Hîr o Meril Thaifn [Lord of Rose Pillars]

Istui Mornedhil Faradrim [Learned Dark-elven Hunters]
by erobey
unbeta'd
Disclaimer: Tolkiens' not mine.

Part Four: A Long Journey

"Nay, Lord Erestor, please. The bandage is fine as it is. We must go from here," said Legolas and leaned up to snatch a pair of black kidskin leggings from the shelf at his right.

"That is ridiculous. Ringë, or whatever his name is, was not gentle and I would at least like to check the injury once more before setting out. And I see no need for you to keep addressing me by that honorific; it hardly means anything here in Aman."

"Very well," Legolas exhaled a resigned sigh, "just give me a moment, Erestor." He dragged the pants under the blanket, doggedly holding onto the covers with one hand, and began an elaborate bit of shimmying and shifting as he tried to get his legs into them while keeping the covers over his body. It was not long before he released the counterpane, finding both hands required to manipulate the uncooperative trousers. A terminated cry of agonised frustration sneaked past lips stretched into a seam of compressed determination. A few moments of struggling rendered the silvan breathless and soon he was choking and wheezing out dreadful sounding half-groan, half-gasps as the bedspread slipped lower and lower. Try as he might, he failed to achieve his goal. Legolas shot an anguished look at the Noldo, who instantly averted his eyes and turned away.

Erestor did not know what to do. Legolas would never be able to dress himself in such a weakened state yet the Noldo was reluctant to offer assistance. In this was the youngest child of Thranduil very much his father's son: he could not abide presenting as feeble or incapable. Yet it was impossible for him to bend his torso sufficiently to accomplish the task, for the pain of his wound stymied his efforts. The poor elf was practically soaked in sweat from the exertion and yet after several minutes of fighting the unruly garment he had only managed to get one leg in and that only to the calf. The advisor busied himself with straightening up the rest of the clothing, pretending not to notice that Legolas was virtually completely exposed by this point as the covers began to entangle with the leggings and added another obstacle. He stole a swift peek at his companion and found to his dismay that Legolas had chosen that exact instant to do the same.

The archer's eyes squeezed shut and he ceased the futile attempt, falling limp against the pillows and emitting a long low moan of defeat.

The noble lord went to his aid at once, wordlessly taking control of the situation. With rapid, matter-of-fact motions he extricated the leggings from the jumbled blanket and eased the Wood Elf's unclad limb into them. While not exactly ignoring the silvan's nudity, Erestor did not make his appraisal obvious and was cautious of where his hands found themselves. He glanced to see Legolas' reaction and found him still tensely blocking his vision and gripping the bedding in his endeavour to control the pain much as a dwarf holds to mithril. And the embarrassment over such helplessness. The garment was drawn to mid-thigh and the Noldo could not go further without manipulating certain delicate areas of the younger elf's anatomy. Definitely not on my agenda. He must manage on his own from this point forward.

"I will gather the medicinal supplies and find you a shirt," he said quietly and patted the unyielding shoulder as he straightened up and moved away. From the sounds behind him, he gathered the archer was successfully completing the job of tucking in and tying up. Erestor curved his lips into a generically cheery sort of smile and returned with a loose black silk shirt, black silk hose, black leather ankle boots, and a white bowl of clean water. The sight that greeted him caused him to startle slightly and some of the liquid sloshed onto the stone floor.

Legolas reclined upon the pillows, the deathly pallor of his visage accented by the stark jet of the skin-hugging pants. His hair, captured in a single long plait, was still wound round his head from nape to brow like a royal circlet and the lack of flowing tresses made him seem to be a mere child, too short in years to have grown a proper adult mane. The bloodless tone of his flesh caused the bruises and lacerations to stand out and each high-boned cheek bore a livid streak of crimson. He stared up at the Noldo from enormous, tear-bright indigo eyes, the personification of vulnerable misery.

"Hannad," he said and swallowed. Legolas meant the word to cover all of it, hoping the syllables would convey his thoughts to his benefactor not just of gratitude for making him decent again but also for allowing him the dignity to try on his own and for acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

"Ha nad lhain [It is a meagre thing (it is nothing)]," Erestor shrugged and his smile was quite genuine as he sincerely hoped to set the elf at ease. Legolas had been through enough without further humiliation being visited upon him. "Now let me have a look, pen-neth."

