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Arcane Land	By : alpham31 Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2529 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is not mine, and neither are its characters. I make no money with my writing. This story was written for the simple pleasure of it.

Chapter List
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Chapter 27: The Deafening Silence

A distant rumbling sent a jolt of anxiety and dread through the citizens of the Greenwood, as they stood just inside the open gates. Their warriors were approaching, and hearts accelerated as hands were wrung almost painfully – their minds asking them what they would do, should it be their son, their lover, their life-long friend who had been injured, killed even. This ritual had always been a part of their lives, at least for the last thousand years, when it had become commonplace, yet this last year had been the worst ever. Every week one of their companies would ride in with wounded, or news would reach them of a village attacked, its citizens slaughtered, children cruelly tortured before their parents’ eyes.

They could feel their home slowly coming under threat – real threat, for though warfare was an intrinsic part of their culture, they had always had a sense of security, the certainty that their warriors would be able to protect them – yet now, that security was slowly but surely dwindling, and anxiety was beginning to creep into their souls – again, for if Legolas were to succumb, then surely nothing could save them from annihilation.

The rumbling became a roaring, frantic pounding that mirrored Galdithion’s heart as he struggled to control his rampaging body, for he had already been told of Legolas’ state, and yet he could not, quite, believe it, and the thought of losing him suddenly seemed nothing short of absurd, almost squeezed a hysterical laugh from him, so ridiculous was the notion. And then what of Lindo, The Company’s veteran Bard Warrior? – he was a legend to them all, a warrior that had seemingly always been with them, protecting them, serving them and in turn, revered in silent thanks. Beria’s death had been a blow to their collective morale, but should Lindohtar pass beyond, it would be a milestone in their history – for something would have to change, should that terrible thought become a reality, they would have to react, in no uncertain terms.

They were upon the gates now, finally thundering inside, headed straight for the healing halls, where the entire staff was now standing, their scrubbed hands crossed over their pristine aprons. With the exception of Glammohtar and Rafnohtar, The Company dismounted with all haste and stepped to the side as their horses were lead away, their flanks steaming and heaving, their breath coming hard.

They stood shrouded for a moment in a cloud of thick dust that obscured all except their silhouettes, and as the cloud dissipated, their faces came to the fore - despair, anxiety, insecurity, utter dread, and it seemed to those that looked on that these warriors of steel would break down and cry as bitterly as any grieving widow, hanging only by some miracle, to the thread that still joined them to hope, however much it had begun to twist and fray.

The healers made their way to the two mounted warriors, as family and friends slowly, cautiously inched forward, unsure of whether they should approach, for no one really believed what their eyes were so cruelly telling them, and so they held out their questing hands to touch the grief-stricken warriors who simply stood and watched in confusion, still smelling of battle, bloodied and filthy, yet oblivious to all except Glammo and Rafno.

It was oddly quiet, a shocked and disbelieving silence had descended over them all, broken only by the sudden whinny of a horse, or the occasional gasp from those that were still converging on the site. The dull thud of wooden boxes thrown to the ground broke the strange moment, and the two healers hoisted themselves aloft to appraise the situation for the first time. Balentar’s practiced eye told him all he needed to know of Lindo, and so he gave the order to take him into the first aid area. Antien, meanwhile, placed his hand on Legolas’ brow, opened one eye with his other hand, and spared a cursory glance at the horrific black leg that peaked through the wad of bandaging, still jutting from his lower chest and upper back. He stared in fascination for a moment at the blood dripping from the horse’s flanks, heard its pattering upon the box he stood on, and was suddenly struck by the probability that he was going to die, that they would lose him this time.

The crowd of onlookers parted hastily with a bow then, as the frantic king skidded to a halt behind the healers, his long robes swirling around his legs at the abrupt maneuver, Lainion just behind him. Thranduil stared on as Elladan eased the inert body of his son down to Antien and Thandion, the warrior’s strong arms completely lax, moving awkwardly as he was moved – and yet his mind could simply not register what he knew he was seeing. Yet once it did though, the wail of torment that escaped him left no one indifferent, and all who heard it took their shaking hands to their mouths as their eyes flooded with tears, for it screamed of agony, despair, and the deepest, soul-destroying grief of a father who believed his son lost.

