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The Protege III: Protect and Defend	By : alpham31 Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2227 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings is the sole creation of JRR Tolkien. The characters are not mine, and I do not make any money by writing these tales - of course, this, you already knew.

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They had been gone for hours now, and dusk was beginning to fall. Galadriel and Celeborn had joined Elrond and his councilor in the library; the wait would be easier in the company of friends, yet the atmosphere could have been sliced with a knife, for their feelings of helplessness were making them curt. Elrond himself had had to placate more than a dozen frantic elves seeking news of their children, for word had gotten out of the threat to the school party, and the desperate ride of the Sylvan warriors.

“How has this happened? I should have sensed it, I should have been warned!” he exclaimed, sparing a fleeting glance at his right hand. “A group so large has never ventured so close to our borders.” He said, raking his hand through his hair.

“The eastern border is that which is closest to the heart of the city, Elrond,” said Galadriel. “The orcs know that something is happening in Imladris. They have their own intelligence and will have seen the movements; did they not waylay the Greenwood entourage on their final leg to your house? Nay, ’tis not so strange, Elrond, and the blame is not yours to claim. Besides, you were warned,” she emphasized.

“Perhaps you are right,” sighed a very frustrated Elrond. “We still do not have the details. If there had been a massacre I would have known, surely. Yet the wood elves sensed the danger before Vilya, even.”

“Legolas sensed it before Vilya - I must speak with him on his return,” stressed Galadriel. She had reached her limit – too many things had been happening, transcendental things that she needed to be aware of.

“Yes, well, be that as it may, I…” he trailed off as his eyes widening, the look of a blind man taking him. “They will be here within the hour,” was all he said, as he stood and rushed from the room, bound for his own quarters – there were preparations to make, and so little time to achieve them.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Glorfindel cantered through the last of the trees before finally arriving on the path to Imladris, still riding beside Legolas, who held his seat still, despite the sight of him. Mithrandir rode on his other side, staff held high as his hair whipped about him, obviously wondering how Legolas was functioning so well on his own, just the blood dripping from his head should have been enough to render him senseless.

Finally on the path, they slowed to a walk for the last few yards until coming to a halt. Elrond was there in his long white tunic, healers behind him, and the civilians confined to the back. Maeron, however, stood next to Elrond – Legolas was his charge, but more he loved the boy as a father would, yet respected him more than everyone, save perhaps for his liege lord.

“Sweet Valar,” whispered Erestor, now at his Lord’s side.

Anxious mothers and fathers broke the ranks of confined civilians as they rushed forward to relieve the warriors of their small charges, hugging them tight and spiriting them away to their houses, and loving safety.

Legolas slung one leg over the saddle, dropping to the floor and giving his horse over to the waiting attendant. As the warriors continued to file into the courtyard, healers came forward, and the triage began with Elrond at the fore.

“Legolas, come, all is seen to, come and rest,” urged Glorfindel. Legolas looked at the warrior then, calculating what would need to be done, and whether it had been contemplated. Finally deciding that anything that had been missed would be of scarce import, he allowed himself to be escorted inside, for he was tired, and more than a little dizzy – not that he would let it show, however, not yet.

Elrond remained on the steps a few moments longer, passing his critical eye on the wounded that were dismounting, analyzing the importance of each injury, and prioritizing who would be taken into the emergency wing, and who would be attended to in the healing rooms. Finally satisfied with his choices, he turned and followed the two warriors, flanked by an anxious Maeron.

Up in the healing sector, candles were lit, water was set to boil, cloths and tools were sterilized, as healers continued to arrive, some having been called to duty from a day of rest, still tying their hair back as they passed their experienced eyes over the warriors. The apprentices were there too, shadowing their tutors as they explained their decisions, and delegated the lesser tasks to them.

Legolas was following the flow of stretchers and healers; he needed to assess the state of each of his elves before he could allow himself to relax.

Entering the healing ward, he saw Galdithion and Henian being settled near the far window. He would start there. Striding over to the beds, he found them both conscious, although obviously in some discomfort. A healer approached then, inspecting his patients’ faces and then glancing up at the tall prince, only to do a double-take, for he was covered in bright red blood. Gathering up a wad of soft material, he silently handed it to the lord, gesturing towards his head that he should staunch the bleeding. Accepting the cloth, he did as instructed, but would not move.

“What is the prognosis, healer?”

“For who, my Lord? “ asked the healer, somewhat rhetorically, for he knew of whom the prince spoke, yet he looked worse than his warriors did, albeit he was still on his feet. Legolas’ weary face changed into an expression of exasperation, and so the healer took pity. “An arrow wound each, both clean. Once out, I will keep them here for a few days. That is all if there are no complications.”

“You have my thanks,” he curtly said, swiveling on his heel to the next group of beds, not giving the healer time for a retort.

Repeating his interrogation on a female healer attending his warriors, he was finally satisfied that there were no serious injuries, at least not by the Greenwood’s standards, and so he approached Elrond, who was seeing to a thigh wound.

“It would seem there are no serious injuries Elrond. My people will want to take over the care of their warriors. Do you consent?”