"Ai! I am not a child!" the Wood Elf spat with more of his customary haughty scorn. He forced his body up and propped his lanky frame on one elbow before a sharp spasm seized him and another coughing fit ensued. When it subsided he found himself once more in the Noldo's competent arms but had no strength reserved to move away. Besides, Erestor's bare chest was warm and his sturdy presence was a comfort to the ailing archer. He relaxed against the solid, half-naked form and pressed his forehead into the join of Erestor's neck and shoulder, inhaling shakily. Smells like…like… But his mind could not supply an adequate comparison. The scent was entirely unique and he found it highly pleasing.

"That is better. Slowly, deeply, retain the air as long as you can." Erestor wiped away the unpleasant crust of maroon upon his patient's lips and chin and hurriedly unwrapped the elf's injury, concerned over Legolas' boneless capitulation and laboured respiration. The wound itself did not look any better than it had before all the excitement and in fact was oozing a vile mixture of blood and pus. Whatever poison this is, it is unlike anything I have encountered before. Never have I known an elf to succumb to infection so quickly.

"Legolas, what can you tell me about this? You know it is getting worse?"

"Aye," a faint reply ending in a shuddery sigh. "The bullet is still in me. Must get it out, that is the source of the poison."

"What is a bullet?"

"Like a piece of an arrow or a knife, lodged inside. Small, like from the weapon I used. Must have ended up right alongside my lung, pushed through from all the fighting. Should be one on the floor somewhere," Legolas had to stop; he simply could not catch his breath.

Erestor settled him back into the pillows as gently as he could and got up to search the ground. His sharp eyes picked out the small metal object lying near the far wall and he retrieved it, inspecting the heavy, misshapen lump of lead with both curiosity and disgust. Lead was a foul mineral and a bain upon elves, a toxin of a most insidious sort. The First-born would become ill even if a large deposit of the ore was buried in the stone beneath the ground upon which their dwellings were built. Actual contact was unbearable, producing severe discomfort, fever, loss of reason and a slow, painful death if the exposure went unchecked. Just to hold the small sample made the Noldo's palm begin to burn in allergic reaction. He threw the offending mass into the shimmering pool.

"Elbereth! That explains much and makes the situation more serious. How long ago did this happen?" As Erestor spoke he returned to the bed and re-bound the seeping hole tightly. Legolas groaned from the discomfort but was too debilitated to react beyond an involuntary flinch. "We need to get you into a healer's care as quickly as possible. How I wish I had ridden to that glade!"

"What? Did you not?"

"Nay, I quite enjoy the exercise of walking and the slow pace ensures I complete my geologic diagram with sufficient accuracy. I seldom go on horseback these days."

"Nestegi."

"Aye."

The elves were silent as they considered the trip they were about to undertake. Neither one needed to say it was looking more and more as if the silvan would not last the journey. Legolas shifted, attempting to sit up, and Erestor immediately helped him, taking the opportunity to slip the simple shirt over the silvan's shivering frame. They shared a moment of grim eye contact before Legolas sighed again.

"All right, there are things that must be done. I need you to collect up the objects from the shelf and put them in the pack. It is in the pantry. Cannot leave any of them behind, nor the maps and papers," he stopped to breathe for a few heartbeats and Erestor retrieved the black of course leather naturally knapsack from its resting place and began filling it up. The devices were very light weight and took almost no space, but when he reached for the strange weapon he was surprised by its density and hesitated before tossing it in with the other things.

"Legolas, what of this?"

"Aye, keep that ready, just in case. Here, let me show you," Legolas reached for the instrument and Erestor sat on the edge of the bed as the archer wielded it with the easy familiarity that marked his handling of his bow or knives; expertise that could only be gained through long practise and frequent use. "Semiautomatic Browning Hi-Power, 9 millimetre, modified," he pushed back the slide to reveal the chamber and demonstrate the self-cocking hammer. "Holds a magazine of 19 rounds and one in the chamber, hollow tip, full metal jacket, stored in the handle, thus." Legolas removed the clip and held it up then snapped it back in with a loud click that echoed in the cave. "This little catch makes it safe to carry around; it cannot be fired when this is engaged. Once unlocked, however, it is very simple. Just point and pull the lever. The projectile leaves the barrel at a speed of 390 metres per second, quite effective at short range. It is well-made, good balance, straight and true. You cannot miss. Best to aim at the head to kill or the knees to disable."

