Some Futile Hope by Luxa

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Part Two: Chapter Nine

Elrond heals, albeit painfully.

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Second Age, August 28th, 1698. 12:20 P.M.

"Breathe, Lord Elrond, and it will go easier."

"I-I am trying," he managed. "It is not easy going, is all."

"You're doing fantastic, my lord," said the healer, clapping a calloused hand on his shoulder. "Although I doubt that means much to you at the moment."

"I will...comfort myself with that fact at a...later date," he said, his thin attempt at humor making her smile.

She was attempting to remove all the armor from his injured arm, piece by painful piece. The healers had offered to make Elrond unconscious for it; if he'd been a normal soldier with normal responsibilities, he would have accepted, but he had duties he needed to attend to sooner rather than later.

He felt her fingers fumble at a bit of golden metal. As he watched, she pulled at it, and a layer of skin and muscle went with it. He turned away as he felt bile rise in his throat.

He was staring at the front of the tent, away from the gore, and thus saw Glorfindel and the messenger enter. The messenger stopped in his tracks when he saw Elrond's bloody arm; Glorfindel didn't pause as he strode to Elrond's side.

"Ow," said Glorfindel casually, running his fingers through his golden hair. "Glad that's not me."

"Thank you, that's very-ngghhh..."

"I'm sorry, didn't hear you."

The healer, who'd just pulled another piece of armor out of his crushed arm, patted him sympathetically and continued her work.

Elrond laughed weakly and said, "What's the news? I haven't had either a report on the supplies or the number of causalities."

"You know," said Glorfindel, deciding now was the time for one of his thoughtful interruptions. "When I met you, you'd hardly smile even during a festival. Now you smile during surgery. I must be a wonderful influence."

"Ha," said Elrond, grinding his teeth together as the healer once again did something horrendous in the name of healing. "Note that a-as a laugh of derision, not amusement. Big...difference."

"I can't tell whether that was sarcastic or not," said Glorfindel, although he sobered at the sight of Elrond in obvious agony. "Tell me, healer, how's it look? For his arm, I mean?"

"I have a name, you know," said the healer.

"Forgive me, but I do not know it."

"I know," said the healer. "And as for our poor lord here, with time and luck, he should regain full use of the arm. But it will take a long time to heal, and I'm not going to be able to get all these metal bits out, not without making him bleed out. It's gonna be a nasty scar, I'm afraid."

"I'm always wanted a battle scar," lied Elrond, his insides twisting.

Lauded for his beauty, he'd been. For his thick eyelashes and his full lips and his pale, perfect body. He'd worried before that he was too tan and thin for his King, but he could always eat more and get less sun. He would never be able to hide a scar like this, not one adorned with his own armor.

Now was not the time for these worries. His pain was getting him off task.

"For now, Lord Elrond," said the healer. "You're going to have to fight with your other hand. That is, if the rumors are true, and you are left-handed by birth."

"I am," said Elrond. "A small misfortune compared to some of mine, but irksome nonetheless.

"His leg?" prompted Glorfindel.

Elrond had almost forgotten about his leg, so badly did his arm hurt. Trust Glorfindel to remember trivial things like leg injuries.

"Barely scraped, it was," said the healer. "It'll be fine."

Elrond would have spoken, but her hands were in his arm again, and he wished there was a bucket to throw up in nearby.

"I believe you asked for a report of the supplies," said Glorfindel, leaning closer. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but the troops heard you were injured and many are fearing for your life. I needed to know for their sake. As for supplies, I'm sure you'll get a much more detailed report when you're not quite so indisposed, but as for now, the estimate of edible food is thought to hold us for a year, perhaps more, if rationed carefully. That's not even to mention all the other supplies the orcs left behind in their haste."

"What...about the...Bruinen?" asked Elrond as best he could. "Any signs of it rising again?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, but for now, that is good. We need the time to get the provisions to the valley."

"That's...wonderful news. Couldn't have...hoped for better," panted Elrond, finding her breathing getting shorter as the healer, her hands red with his blood, leaned over to retrieve a needle and thread.

"That's not all," said Glorfindel, a definite shine coming from his skin as he grinned. Damn Valinorian Elves. "A group of Dwarves found their way to us just about an hour ago. They heard the battle and came running. They arrived to late to help, but they were at the battle a year ago, when Lord Cel- well, you know. They're Durin's Dwarves."

"Are they willing to fight?"

"Did I not just tell you as much?"

"You'll have to forgive me, my mental facilities are not...up to par at the moment. Did they bring any of their own supplies?"

"Some," said Glorfindel, smile fading. "They've been hiding in the mountains for the last year, away from the orcs. They'll need some of ours."

"And we'll be happy to oblige, as long as they fight. "Thank you...Glorfindel, for all the news. And now for the poor messenger I have kept waiting."

The messenger, so young he could only have turned a hundred a few years previously, shuffled forward. His face was flushed, and Elrond guessed he was sickened by the sight of Elrond's arm. Elrond didn't blame him.

"My Lord Elrond, I have the casualty report," he began, but the healer suddenly rose up and quieted him.

"I am sorry to interrupt you, brave one, but I am going to begin resetting his bones, and I don't think you'll want to be here for that. Or that he'll be very talkative during it."

Elrond's face must have betrayed his feelings, for Glorfindel winced for him and squeezed his right hand.

"I will stay, if you want."

"I am not certain," said Elrond quietly. "Is it cowardly to clutch at another soldier's hand when injured? I have little experience in these matters."

"There is not cowardice in choosing to command your army over your comfort," said Glorfindel.

"Then stay."

The messenger turned to leave. Elrond called after him, saying, "Please, if you could, find me a bucket or pail of some sort before you go. I do not think my stomach will last."

The messenger did as he was bid, leaving Elrond gripping Glorfindel's hand tightly.

"You never told me your name," said Glorfindel, speaking to the healer.

"No," said the healer. "I didn't."

Then she snapped something in Elrond's arm, and he screamed.