“Legolaaaaaas!”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Elrond had sat up, startled out of his wits by the desperate yell that had split the quietness of early morning. Glorfindel sat upright, his chest heaving as he struggled with his racing heart, his eyes wide in panic and disorientation, as if seeing something neither he nor Erestor could.

“What is it, Glorfindel – what did you dream?” asked Elrond carefully, for a nightmare it had surely been.

“Legolas, Leg… Legolas…”

“Easy, Glorfindel – breathe deeply, centre yourself,” he soothed as Erestor stroked a hand up and down his arm, his concerned face moving in to kiss his over-developed shoulder.

“He, I – oh Valar, Elrond,” he despaired as he raked his shaking hand through his damp hair.

Elrond observed him closely, knowing all to well that this had been no ordinary nightmare, and a feeling of dread settled over him then, for this surely had to do with the strange visions from just recently.

Glorfindel rose abruptly, wrapped himself in a black robe and left the room, gliding down the stairs and leaving the house. Once inside Celebrian’s gardens, he sunk to his knees and bowed his head, trying desperately to cling to the dream and its details. However, something was distracting him – something was wrong, yet he could not place it.

It was Elrond who caressed his shoulders from behind then.

“Nature is mute, he said in awe – “for behold - the night is silent,” he whispered in dread.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

They lay upon the cool stone of the emergency area, both naked and dripping wet as the apprentices dried their bodies, their hair, with soft clothes, and their own tears with the sleeves of their tunics, for it seemed hopeless to them, and that perhaps this last act of love and devotion – cleansing their bodies and making them as comfortable as they could be, would be their last service to these brave warriors – to their prince and king of the forests they inhabited.

Lindo’s minor wounds had been washed and disinfected, and now, Balentar sat as he trickled glass after glass of liquid down his unresponsive throat. An apprentice healer stood behind him, supporting his upper body slightly higher than the rest – they would try to purge as much of the toxin from as they could, although most of it would already be in his blood by now, they knew.

Blood continued to trickle from the horrific wound, from which the spider’s leg still jutted grotesquely, and now, Antien and his apprentice surgeon were discussing how they should extract the thick, armoured limb. Elladan listened as they debated, his eyes never leaving his friend’s face, for all colour was leaving him; the longer they waited, the worse it would be – for he would not survive the procedure with so little blood left in his system.

Through it all, the junior healers and apprentices worked diligently, yet they cried as they did so. Under normal circumstances, Antien would have chastised them severely, yet these were not normal circumstances at all, for it seemed to them that Legolas would die – he had surely been fatally injured, for no one could survive a wound such as this. Antien had, of course, noticed their tears, but he had not the heart to berate them, for he himself felt his own eyes swimming in sadness at what was surely to come, the death of this beautiful child of Yavanna.

It was finally decided that the only option left to them was to extract the leg and repair the damage that had undoubtedly been done to the lung. They could not risk taking any more time to evaluate the damage, for he would bleed to death, of that there could be no doubt.

And thus, what would be hours of grueling surgery began, and not once did Legolas stir, nor Elladan leave his side.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The door opened, a bright blast of candle light and a waft of strong-smelling herbs accompanying Antien as he stepped into the shadowed waiting area. The elves within either slept or sat in silent contemplation. It was well past the midnight hour as the healer moved to sit silently beside his liege lord, who turned to look at him as one lost, his guard mirroring his action, and his expression.

“My Lord, he still lives,” he whispered, “and we can be thankful for that…” he began.

A lone tear escaped the king’s eye as feeling began to seep back into his numb veins .

“However, my Lord, I cannot guarantee that he will live through the ordeal. The blood loss is our immediate concern, and his lung is …. damaged.”Antien decided to leave it there for the moment, wait for a reaction before continuing.

Any color Thranduil still had in his cheeks was lost as a sound akin to rushing water pulsed in his ears, as he moved to stand excruciatingly slowly, his guard at his elbow.

“How long before – before we can be sure he, he will still…”

“Three or four days, my Lord.”

The father’s expression began to break, and Lainion sent a meaningful glare at the others present that was clear to all – ‘leave, now.’

With the room now empty, Thranduil gave voice to the painful bubble of emotion that that bulged in the pit of his stomach and that now made its way out through his throat as he sunk to his knees and his mouth set in a rictus of extreme pain, the anguished moan escaping him slowly, as if he himself had been injured.