Without turning his head, Elrond gave his permission, but with the strict condition that there was to be no hindering his healers’ work, and that they were to do as ordered. That would not be a problem, Maeron had equally strict rules for his healing sector – they were more than accustomed to taking orders from healers.

Striding over to the door, he met the anxious eyes of six of his subjects, watching him through watery eyes. Llyn was at the fore, watching her prince closely, for she knew him well and decided that once she had helped in the ward, she would seek Legolas out an offer him comfort.

“You may enter, under the usual conditions.”

A collecting sigh of relief went out, as they floated into the ward, each assigning themselves to a wounded warrior. Llyn cupped the unsoiled side of his face and smiled proudly, walking past him to perform her duties.

Smiling after her, he turned, and almost walked into Glorfindel and Maeron. He had not been attentive enough, a sign that he was not precisely at his best.

Glorfindel looked angry, and for some strange reason, this made the prince smile naughtily, however his bruised face quickly wiped it off his battered face, turning his mischievous smile into a rueful grimace as he lifted his hand to his split lip. Maeron stepped up to Legolas’ side and made to accompany him, yet the prince stayed him.

“Maeron, you are better employed by staying with the warriors for a while, my friend. They are more in need of you than I.”

“Yet you are my charge, prince. I know what you hide.”

A sheepish smile flittered over his lips, but then he schooled himself and answered the royal healer.

“Maeron, ‘tis not serious. Take a few hours here then seek me out if you must. Glorfindel will be with me.”

Taking a final, appraising look at his patient.

“Lord Glorfindel. He is suffering from blood loss, and you will want to check every part of his body, for his semiotics suggest he hides something, which is invariably the case with my Prince. If you agree to stay with him, then I will consent,” he said, although he made it clear he would be returning before the evening meal. And with that he was gone, joining his Noldorin colleagues in the ward.

“You will accompany me, Prince,” was all Glorfindel said, as he pivoted stiffly without looking back, knowing he would be followed. Leading the prince to Elrond’s private suite, he walked straight into the room and gestured to the bed.

Legolas understood the order and slowly drifted over to the inviting covers, giving his lover time to calm himself.

“Strip and get in.”

Legolas was, again, struck by the odd impulse to chuckle again, but reined in his treacherous and painful lips and sat upon the side of the bed.

Reaching for the buckle over his chest, he unclasped it awkwardly. His hands shook somewhat, and he knew this was from over-exertion – he had wielded knife and bow for many long minutes and at full throttle and he was sure he would sleep like a new-born babe that evening, if not as soon as his aching head hit the soft white pillow.

Starting on the clasps of his leather jerkin, gentle hands surrounded him from behind, and helped him with the task. He felt Glorfindel’s face draw flush with his own and a heart-felt whisper to his ear, “I am sorry – forgive me.”

Legolas would have kissed him then, all mirth forgotten, but half his head was caked in blood, and so he covered the general’s hands with his own dirty ones, squeezing them in forgiveness.

Glorfindel peeled off the tunic and let it slide free, his eyes falling to the prince’s beautifully carved back and shoulders, his well-developed deltoids.

He was bruised around the shoulder blades, and small cuts scattered down his sides which bled no longer. Slipping off the bed and kneeling before the prince, he gasped at the snapped off shaft that protruded from his side, bloody and dirty.

Closing his eyes to calm his suddenly pounding heart, he loosened the ties to the elf’s leggings and slid them off, revealing an ugly cut to his thigh, and yet more bruising. He had taken a battering, but how he had managed to camouflage the arrow wound was beyond Glorfindel’s ken. He knew - he had just known that his prince was injured, and he had also known that he would hide it until everything was under control – he would have done the same, and yet it had irked him, nay it had raised his ire.

Glorfindel gently pushed him down onto the bed, feeling no reticence from his lover until his back touched the soft bedding. The prince willed his stiff body to relax, and for the first time he took stock of his injuries, as Glorfindel raised his legs and place them on the bed. He was not badly off; he ached and he was tired, and there was a niggling pain in his side and head, not to mention an irksome stabbing pain in his thigh– yet what was important now was to extract the arrow stub.

“That needs out now, love,” said Glorfindel gently, mirroring Legolas’ thoughts.

Turning his head to Glorfindel, he nodded once. “Do it for me?” he asked.

“Legolas, Elrond should do this, it may be snagged, and I could do more harm than what has already been wrought. I will call him.”

“Nay, do not. He is busy with others that need him more. It is clean, Glorfindel, trust me?”

Glorfindel looked at the prince for long moments. It was obviously not the first arrow he had taken, in fact he spoke like an expert.

“Very well then, it shall be done.”

Glorfindel had done this many times for his own warriors, yet to inflict pain on this one was going to prove a challenge. His heart twinged at the thought, as he covered the prince’s middle with a sheet, his vambraces and armbands the only things he wore. The sight of him was rousing Glorfindel’s libido, for he was sprawled recklessly, dirty and bloody, his warrior trophies sitting upon his arm. He felt himself swell and harden.

