Glorfindel would never forget that embrace, for they had all but crashed into each other's arms, the force of it almost aggressive, until Glorfindel felt as one hand fisted the back of his tunic, as if the elf it belonged to were hanging from a precipice, desperate to anchor himself to the ground.
His own arms tightened protectively, possessively. No words were spoken, but everything was said nonetheless. I am here, none will harm you, for I am Glorfindel, and you are my child.
His hands came up to capture the blond elf's head between his palms, drawing back from him to look once more upon the singular face.
"Come," was all he said, soft yet urgent. "There is much to tell but for now," he said, a gentle warning behind his eyes, "we must accompany Dimaethor in his trance, Legolas, for he may not live to see the new day…"
Mithrandir stood in a shadowed corner, watching as the drama unfolded, one he could no longer participate in, for he had already done all he could.
A flurry of activity surrounded the stone table upon which the dark warrior lay, with Nestaron in the midst of it, barking his orders until his face turned and caught one of the newly arrived warriors.
"Elrond?" came the disbelieving question.
"Elrondion, Elladan," came the answer, which was promptly followed by soft gasps from the younger healers behind them. But Elladan paid them no mind, for his eyes were fixed on Dimaethor, on the deathly pale face and closed eyes, the rapidly moving chest and the blood that had soaked through the bandages.
"The arrow to the side was poisoned with the usual, but it has compromised his liver - the shaft remained inside him for too long, Nestaron. His condition is critical. We administered antidote yesterday, and again this morning, but there has been no change in his condition," he hurriedly reported.
"Handir lives," said Nestaron, "and I know the arrow was not extracted for the day it took your companion to get here," he said as he worked together with Elladan to reveal the wound, but this is different - the poison will have affected his other organs by now.
Nestaron's hands paused for a moment as he inspected the wound. "He may not live to see the dawn, Elrondion…"
Elladan's heavy gaze turned to meet Nestaron's hard blue eyes. There was grief there, dread, and a growing sense of acceptance. There was every chance that Dimaethor, the Silent Warrior, Avarin rider of The Company, would perish this night, this he had already known, as had Mithrandir, yet the rest of Then Company had still to accept that more than likely outcome, indeed by the time they arrived, perhaps tomorrow, it may already be too late.
Movement behind him turned his face and for a moment, his heavy grey eyes lightened and a sad smile came - Legolas.
"You made it," he said, but the Silvan did not answer, for his eyes were fixed on Dimaethor upon the table before them.
"Tell me there is a chance, Rafno…. tell me I have not left him to die upon the battle field…"
Elladan held his gaze, the weight returning to his own….
"You left him?" asked Nestaron, addressing Legolas for the first time.
It was not Legolas to answer but Glorfindel, who stood behind him. "To save your prince, healer," he said curtly.
Nestaron said nothing though he did flinch, before turning back to the wounded warrior, under the warning glare of Glorfindel, who seemed to have decided he did not like this Sinda at all.
Legolas walked backwards until he was shoulder to shoulder with Mithrandir. One wrinkled hand came to rest on his unbandaged shoulder, squeezing in silent empathy as they both watched the healers work. After two long hours, Dima was resting in a bed, Nestaron and Elladan at his side.
Elladan conversed quietly with him, discussing herbs and other remedies that may slow the poison that had extended throughout Dimaethor's body. The question now was not about an antidote, for that had already been administered and no longer had any effect - it was about finding something that would cleanse the blood and fight the infection that would, eventually, claim Lainion's life.
"Tell me there is some hope, Elladan," he asked quietly from the corner, his face falling when Rafnohtar said nothing and then looked to the floor. Nestaron, however, was not so benevolent.
"Had you simply taken out the arrow, he would have every chance of recovery - this is the result of your foolishness, child."
Legolas stared wide-eyed at the Master Healer, yet no words would come to him and it was suddenly too much for him. Turning on his heels, he walked away, brushing past Glorfiindel and then into the corridor beyond. His eyes were wide and desperate, his gaze fixed to the ground before him as he walked, and in his flight, he did not see the figure that walked in the opposite direction until he was almost upon him.
Pulling up sharply he startled, for before him was the face of an elf that could never pass by unnoticed. Silver hair and frosty eyes stared back at him harshly, imperiously, and then the ice cold eyes narrowed and glinted, the jaw tightened and the elf pushed past his shoulder, unnecessarily jostling his bandaged arm and walking away, into the room where Handir rested.
There could be no doubt in Legolas' mind. That - had been his brother Rinion.
In a room nearby, Handir lay back upon a pile of crisp, white pillows, his light blond hair fanned out around him, now clean and freshly brushed. His chest was wrapped in bandages, but his face was no longer white and drawn, and slowly, the purple circles under his lovely blue eyes were receding.
Rinion stood in full battle gear at the bedside, his own lighter, silvery hair catching the blaze of the candles.
"Rinion," breathed Handir softly, and the mercurial Crown Prince of Greenwood stepped closer, looking down sternly at his younger brother.
"Fool…" was all he said, before sitting and crossing his legs at the ankles.