Lainion’s mercurial face changed not, but his eyes swam as he sank down behind his liege, offering his strong chest, onto which his friend now leaned, tilting his head back onto the guard’s shoulder as the tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes, his face that of one in utter agony.

They stayed like that for long minutes, minutes in which Antien had retreated into the healing room, only to return with a goblet in his hands, placing it on a small table in the corner, and nodding at Lainion meaningfully, before leaving once more.

Once the king’s breathing had evened out, Lainion placed the goblet to his lips, which Thranduil clutched to, guiding it to his quivering mouth and imbibing it quickly. Leaning back once more, Lainion stroked the king’s temple, waiting for him to fall into reverie, and blissful peace. Yet before that could happen, Aradan and Galdithion entered the room, their eyes bulging when they saw the king on the floor, leaning back against his guard as one fatally injured.

Lainion understood quickly and put them at ease.

“He lives, although barely. It will be three or four days before they can be sure that he will survive, and by all the Valar I swear he will cleave to life, for there is no other that could survive this,” he said, the light of desperate hope in his strange, Avarin eyes, and in that moment, Galdithion believed him.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Antien had been sent to rest in the next room down, and it was Thandion and Elladan who now tended to Legolas, who had not once woken since he had lost consciousness, even before surgery had been carried out.

The procedure had been long, and hard, and even so, they knew the chances were that they would have to open him again, for the damage was great and they could not dream of repairing it all in one session, they had simply patched him up as best they could.

Just down the hall, was Lindo, who lay in a poison-induced stupor; Glammo had refused to leave, and thus he remained seated at the head of the bed in which his lover lay insensate, Balentar at his other side and a junior healer, who would feed him with water and Balentar’s experimental potion every hour.

Outside, the number of elves waiting at the entrance and around the entire healing halls and their gardens was growing. The Company was there, wringing their hands and cleaving to each other. They had taken no rest or sustenance, still in their filthy clothing, for they could not bring themselves to leave lest their brothers slip away. Minu, Imrah and Huoriel were also there, sitting quietly on one side of the room, each lost to their silent pleas, waiting for the moment in which they would be needed, for courtesans not only provided sexual satisfaction, they were expert masseurs, trained in the arts of rest and relaxation, and were often called on to care for the injured.

“They need care, and food,” said Huoriel, observing the warriors with her experienced eyes.

Minu turned to her and smiled kindly. “You are right, my friend, shall we, then, give what we can to lighten their burden?”

Huoriel returned the smile as she rose and left, bound for the kitchens together with her colleague, and just fifteen minutes later, the warriors of the Company were supping lightly on the food and wine that had been reverently offered to them, brought from the only too willing kitchen staff. They sat and watched those brave elves as they swallowed with difficulty, for their hearts were in their throats.

Inside, in the room next to Legolas’, Thranduil, Lainion and Galdithion sat in utter silence, their ears tuned to the room next door. Yet the only sound that they could hear was the murmuring of healers and the clinking of jars and bottles. Hours had passed and yet there had been no news, and so they continued to sit in tension, as if willing the door to open and someone to give them news, whatever the nature of it.

It was Elladan who emerged from the room slowly, for he was bone tired and yet he simply had not been able to take any rest. He floated into the neighboring room and came face to face with three anxious elves.

“Peace, my friends, there is no change,” he said wearily as he sat clumsily on a wooden chair.

Galdithion approached him with a mug of tea that was still warm, which Elladan took gratefully, sipping on it as he stared into nothing.

“Have you nothing to tell us, Elladan? Nothing at all?” insisted Lainion.

“Only that he still lives, Lainion, and that is a miracle I tell you. Any other would have succumbed already, for the blood loss is dreadful, and the tissue damage will only be regenerated with time,” he said softly, watching as the stoic Avar turned and walked towards the window.

Thranduil took his hand to his head, for it pounded fiercely, and thus Antien found them all.

“Lord Elladan, out, go to your brothers beyond those doors, eat and sleep, and only then will I allow you back. My Lord Thranduil, Captains Lainion and Galdithion, I have arranged for your dinner to be served here, which you will eat, before sleeping. Have I made myself clear, my Lords?”

