she sleep a few hours each night," Turiel answered nonchalantly. "Elluin has been able to separate herself from her father for slightly longer periods."
"No doubt with the king for company?" Maluven asked with a grin.
"Of course," Turiel said with an answering expression. "They tend to disappear into the woods for the midday meal, returning mid-afternoon."
"And his plague of Sindar advisors are allowing these escapes?"
Turiel smirked. "They know the stress of Soronume's illness has taken its toll and wish to avoid any outbursts. They are quite on their best behavior and make no fuss when he cuts meetings short, even if none of them believe that he and the housekeeper are discussing the running of the household."
"And our dear Lord Galion must pick up the slack?"
"I have never seen him so happy to be so miserable," the elleth said. "He retires long after sunset, and I suspect that during the brief hours he is out of sight, he is drafting plans for a royal wedding."
Maluven chuckled and shook his head. "How it pleases me that his bride's father will be able to attend. But has the groom made any sign of making the engagement?"
"Stubborn as ever," Turiel sighed, shaking her head to the contrary. "And Elluin will not move to speed it. She waits, as she ever has, for the king to see what he must see."
"Damnable, thickheaded Elves."
"That is treasonous talk," Turiel chided weightlessly. "Make yourself useful, would you?" She handed him a sack of grain and gestured toward the edges of the talan.
"But what are they doing—just dancing about, making small talk?" Maluven asked in an exasperated tone, obediently opening the small sack and sifting his hands through. "They know enough of each other to have fallen in love. They have the people's approval. The kingdom is at peace. I do not understand the delay."
"As the king's soldier, you should know better than any of us what keeps the king from abandoning his spirit's final veil," she answered pragmatically.
"But…" Maluven's arguments faded from his lips. For a while, he contented himself with watching the birds hopping down from their perches and nests around the talan to eat the grain he was scattering for them, absorbed in his own thoughts. His own, more youthful spirit had gained its share of scars during the years of the siege of Barad-dur. And Thranduil's, he knew, bore the marks of thousands of years of battles, won and lost. Eventually, he asked his companion quietly, "Is Elluin ready? Can she bear it?"
"Yes," Turiel said, her tone easy. "But the king doesn't know it, yet. And Elluin knows not how to convince him."
Maluven contemplated the elleth's words while the grain dwindled. Happy chirps and whistles announcing the bounty filled the silence. All too soon, the food disappeared and, one by one, the birds fluttered away into the branches. The soldier stared after them, holding the empty bag in his hands.
* Excerpt from the poem "Sea-Fever" by John Masefield
A/N: My most loyal reviewer, Moon Maiden 2022: of course you would notice I skipped a week! I apologize – I was entertaining out-of-town guests for several days. It was a good time, but rather demanding of my attention. And thus, as consolation, I am posting this chapter a day early. Also, welcome new followers! Please share your thoughts!