Erestor stared into the wide cornflower coloured eyes, so clear and innocuous and completely in conflict with the steely resolve in the elf's quiet voice. It was quite easy to forget that Legolas was a master of combat on many levels and with numerous implements of destruction. In fact, the noble advisor had not thought of him that way for more centuries than he could recall. As he considered this, Legolas gave a slight smile and a brief nod, acknowledging the notion even as it ran through Erestor's mind.

"My advantage," he said softly. "Tuck the gun into your waistband and gather the papers and the laptop."

"The what?" Erestor could not help but drop his sight to his own damp, leather encased thighs as he stowed the weapon per the instructions, storing the terminology for it away in his brain as well. Semiautomatic Browning Hi-Power, nine-millimetre gun. Even the description of it was ominous and it felt strange against his belly, hard and cold at first but quickly absorbing his body's heat.

"Under the blankets, a flat book-shaped object. It stores information but also retrieves and sends data to other similar machines through use of an ingenious system of electromagnetic encoded signals that travel through the air or various types of cables and phone wires and such," Legolas was grinning at the nonplussed confusion displayed on his comrade's features. "Do not be worried; you will become familiar with all this in no time."

Erestor was not so sure that was an objective he wished to pursue. He found the slender rectangular black what a surprise item just where he was told to look and gathered it up along with a very short length of coiled black goes with everything rope with metal prongs on the ends of it. He also held up a contraption, the existence of which he could not in his most bizarre, stimulant induced fantasies have imagined, for the Wood Elf's inspection. It was furled like a fan, the slender panels composed of a dense black material with a glossy, almost oily surface, carried on a folded scaffold of some sort of light weight silver metal, its purpose beyond any notion the Noldo could muster.

"Aye, we need the solar collector to run the Mac here in Aman. And there is a journal I need and the axe."

The Noldo stopped his packing and stared, uncertain if Legolas' mind was beginning to drift again, for this was the second time he had mentioned the antiquated and cumbersome weapon of choice among dwarves.

"Bottom shelf, hidden compartment in the rock." Legolas encouraged with a motion of his hand and a shy smile.

Erestor knelt and felt around on the flat surface until his fingers met a slight concavity which he pressed. There was a soft clank as a catch worked free and the lid of the bin popped open to reveal an exquisitely made and ornately decorated long handled, double-headed dwarven battle axe. Alongside was a much thumbed and ragged old leather covered diary bound shut with a finely braided band of coarse, dark auburn hair. The advisor took them out, grimacing at the weight of the antique blade.

"I will carry it," Legolas' hands shot out for it imploringly and the beseeching smile on his sad features made Erestor's heart wrench.

"You cannot, Legolas, not in the state you are in. It is very heavy. Would it not be better to let this remain here, hidden and safe? Who knows what may transpire on our journey."

"Was Gimli's; not leaving without it." Stubborn petulance marred the melodic tenor vocalisation.

Erestor sighed and refrained from comment as he laid the handle in Legolas' hands, just permitting himself a small shake of the head in bemusement over the closeness the elf felt for the dwarf and commiseration with the evident depth of sorrow Legolas bore for his long dead friend.

Has not been the same elf since.

The jolt of reality contained within this spontaneous observation brought the Noldo up short and he trained his eyes on the archer anew. Legolas had swung the axe up on his left shoulder and sat slumped with his cheek resting against the flat of the mithril blade, arm wrapped around his injured side, the very image of despondency, lost and alone, an elfling confused by the ephemeral existence of the other living things upon Arda. On impulse Erestor placed the battered old journal on Legolas' knees and laid his hand gently on the bowed head before turning away to finish up the packing.

A small supply of dried fruit and lembas was all the cave contained in the way of food and Erestor could not help devouring one of the small wafers of way-bread as he stuffed the remainder of the victuals down in the pack.

"Do you never eat? How can you live here with no supplies laid by?" the distorted words emerged from his full mouth.

"Go hunting; lots of berries and nuts. Yavanna knows what pleases me. Besides, I do not live here; it is a safe place, concealed until now."

