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The Summoning	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 2995 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, the Lord of the Rings or the characters from it. I make no money from this.

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The Communion

They weren't always fighting. The siege of Barad-dûr was to last seven long years, according to the histories that came later. Sometimes, all of the evil hid inside the tower, or concealed itself in the land thereabout, leaving the armies of Gil-Galad and Elendil idle, as if they endured an uneasy truce rather than conducted a siege.

When they were battling, it was brutal. Sauron's forces were formidable at all times, but the siege had a strange effect on the orcs. They were cannibals, and skirmishes were fought even as they retreated, dragging the bodies of the slain and fallen with them.

Quickly the elves and men of the Last Alliance learned not to follow too far, to stretch themselves too thinly and find themselves picked off and isolated, surrounded by the enemy. This meant that occasionally a living wounded victim would be dragged away, their pain-filled, terrified screams echoing through the empty land during the long watches of the night as arms and legs were hacked away to be roasted and eaten, the sickly smell of burning flesh wafting over the land from behind the dark hills.

Even this was a kind of warfare. Keeping one's nerve was almost impossible, and it made the clash of battle a welcome diversion. Hacking, slashing, stabbing, firing. They rotated their forces during these times, allowing for periods of rest away from the line. It became known as the front, and Elrond found himself there often, his experience and age made him a fearsome warrior, and the discipline of the sword cleared his mind of the more unnerving quiet times that they'd all begun to dread.

Yet even Elrond required rest, and when he grew too tired to continue killing Sauron's minions, he retreated, but not to his own tent. He strode through the tent city to the healers' camp, his armour stained and dirty, his sword clanking at his side.

After fighting, Elrond engaged in a different kind of battle, eschewing his weapons to take up the tools of the surgeon. Hour after weary hour he spent with the wounded, stitching wounds, saving lives that would otherwise be lost. Blood was his constant companion at these times. Surging, spraying, flowing. Always it was where it should not be, the pressure of it making it spill in joyful spurts that reminded him blood was life. It was animate and sought direction. Elrond supplied it, applying pressure, making tourniquets, his nimble fingers working with needle and thread until he could barely see to make the sutures.

He did not know whether the bodies brought before him belonged to men or elves, only that they must be fixed, that blood and bone and muscle must be made to obey.

Only when he became too tired to be any use did Elrond truly retreat. He walked to his own tent, exhausted beyond reason, yet he knew he would not sleep. Not yet.

He did not remove his clothing, but lay on his bed in the dark and moved his hand down, still bloody, life and death and the balance between them weighed heavy on him. He had seen it for too long. Fought with it. This was life too, this need to touch himself. He unlaced his breeches and reached in to take himself in hand, his cock already erect in his palm. Hot with blood. His blood that obeyed the mere touch of his hand, even when he was so tired he could no longer think.

It was not pleasure, he told himself sternly. It could not be. Not here, not now. Thoughts of Celebrían vanished like smoke and he could not hold onto her. Her fair image did not belong in the midst of this.

It was a delayed response to adrenaline, to stress, to the thrill of the battle. To the struggle between himself and death, because he succeeded with his patients more often than he failed. Yet it was the failures too that brought this. He needed an affirmation, and this was it, this perfect culmination of action, blood and response. He came biting his lip, tasting hot copper on his tongue. He'd tasted the blood of the enemy unwillingly when it splashed on him. It would never be this sweet.

The warmth on his hand was not blood, but it was confirmation that he lived. He would continue, and fight again tomorrow, against the enemy and death. He tasted it before wiping it away, a kind of communion he could not deny. All was done, and now he would sleep.

When he was almost gone into reverie, he heard the tent flap rustle. Within moments a body nestled by the side of him. Just as dirty, just as tired. Still alive for another day. Elrond smiled, glad of it.

“You always start without me,” Thranduil said, though it was not really a complaint. Elrond heard the tell-tale rhythmic rustling in the dark. It made him happy somehow.

“If not for your legendary endurance, Oropherion, you might catch me at it,” he observed, and turned away onto his side. He could feel Thranduil's eyes upon him, though he must be nothing but a huddled shape, if Thranduil could see anything at all.

“Tomorrow, I will be early,” he vowed, and Elrond grinned. He said that every night.

“Promises,” said Elrond. “You never keep them.”

Thranduil whispered a harsh word or two near him, finding his own end to the day. All was well. They were still here, together. Elrond slept more peacefully with Thranduil next to him. He hoped it would continue and outlast this war.

~ finis ~
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The Summoning