Outside it was dark and quiet and the relative peace served to calm his mounting despair, one that had been fuelled by Nestaron's harsh judgement.
It was true, there was no denying it, if he had but pulled that arrow free, Dima may not be sitting on the threshold of Mandos' domain now - true he may have torn the liver and killed him there and then, but still he would have had a chance with Elladan there.
And yet Legolas clearly remembered how it had happened. There had been no way he could have left Handir upon the ground once more to help Lainion. It would have meant almost certain death for one or the other and Legolas had made his choice - it had been the right one and guilt had no part to play in his mind now. It was anger, frustration, and the threat of living without the elf that had meant so much to him. An elf that had guided him from novice warrior to Protege - he had seen it all, had followed him, even though he himself was a lieutenant. He had laughed and joked, guided and helped him, he had braided his hair….
It was suddenly too much and his eyes filled with tears he tried desperately to still. His hand raised to his twisted locks, fingers tangling into the weaves…
Legolas…
Turning to face the newcomer, he saw Danir standing over him, looking down upon him with a sad smile upon his lips.
"May I join you?"
Legolas simply nodded but said nothing for his throat was all but closed.
"You are close to him," said the Silvan healer, the blue eyes latching onto the damaged hand and beginning his inspection of it.
"Close, yes. We all are, Danir. But you are right. To me he is special…" answered Legolas distantly.
After a while, Danir spoke once more as he unravelled a roll of bandage and began to wrap his hand. "Nestaron is a good healer, Legolas, but he is rash in his judgement sometimes, and with you he has been cruel even. I heard his words, as we all did and although I do not presume to know you, I believe there was a reason why you did not draw that arrow…"
"Yes," came the sorrowful voice, whispered and hoarse. "I struggled with Handir to mount our horse, the corpses of orcs and spiders and goblins piled high around us for Dima and I struck up a mighty count," he smiled as he remembered their fierce battle. "Handir bled so much, Danir, h
is body so lax and his breathing so shallow. Arrows rained down upon us and it was all I could do to get us out of there before I myself was shot. I knew they were poisoned for I pulled that one out lest I not make the ride back to the fortress, and I knew that by leaving Dimaethor there I may be condemning him to sure death. But there was no alternative - there was and still is no doubt in my mind, that my decision was correct."
Danir remained silent for a while before he spoke once more, his head turning to observe the chiselled profile of Hwindohtar.
"And as a healer I tell you that you did save our Prince's life. You did not draw that arrow and that was well for although it had not hit anything vital, he would have bled to death. I am glad you feel no guilt for the decision you made for it was a good one. Nestaron will come to see that."
The silence was back, longer this time, before Legolas spoke again.
"Will he die, Danir?" asked the Silvan wistfully.
"Yes - I believe he will. I do not think he will smile at the sun tomorrow," he said softly, one hand reaching out to softly squeeze his thigh and then the healer rose and silently walked away, briefly catching the intense eyes of Glorfindel who stood in the shadows nearby.
Elladan sat reading, his grey eyes raking the pages before him, his mind furiously searching for anything he may add to the antidote to speed the process, cleanse the infected blood and give Dimaethor a chance to survive.
He knew the odds, they were slim to none, but he could not stand by idly and watch the glorious Avarin warrior slip away and so he had commissioned Nestaron's office, and taken all the books he needed from the shelves that covered the walls, and then had firmly closed the door, allowing no one to disturb his urgent study and by the Valar he would not stop until he had something, anything that could give them hope.
Hours later, while Legolas sat together with Mithrandir and Glorfiindel in the small garden behind the Halls of Healing, Dorhinen and Melven standing in the shadows behind, Elladan furiously scribbled the ingredients he would add to the antidote. He had found nothing conclusive but right now, he would try anything.
Running for the door, he called for the nearest healer he could find, a young Sindarin elf with a lovely face that looked upon him with starry eyes.
"Run, healer. Find these things for me - bring me everything you can find," he said urgently, watching as she nodded and flew away.
It was not a remedy but a desperate last attempt. He was Elrond's son, there was little hope and he knew it, and he also knew better than to give in, not while his patient still breathed.
Soon enough, he was cutting herbs and roots, grinding dried ingredients and then adding them in quantities he then registered in his book. He suddenly felt stupid, for there was nothing in this concoction that would bring Lainion back - it was not a cure and he knew it - it was a simple exercise so that he could tell himself, when the inevitable happened, that he had done all he could.
It was time to go back to the Silent Warrior and face what he knew was inevitable, and so with heavy steps, he made his way to the bed and administered a dose of his strange tonic, watching sadly as The Company's lieutenant, slowly faded away. He could only hope that when the time came for the Dimaethor to be silent forever, that his passage would be gentle.
Commander General Celegon sat behind his desk in an office just off the main courtyard, not far from the Halls of Healing.
Since the attack on Prince Handir's escort, there had been no time to rest; even today he had gone without the midday meal for work was incessant, and after the morning's regrettable events, he dare not leave his office lest some other, unforeseen business rear its ugly head.