“Elladan, come,” said Galdithion softly as he took his lover by the elbow and steered him out of the room, bowing to their king before crossing the threashold and stepping out into the waiting area. They were momentarily taken aback, for the entire Company was there, nibbling on a buffet of cold food that had been provided for them, however no sooner had they seen Rafno, that they crowded around him, avid for news.

“Warriors, give him a moment for he has not left our Lord and brothers’ sides for many long hours, let him sit for pity’s sake,” said Dima forcefully. The effects were immediate as they moved away, somewhat shamefacedly, allowing Rafno to sit before crouching or kneeling around him, as if settling in for a tale, one that Elladan could not refuse for they looked at him with their tired, upset faces, faces still streaked with dust, and the usual smattering of bruises and cuts.

“Hwindo lies gravely injured, brothers. Three or four days must pass before we will know if he is to stay with us, or pass beyond and meet once more with our fallen brothers.”

No sound, no gasps, nothing, and so he continued.

“Lindo, is, now in a critical state – if there is no change soon, we may lose him within 48 hours…” he finished, his voice almost a whisper.

And still, no sound, yet Pengon’s face was the first to crack as he turned away, the first tears falling to the ground below him. Ram en’ placed his large hand on his brother’s shoulder as the others looked to the floor, desperately trying to school their emotions.

The silence was broken by the untimely arrival of Barathon, who had not noticed that the entire Company sat there, on the floor, not until he was well into the room, for he was lost in a sea of dread and self-loathing. Ram en’, however, had seen him and now, he slowly rose to his full, considerable height, his movements measured and precise, as a puma stalking its prey in the rocky peaks of the Evergreen Wood. Barathon seemed as a young boy in comparison to this warrior, this mighty Wall of Stone. Yet Ram en’s face was not grief-stricken, it was set in a fierce grimace that promised a slow, agonizing death. Dima saw the danger just before Koron en’, and now, both moved cautiously towards their brother.

“Ram en’,” called Dima in a low, warning tone, but the warrior heard it not as he continued his slow walk towards the prince, who in turn, took a step backwards. The entire room was focused on the scene now, and not even Bandorion dared to move lest he precipitate the furious warrior’s attack on his son.

Ram en’ was now within striking distance of the prince, who himself had raised his hand across his face, cringing at what was surely going to be a stinging blow, yet it never came and in its place came a mad scuffling of heavy boots upon wooden flooring as Dima and Koron en’ struggled wildly with Ram en’, who showed no emotion on his face now except for fierce determination, and physical effort as he struggled to free his arms and kill the enemy before him, maim him, make him suffer then end his insignificant life.

The two warriors were hard pressed to keep him back, and almost failed as one of Ram en’s strong arms escaped their grasp. Balentar entered then, alerted by the noise and shouting.

“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, yet the firm hand of Elladan across his chest stopped him from moving forward.

“Let them be, Balentar.”

It was a spectacle to behold, for all the warriors of The Company were tall, and strong, and to see one lost in uncontrolled rage was simply frightening.

It was then that the rest of The Company surrounded the now frantic warrior as he scuffled and span, pushed and shoved at his own comrades, the madly grappling group a whirlwind of hair and leather. After what seemed like a life-time, they managed to pin him to the wall. However, Ram en’ succeeded in turning his body, only to drive his fist into the hard stone wall, the only way he could see to control himself, to distract his mind with pain. He sunk to his knees, his breath coming in heaving gasps as the rest simply stared on, tears now falling freely from their eyes – for Ram en’ had never lost control, had always been a rock on which they had all leant on at some point, yet now, now he had broken.

The silence stretched on as those present looked on, all except for Barathon, who was breathing hard, cowering on one knee in the corner behind his father, not daring to move lest he draw attention to himself. He had been wrong to come, yet he had been kept in the dark about what was going on, and he had been beside himself, enough to risk life and limb and come here, albeit Dimaethor had warned him not to approach them.

“Koron en’, Nanern, Pengon, find him a room here, make sure his hand is tended to, and do not leave him alone,” said Dima monotonously, as he turned to Bandorion and approached him, sparing a glance at the cringing warrior behind him.

“Commander, I request the immediate removal of Prince Barathon from this area, for I cannot vouch for his safety, my Lord.”

