Aldon by elwen of the hidden valley

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Disclaimer.

 

I do not own Middle-earth or any of its denizens.  It all belongs to JRR Tolkien, his heirs and executors etc.  I am just messing about in his world and I do hope he will not be too angry.

 

Author’s notes.

Not a tale for the purists among us.  I am making several, possibly AU, assumptions: -

  1. Gil-galad, the last wielder of Vilya, handed it over to Elrond just before the King died.
  2. Some elven power is derived from their link to the land and they can draw upon it and the strength of others to supplement their own innate strength.
  3. Elrond has a little more mortal blood in him than is indicated in Tolkien’s work.
  4. There are probably several more so feel free to move along if they start to jar with you.

 

 


Tired…so tired.  And still the wounded kept coming.  Long hours ago he had exhausted his own strength for the healings and the other physicians had taken to providing him with elven assistants, ready to offer their own power for his use.  Elrond had lost track of how many different assistants had stood by his side this day.  His fatigued mind could no longer remember the names so they had stopped introducing themselves and he had stopped asking.

He laid his hands upon the brow of the man stretched out on the camp bed before him.  A large bruise on his temple, with a hollow beneath it, was evidence that blow had shattered the skull and driven it inwards to touch the tender brain sheath below. Fluid was already gathering and the huge man was slipping onto coma.

Two smaller hands were laid hesitantly upon his and Elrond felt the power offered for his use.  The healer could sense that this aide was also near the end of his strength and sighed.  He would not be able to completely reverse the damage but he would be able to do enough to repair the body.  The battle would then return, once more, to the owner.  It would be his decision whether to live or die, but at least Elrond could give him that option.

Firm hands pushed upon his shoulders and the elf lord found a campstool beneath him.  Grateful, he turned to find Duinil standing behind him.  The surgeon who had called him to the case, Duinil was appraising the elf before him, noting the shallow breathing, the sheen of perspiration on his brow, the pale skin.  Under any other circumstances he would have ordered Elrond to rest but he had been so desperately needed among the hundreds of wounded in the tents around them.

A low moan drew the elf lord’s gaze back to the form on the bed.  The soldier was in pain, his uncoordinated limbs moving slowly beneath the blankets, trying desperately to run from the agony.  Elrond touched his palms to the man’s brow again and the assistant, at his knee, once more laid his atop the lord’s long fingers.

Pain…used to pushing aside such distractions, Elrond moved past the man’s anguish.  The hurt pulsed red and hot before him.  Shattered bone was pushing on soft matter and the body responded by surrounding the hurt with fluid, to cushion it, but the fluid itself was causing more pressure and now the soft brain matter was being distorted, the blood flow to his precious mind restricted.  Cells were dying.

Elrond reached out and accepted the light song offered by the young elf at his feet.  Drawing it out he fashioned it, slipping it below the shards of bone and pushing lightly, restoring the skull to its former domed shape and knitting the fragments together to make them whole once more.  The helper, a wood elf of Oropher’s people, offered another chord Elrond noted distantly.  For a moment the elf lord nearly lost his concentration.  How many of Oropher’s folk had been lost in the field that day?  Certainly, the casualties had been heaviest in that quarter.  With a start the healer realised that his mind had been wondering and pulled himself back to the task in hand.

Using the music offered he speeded the circulation, using it to carry the extra fluid away and watched as the pressure was relieved.  A small hollow in the grey matter was all that remained and only time would tell what damage had been done to the mind it contained.  Elrond sensed that the wood elf had reached the end of his strength and let go of his fea, letting his own mind rise to the surface of consciousness after him. 

His eyes came into focus on the soldier.  Duinil was checking the man’s vital signs and nodded when he saw Elrond watching. 

“His breathing and pulse are returning to more normal levels and his colour is better.”  The young wood elf stood, slowly, sipping gratefully at the glass of water an orderly offered.

“Lord Elrond…” A flustered surgeon bustled up to the party standing around the bed.  The elven lord was finding it difficult to focus on the new figure.  “Sir.  There is a patient over here…he may not live…such terrible crush injuries…you must help.”

Sighing, Elrond rose and moved to follow the surgeon, then staggered as something caught his arm, just as someone steadied him from the other side.  Taken aback, Elrond looked down the see what detained him and found a hand locked firmly around his biceps.  He followed the arm to a shoulder and, finally the face of Duinil.  The half elven lord was confused and, even as his mind registered this, another part of him said that he should be angry at being detained by a mortal, thus.  He opened his mouth to protest but no sound would issue.  When had he spoken, last?  He could not remember.  He had not the energy to spare for luxuries like speaking.

Elrond swallowed in too dry a throat and tried to prize the fingers from his arm, shaking his head in frustration when he found that he lacked the strength even to do that.

“Lord Elrond will do no more healing, today.  He has already done more than enough.  The surgeons and physicians will have to manage without him.”  Duinil ordered.  Elrond turned to glare at his captor, but found that his eyes would not focus, indeed the room seemed to be growing darker and the moans of the injured fading.

Duinil showed no surprise when he saw Elrond’s dark grey eyes roll upward; the eyelids sliding shut over their shadowed depths.  Heavier than an elf and yet much lighter than a man of his size, Duinil had no trouble catching him as the half elven lord’s legs folded under him. 

The surgeon signalled to two of Elrond’s own people and they carried their lord to his tent.




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