As he fussed around the bed, Legolas observed him. His lover was nervous, and flustered. He smiled to himself because he now understood where the ire had come from. Legolas had scared him, he had shaken Glorfindel more than he would have it known. By hiding it, he had changed the appearance of his emotion to that of anger. He wondered then at the depth of Glorfindel’s desire for him. He wondered at the nature of it, even. Sex, love. One was possible without the other, but the equation did not reverse well.

Placing a bowl of water at the bedside and the linens he had procured from the healing ward, he bent over his patient and inspected the arrow, prodding with the tips of his fingers. It did indeed seem to be a clean shot and there was no resistance as he continued his prodding. One look at Legolas told him to yank it out, and he did.

A silent scream played over the warrior’s face as his back arched off the bed, staying that way for long seconds, until the agony subsided into simple pain, relaxing his back once more and closing his eyes to compose himself, and as he did so, he felt his body starting to shut itself down, finally at the end of its endurance. He felt his eyelids lowering themselves, his breathing slowing itself, his limbs losing their tension. He was falling into a healing sleep and he decided not to fight it, for although it would render him completely vulnerable, he knew that Glorfindel would protect him, defend him.

Glorfindel had stepped into the corridor to request some items from a passing attendant, but as he walked back over to the bed, he started as he saw the insensate prince, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, head turned to one side.

He recognized the slackness that healing induced, and forced himself to relax as he observed the steady, slow breathing and peaceful features of the now slumbering prince.

And so, after he had collected the items he had requested, Glorfindel proceeded to cleanse his lover tenderly, washing his body gently with a basin of warm, scented water. He worked slowly, flushing out the wounds, cuts, nicks and bruises, washing the arrow wound as best he could without disturbing his lover. He could not wash his glorious hair, but he got as much of the blood out as he could, locating the cut to his scalp that had bled so much, and which was now raw and swollen but that bled no more.

The movements calmed him as he turned his thoughts inward, thinking about his reaction to Legolas’ injuries. He had been angry, for the Valar’s sake, but why he could not say. The prince had certainly done nothing to warrant it, in fact he had done exactly what he himself would have done – see to his warriors and secure the site, ride back and insure his people’s safety. The prince had also acquiesced docilely to being tended to, and yet ‘wherefore this ire?’ he asked himself. But truth be told, he had already found his answer, for as he continued to cleanse the warrior before him, we wondered how anyone, anything could think to harm him. What manner of darkness was capable of marring such beauty? He smiled then, as he came to the inevitable conclusion that he was spiraling upwards, into the swirling vortex that was taking him ever-closer to paradise; what he felt was all-encasing, soul-lifting and life-changing – he loved this elf, this warrior, this elf of beauty unmatched.

He had startled himself out of his transcendental pondering to stare dumbfounded at Legolas, lying asleep before him. He was stunned by the revelation he had uncovered to himself. He had been so very angry because he wanted to maim, torture and kill those that had hurt his lover, but could not. And yet he would. He was already sworn to the protection of Elrond’s line and that was his purpose in his second life, protect them from harm, from the encroaching darkness that would, one day, come to a pinnacle, and yet he now had a purpose of his own, a love of his own, another powerful reason to fight the darkness.

………………………………………………………………………………..

Stretchers bearing the wounded and unconscious were now being taken from the emergency wing, and into the healing rooms where the patients would stay until they were fit enough to leave, all accompanied by their reverent woodland kin - for a civilian to tend to a warrior was considered a great honor, a way for them to give their thanks for the selfless protection they gave.

Elladan and Elrohir had ridden in some time ago, and were now overseeing the logistics at their father’s behest. Here, there was no pranking, no light-hearted banter - here, they became the leaders they had been brought up to be. They had ordered Galdithion into a room further down the hall; he had suffered an arrow wound and multiple cuts and bruises, but more than this, he suffered from the same malady as all the wounded warriors – they were all completely extenuated. They had fought for their lives amidst impossible odds, had done the impossible to save the 10 elflings and their care givers. They were battered and bruised, dehydrated and exhausted, and this was never a good complement to a wound, indeed most had fallen into a deep healing sleep and would not be roused.

Both Galdithion and Henian had asked every healer that attended them about their prince, and when they received no answer and were finally beside themselves with worry, Henian had escaped his bed and gone in search of Elrond’s son.

Elladan remembered the pleading, desperate tone of the proud warrior, and so he had told him what he knew. He had seen Legolas standing on his own two feet, giving orders and checking on his warriors. True he had not been seen for a while, but he did manage to put the proud body guard at some ease and he had been reasonably satisfied, for the moment. Elladan also knew that if Elrond was here, the prince had taken no serious hurt, of that he was sure, for he had seen the depth of emotion in his sire’s eyes as he gazed surreptitiously at the woodland warrior, but he wasn’t going to tell Henian about that.

Outside the revered house, and now in the comfort of their own homes, ten families held their children tight, washing away the terror with love and affection, especially Melvenion – who cried himself to sleep, for he had been terrified of his savior, and he felt so ashamed, for warriors were never scared, warriors were courageous like Prince Legolas, and he thought then, that he would never be good enough for the ranks of Imladris or Greenwood.
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The Protege III: Protect and Defend