“Of course,” he replied, marveling at the control this warrior was showing, for not in vain was he captain of The Company. The commander turned then, seeing his son for the first time since Ram en’ had tried to assault him, nay, kill him - for he would have, Bandorion did not doubt this, and judging from the state in which his son was now in, he did not doubt it either.

Taking pity on him, he took him by the elbow, lifted him, and steered him out of the halls of heeling, and away from danger.

Ram en’ too, had been taken away and the rest of The Company now sat silently; they would not leave until their brothers were out of danger. Galdithion led Elladan away to fulfill Antien’s orders, he would see them done, for now his lover would be needed - and so, he would feed him and rest him, and then bring him back again, that he help to bring his friend back from the precipice.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Night turned to day, and silence continued to reign in the halls of healing, and if yesterday the grounds had been full of expectant family members, friends and acquaintances, now, even the trees in the surrounding gardens supported the weight of many more, perched silently upon their branches. The usual flurry of morning activity was absent, there were no warriors training today, no merchants selling their goods, no lords and ladies walking the grounds, flirting or trading, exchanging gossip. Ordinary life had grinded to a halt, for if Lindo died, it would be a hard blow to recover from, yet if it were Legolas to perish, the implications were simply unforeseeable.

Elladan and Galdithion walked through the expectant crowd, who stared on as the two warriors made for the open doors, disappearing through them and into a waiting area that was filled to the brim.

Idhreno was reclining back onto the soft chest of Huoriel, who stroked the sleeping warrior tenderly. Likewise Rhrawthir slept in the arms of Imrah, who had wrapped himself around the exhausted warrior until he had fallen into slumber. Both courtesans now looked up as the healer and guard entered, smiling sadly at them, as they in turn received grateful smiles from both.

Inside the halls, Galdithion went straight to Legolas’ door where he would stay until he was allowed to enter. Elladan made a quick detour to check on Ram en’, Koron and Nanern who he found huddled together on a small bed, Ram en’s hand wrapped in a heavy bandage. Retreating from that room quietly, he went straight to Legolas’ room.

He lay there, unmoving on the narrow bed, naked save for the sheet across his middle, the horrific wound barred for all to see, for it could not be bandaged just yet. His hair had been plaited and placed behind him, trailing to the floor. His face was white and the circles around his eyes a deep purple.

“Still no change?” he murmured, knowing Balentar would hear him.

“No, no change, my Lord.”

Elladan placed two fingers under his friend’s neck, sighing as he felt the still thready beat and how cold he felt. “We will need to get medicines into him more effectively soon, the probability of infection is high…” he mumbled.

“Um…,” replied Balentar.

“Balentar!” he whispered fiercely, bringing the healer over to him in an instant.

“What? What is it?”

“His pulse is quickening, he may be awakening…”

“Let it be so,” he pleaded as he lifted an eyelid.

And sure enough, Balentar saw the signs that Legolas was struggling to the surface. Unfortunately as those signs increased, so did his breathing, and the unearthly noise that accompanied it.

“Do not let him move around, anchor his legs and arms, you will be surprised at the amount of energy a patient can conjure when injured.

Elladan watched his ailing friend closely, his eyes moving frantically now under the closed lids, his face crumpling up further into a mask of agony, his mouth opening wide as he struggled to get more oxygen into his lungs.

“He cannot breathe well and that causes extreme anxiety. I will try to quieten him while you get the medicines inside him, I have mixed them with poppy…”

By now, the fight had become serious, and Legolas had sent various vials and bottles crashing to the floor, alerting the royal neighbor that something was going on in his son’s room, and bringing two more healers running to their side.

Elladan had spilt half of Balentar’s concoction, but at least the other half of it did go down their patient’s throat. Soon, his struggling became weaker as the poppy took hold of his nervous system, easing the sense of anxiety and slowing the heart beat. The healers slowly released their iron grips on his arms and legs, fussing to realign his limbs and make him as comfortable as possible.

It was then that a half-conscious Legolas coughed, and a trickle of bright red blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Balentar’s face cracked as he glanced up meaningfully at Elladan, who returned his stare, knowing full well the import of it.

“Shall I speak to his father, Balentar?”

“Yes, my Lord. Prepare him for any outcome, within 24 hours…”
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Arcane Land