"Are you going to tell me what this is about or not?"

"Not sure. Better for you the less you are involved."

"Rather late for that! I am the one who turned Ringë into an iceberg, after all."

"Aye, it is so. Mithrandir can keep you safe until it is all sorted out, though. I do not want anything to happen to you; everyone else is dead already."

Erestor did not know what to say to this, uncertain if he should reveal the Maia's charges against the injured elf. He decided Legolas had enough worries and there was no need to upset him since Ringë could cause no further troubles. He resumed searching for usable items and found a strange bottle made of some unknown material, as weightless as paper and as transparent as glass, held in a harness that ended in a sturdy shoulder strap. This he filled with water from the pool and then approached the Wood Elf. The problem of the axe was still unresolved, for Erestor was certain Legolas could not tote it and he would be hard pressed to do so himself, burdened with the backpack, the water, and supporting the wounded elf. Not to mention my own pack and portable easel over on the opposite shore.

"Legolas, consider carefully. We will have a difficult time of it. Can you not see it is better to leave this worthy artefact in a safe place to be retrieved at a later date when you are recovered?" he reasoned.

"Nay. I am unlikely to survive this journey and well do you know it. I will not permit Ringë to take possession, desecrating it by putting it to service in his horrid tortures. Gimli would not want that and I will not countenance it either. You must give all these things to Olórin; he knows about the task I was assigned and what to do to ensure its completion. You must tell him it was an ambush; we were betrayed."

"Eru's arse," the advisor muttered irritably, undeniably intrigued by all the mysterious happenings in which Legolas' was engaged, but not well pleased with the absolute obstinacy in his companion's tone. The axe must come along, though it weighed nearly as much as Legolas. Still, he had to try once more. "There is no reason for you to perish en route unless we are so weighted down that our progress is impeded. You will tell Olórin everything in your own voice. Whatever has happened is serious; Ringë's attempt to murder you must be reported at the very least. He is incapacitated and cannot possibly know the hidden compartment exists. Consent to concealing the axe and I will travel back to collect it myself once I have put you out of harm's way. In fact, I am abandoning my possessions right where they rest on the far side of the falls."

"I mean no disrespect, but your things are not vital to the preservation of life as we know it."

"Ah! Impudent elfling! Neither is that axe!"

"No, it must be as I say," Legolas struggled on, disregarding his friend's outrage. "It does not matter if I survive as long as this mission is completed. Mithrandir will see to it; just give him the backpack and Gimli's things. Besides, I have little understanding of what the fallen Istar can hear or perceive in that state. I am all too aware of his propensity for destruction. He will tear apart every inch of this cavern, seeking anything I may have left behind just for the sick pleasure of demolishing something dear to me. He will get free, he will render this cliff unto dust, and then he will come after us. Mayhap we will need the axe before all is said and done."

They stared at one another wordlessly and Erestor found his soul growing cold with dread over the prospect of facing the corrupt Maia. Without further debate he returned to the pantry and rummaged around until he found a length of hithlain rope. Back at the bedside, he took the axe from Legolas' shoulder and secured it tightly to the knapsack. Hefting this up and slipping his arms through the straps, he reached down to aid the silvan to rise and found a pair of lean arms wrapped around his neck as the archer hugged him tight and whispered a word of thanks into his ear. Erestor could not suppress a surprised smile and easily lifted Legolas to his feet, passing one arm around his waist as the other hand gripped the Wood Elf's wrist where it was draped against his clavicle.

"I can carry the water," offered Legolas and took it up, passing the woven loop over his head and across his chest. He allowed Erestor a short view of vibrant sapphire before dropping his gaze away for fear of showing how near he was to tears over the consideration the elder elf was granting.

Purposefully the pair moved across the floor and into the pantry where Legolas guided them to the false section of the far wall and then straight through it. They were in a narrow, crooked shaft that seemed to have suffered more than one cave in over the years and the debris on the floor made the going slow and strenuous. By the time they broke through into the open air, Anor was half way to its zenith and the glare of the sunlight was blinding. Erestor surveyed the steep and rocky descent with trepidation as Legolas fought to moderate his ragged breathing.