Extra patrols had been drawn up and sent off, which meant more warriors returning from their turns of duty, indeed the city barracks were teaming, and Nestaron's healers were hard-pushed to keep up with the constant flow of wounded. Scouts too, rode in almost every hour with their reports, reports Celegon would then use to discuss the Greenwood's strategy and deploy her warriors.
To this end, General Huron stood at a sprawling table upon which maps were spread, and coloured stones scattered here and there, yet there was nothing random about their position. He talked quietly with three Captains, who listened carefully, their eyes trained on Huron's expressive hands as he pointed here and there.
Celegon approached them with the latest report in his hand, grabbing a fistful of black stones and then slamming them down close to the South-eastern border, promptly bringing their discussion to a close.
"Damn them!" he hissed.
Huron observed the area and the other stones around it.
"There are still many but we are reducing their numbers, my Lord," said the General.
"I want to know why, why this sudden influx - why have they come down from the mountains now? Precisely now? What drives them?"
The captains shook their heads for they had nothing to say. The enemy's movements were strange indeed, but the only event that could remotely warrant their increased activities was the arrival of Prince Handir, and while a member of the Royal Family, surely did not warrant such concern amongst the orcs - he was not a warrior, not a commander. The Greenwood's military leaders were at a loss.
Huron blew out a breath, dismissed his captains, and then turned to Celegon, his experienced eyes searching those of his commander, wondering perhaps, if what he had to say should wait. But before he could open his mouth and try his luck, Celegon turned to a side table and poured two glasses of wine.
"Here, join me," he said, handing one to Huron, who accepted it with a grateful nod.
"Out with it, Huron."
The General smiled, not bothering to ask how he knew, for the Commander was a most excellent judge of character.
"There is much dissent amongst the warriors, Celegon. The Silvans no longer keep their peace, no longer shrink from an argument, from a misplaced insult. They are answering back and the situation is deteriorating."
"Are there so many of our Sindarin warriors that are playing this absurd game of politics? A game they now nothing about?"
"There are enough, although they are the minority, their voices are far-reaching - sons of lords…" he finished poignantly.
"Of course they are," said Celegon ironically. "Do you have names for me today, Huron?" and in spite of his skepticism, Huron surprised him.
"Yes - today I have names for you, Commander, the names I should have given you years ago," he said and then turned to face the windows overlooking the main courtyard and sipping his drink. He was peeved, with himself, angry that he had misjudged a situation that should have been broached centuries ago.
"It is not easy sometimes, to live in a multi-cultural society such as ours, but when the few manipulate otherwise noble pride in one's origins, it turns rancid, toxic," came the commander's voice, now at his side.
"And yet I am a General, Celegon. I am responsible in some way for what is happening now."
"You, and I, even the King," said Celegon and then glanced at his general. "The Silvans never spoke up because they feared the consequences of riling those powerful enough to hurt them." He laughed but there was no amusement in it. "They have been so worried that they would lose their place in our military, lose the opportunity to rise through the ranks - that's all they worried about! It was never about money or power for them but their right to serve, on equal terms and we have all let those arrogant bastards weave their nets of veiled threats and absurd talk of Sindarin pride - words spoon-fed to them by their bigot fathers and classist mothers. I am sick, Huron. Sick of it all!"
He had begun calmly, but by the time Celegon had finished, he had been shouting, his face red with anger and disappointment at himself.
Huron looked into his glass, unsure as yet, of what to say, for Celegon, he was sure, had not finished.
"I am Commander General of the Greenwood, you are my General, my second. Go further down the line Huron and every single one of us is Sindarin - only our Captains are mixed - and even then, t
is but a handful that are Silvan and yet they outnumber us three to one - what is wrong with us, Huron? How have we let this happen? How have I failed in this…"
"You are in a position in which it is necessary to delegate, just as I am obliged to delegate. It is the Captains and Lieutenants that hold them back, Celegon, not us. Our error was to not sit down and analyse the statistics."
"It is little consolation, Huron," said Celegon, much calmer now.
After a some moments in which both elves simply stood, pensive as they drank, Huron broke the silence.
"Tirion has arrived."
"I know. He comes for Lainion…"
"Is it true then? Is he leaving us?"
"Nestaron says it is so, that there is nothing they can do for him," confirmed Celegon.
"He will be well-mourned, for Lainion the Avari is respected."
"On his own merits, yes," said Celegon. But it is more than that. He is not Silvan, nor is he Sindarin - he is Avarin - his people are outside this Silvan-Sindarin feud. He will be sorely missed by them all, his passing will be painful - and shared."
"Aye, that it will," said Huron sorrowfully. "They say he took an arrow to the liver, shielding the Prince."
"That is what they say, but we still do not have the full story. The Silvan was there too. There is a tale to be had, one the Sindar will undoubtedly twist to their own gain," sneered Celegon.
"My Lord," said Huron with a frown. "I believe, we are both in agreement on one thing…"
"Speak," said Celegon, his heavy gaze anchored on his General.
"This has gone on too long. We must find a way to pull our warriors together, let the politicians play their power games. We must no longer tolerate this arrogance, this schism amongst those that are obliged to fight side by side."
Celegon's eyes narrowed and his forehead smoothed out.
Wild Monster Page 73