By midday, Legolas' was no longer conscious and Erestor was bearing him across his shoulders, staggering down a pathway even an elf could barely hold to and only the most sharp-eyed among the First-born would see to follow. But for small, dried dots of blood here and there upon a rock or a bit of dirt, left on Legolas' climb up, the Noldo would have missed the way entirely. Erestor paused to rest upon a less pronounced incline where a brave tree grappled the stony ground and held fast, lending a meagre spot of shade and a place to set the senseless Wood Elf down. He removed the pack, took the water jug from around Legolas' body and drank deeply, then sat heavily beside him. He checked the stringy pulse and frowned at the congested, audible gasps that posed as breathing.

Worried about the degree to which the increased activity had encouraged the internal haemorrhage, Erestor raised the hem of the loose top to press an ear against the affected side and was surprised to find that Legolas had tucked the aged diary into the waist of his leggings. The book had been pressing upon his abdomen all this time and left a red mark that would surely darken to black ere the day was done. The Noldo eased it out and then leaned over to listen to the occluded lung, displeased with his lack of knowledge as to how to aid his charge and prevent demise from blood loss. A deeper sigh sounded from the beleaguered body and then the feather light pressure of Legolas' hand resting on his head startled him. Erestor shot upright to find the ill elf's fevered eyes half opened, staring at him in mute entreaty, for what he knew not, and then the silvan's mind slipped away again into restless wandering.

The fear of having Legolas die in his keeping suddenly overwhelmed him and Erestor stuffed the journal into the pack, shouldered that along with the water bottle and then carefully lifted the archer, cradling him close against his chest. His weariness forgotten, the advisor resumed his downward trek with as much haste as his burdens and the rugged trail permitted, whispering out a quick prayer to the Star Kindler to send them aid before it was too late to be effective. He glanced back at the ridge top and scowled for it was really a short distance for any ellon not so laden; alone he would have traversed the decline in less than an hour's passage. He huffed in irritation wrought from his anxious soul.

"Eru's arse, Thranduilion, you are just a sluggard, do you hear me? I shall demand a fitting recompense from you for this severe labour you have exacted, henellon," he fussed aloud, eager for any other sound than the hoarse, rheumy breathing that wafted across his neck in erratic rhythm. No reply met his mild scolding, however, and Erestor grimaced; how he would like to have that aristocratically snobbish tone voicing vulgar epithets and hurling scurrilous insults upon him now. He stubbed his toe on a stone and stumbled, dancing around a boulder as he fought to keep his balance.

"Nestegi!" Erestor panted as he recovered his centre and proceeded. "What was that dreadfully vivid phrase you spoke? Naneth nestagon teler o nâr? Valar, just to say it makes me feel like something an Orc would scrape off the dung encrusted sole of its foot! Where did you learn to speak with such disgustingly detailed imagery?"

"Miny'adar. [Grandfather]"

"Manwë's Wind!" The archer's whispered response nearly made the advisor loose his footing and tumble down atop his patient, for he had not expected any answer. "Thranduilion, some warning, if you please, for I was nearly startled witless. I do not believe you; Oropher has never uttered such tawdry, uncouth expressions in my presence."

"Not your Miny'adar, torog thû [troll stench]."

"And what has that to do with it? You would have me believe your esteemed forebear deliberately corrupted the ears of his youngest grandson with such atrocious additions to his vocabulary? Nay, you are fabricating. You picked that habit up from Estel; I am certain his ranger brothers were much given to foul-mouthed expletives and thought it quite amusing to hear them issue from someone as elegant and fair as you are."

The words were out before he quite realised what he had said and it was too late to call them back. Erestor's cheeks flamed brightly as he felt the soft laugh and minute smile that rattled the slight frame and created dimples in the face pressed against his shoulder.

"Nay, not Estel's friends. Miny'adar," Legolas insisted, inhaling the Noldo's scent, which made him feel calm and safe. He finds me fair! If Erestor had doubts as to their success in reaching level ground intact, the silvan did not share them. He found himself surprisingly relaxed and peaceful in spite of the difficulty breathing, for the pain had dulled to a low throb as long as he could remain still against his protector's heart. "A game, amlug thûl [dragon breath]." he sighed out.

"Indeed? Bizarre sort of pass-time if you ask me, gwaun dithen [little goose]."

"Nay! Boe caro pith gwaur, fuiol! [You must make the words dirty, disgusting.] Gwaun Dithen does not count; my point, anc mellin [yellow teeth]."

"Hah! That is too mild also; point to me, coron lavron. [ball licker]"

"Tele gwaeren o ferin. [windy arsed mortal.]"

"Alhand, thaw nastad o medli. [stupid, rotten bear's prick]"

This one made Legolas giggle, for it was the best the Noldo had come up with thus far, but that initiated a round of gagging and choking. He could not breathe and panicked, clutching Erestor's shoulder and near strangling him with the other arm, eyes wild and heart pounding as black patterns of blotchy emptiness swam over his vision. The stentorian hacking delivered up a splatter of bold crimson across the advisor's throat and as reason diminished Legolas feebly tried to wipe the smear away. His head lolled back and his arms fell away from their secure grip on Erestor's person.

"Legolas? Nestegi!" Erestor cursed, regret over encouraging the silly name-calling competition filling his soul, and increased his speed, for the silvan's respiration was wet and rattley and he could feel the stickiness of the blood congealing on his skin.

Another hour it took before the terrain bottomed out and Erestor broke into a steady trot, desperate to reach some sort of settlement or town, yet his clever mind had already calculated the exact distance he had travelled to reach the secluded zone of the hidden glade. They were still tens of leagues from even the most remote community of agrarian edhil. By the setting of the sun, Erestor was beyond his limit and while the landscape was less a wilderness and more the fringe of some farmer's fallow fields, no house or person was in sight. He was forced to stop and rest, choosing a small copse of trees dividing the long patch of turned, brown earth from a high crop of sunflowers in full bloom. There was a minute trickle of a brook with a soft mossy bank and here he propped his inert patient against one of the trees, dropping to his hands and knees to plunge his face into the cool stream and refresh himself. He drank deeply before sitting back to check on Legolas' condition.

Frustrated and suffused with a sense of helpless ineptitude, the Noldo stood and paced the springy turf beside the creek, for the silvan was slipping away, drifting into a coma from which he was unlikely ever to awaken, the time between each breath lengthening even as respiration shallowed.

"It is intolerable!" he railed volubly at the dimming skies. "This is the Blessed Realm, the abode of the Valar, for Eru's sake! It should not be so hard to summon one of them, or at least their lesser helpers, when the need is dire!"

No sooner had the sounds vented from his larynx than a tremendous fulmination rent the quiet of the twilit countryside and a garish glare of red and yellow streaking balls of light danced upon the earth. The fireworks subsided to reveal Olórin standing tall and gazing in stern regard at the two elves, complete with a magnificently pointed midnight blue, star studded hat, matching long and gracefully cascading robes edged in snowy satin, and pristine, perfectly groomed and trimmed flowing white hair and beard.

Erestor gaped a moment in speechless amazement before he recovered his wits and his wrath.

"And about bloody time! What is it with you and these overly dramatic, nick of time arrivals? Is it some sort of fetish, some dark need to feel indispensable, to play the hero, to be the beloved saviour and…"

"Erestor!" thundered the Istar. "Enough; I am here and that is all that matters. For your information, all the sound and fury is for Legolas' benefit. He likes me this way, you see, and is not exactly comfortable with my other physical form. Now, come along and we shall have him fixed right up."

"Not unless you can move the three of us through the air in the blink of an eye…oh." The advisor sat down in shocked disbelief and found that his rear end connected not with the grassy bank but rather with the softly stuffed leather upholstery of his favourite armchair in his private study, safe and dry in his home at Cebir Fain.

TBC.

GRATITUDE!!

My deepest thanks for the reviews from:

Spirit Melody, for finding the story intriguing and original!

Thalionwen, a gifted writer whose praises are always generous!

JayLen, who likes it because it is different, and I appreciate anyone who thinks different is good!

JastaElf, an absolutely superb writer and also a terrific human being. A literal life-saver, never turns away stray dogs or drifting souls.

Hikaru, for asking for more chapters!

Sivan Shemesh, another of my favourite writers, who has reviewed mine so often and so kindly, and who forgives me for letting Gimli die in Aman! I promise, he is still an important part of this story's conclusion.

Thank you all so very much, and also to all the readers out there making the counter climb, it makes me happy knowing you are enjoying the story!

Cheers,
erobey