Some Futile Hope by Luxa

---

Part Two: Chapter Ten

Elrond survives banter with Glorfindel and meets with dwarves.

---

Second Age, August 29th, 1699. 9:47 A.M.

The air blowing into the valley smelled like death.

No one said anything, least of all Elrond, but they could all smell it. They'd burnt the carcasses of the orcs, but the smell still lingered, blown towards them by a late summer wind.

Glorfindel, who was helping him down the steep slope, noticed his pinched expression and asked, "Are you alright, Elrond?"

"I'm fine," said Elrond, hand clutching at the cane the healers had forced on him.

The leg injury, the lesser of his two wounds, had become infected in the night and was now posing nearly as much of a problem for Elrond as his butchered arm was. He felt slow and useless and detested the cane even as he kept a death grip on it.

"You're lying, but that's to be expected. It comes with the territory."

"Ah, yes," said Elrond. "One of the Golden Flower's many unfathomable statements. Do I dare ask what territory you speak of?"

"The territory of a high lord such as yourself. You really have been neglecting the lying duties."

"I suppose it comes with being left-handed," said Elrond, nearly slipping on a patch of small stones. "All my problems of late seem to stem from that."

"By all you mean one, of course."

"My dear Lord Glorfindel, could it be that you're actually trying to make me feel better, using your sad attempts at humor? Let me thank you for the effort."

The banter cheered Elrond slightly, but it didn't stop him from feeling helpless or ugly or incompetent. Glorfindel sighed when he saw Elrond's face fall in the silence.

"Something is wrong, Elrond, and I wish you would tell me what it is."

"Perhaps I am thinking of the terrible pain I was in only yesterday, when I had a mace crush my armor into my skin, to stay there for the rest of eternity. Or perhaps later that day, when every small bone in my arm was reset, taking up several agonizing hours of my day. Maybe that is what's bothering me."

Elrond stopped walking as he waited for Glorfindel's reply, examining the tree before him. It was beautiful, its leaves the deep green of a tree about to turn for the fall, the bark smooth and white. He would have reached out to touch a leaf if his one good hand wasn't gripping a cane.

"I honestly wish that's what was bothering you," said Glorfindel, the low timbre of his voice rumbling in his chest as he spoke barely above a whisper. "But now I know it's not, now that you've mentioned it all. What's really going on?"

"Poor Glorfindel," was what Elrond ended up replying with. "Poor Glorfindel of the House of the Yellow Flower. He slays a Balrog and then ends up trapped in a valley with a useless Half-elf."

"Poor Glorfindel," replied Glorfindel easily. "He's stuck in a valley with a Half-elf who won't stop bitching. Now tell me the truth, or I'll be the most irritating shadow you've ever had."

"Aren't you already?"

"Elrond."

"Fine," said Elrond testily. "Could we find a place to sit? My leg aches and I can't balance with my arm in this sling."

"You do look a sight," agreed Glorfindel. "And not a good one."

The two of them found a resting spot on some grass (unusually soft and green for late August) to talk. Elrond grumbled incoherently as he eased his leg down and tried to get comfortable, an effort that proved futile.

"I must look ridiculous," said Elrond quietly after a few minutes. "Complaining about my injuries like this, walking with the gait of a lame horse, glaring moodily at anyone who looks at me the wrong way. I am shaming myself and my king."

He chanced a glance at Glorfindel, who was quite taken aback.

"Elrond, you idiot," he began. "You had your arm crushed just yesterday. By all rights, you should be in bed. In fact, the healers are still lamenting that you're not! But the strong and stalwart Lord Elrond maintained he must see the Dwarves in person, and here we are. You should not feel bad about your pain. You do not flaunt it when you face your troops, but only when you are with me, your friend and confidant. Do not worry yourself over that."

"These days it seems like your biggest battles are against my self-confidence," said Elrond, lips almost twitching into a smile.

"You underestimate yourself," said Glorfindel. "We are still dancing around the subject at hand. What has been bothering you?"

"I had a choice," said Elrond, his voice betraying no emotion. "I made it long ago. I chose to be one of the Eldar, and yet here I am, limping with a cane like some aged human man. My brother used a cane in his last days, I am told."

"You feel like an old man?" asked Glorfindel.

"Yes," sighed Elrond. "I do. I fear the sight I make to the soldiers, who have not forgotten my heritage. What if they think I am weak? What can I even say to that claim?"

"Like I said, you poor, worried, idiot," said Glorfindel kindly. "You are walking on a wounded leg that was injured barely twenty-four hours ago. Elves do not think of old men unless they are presented with them. Trust me, friend, it will not even enter their minds."

Elrond was silent for a moment, his deep gray eyes clouded with thought. Then he nodded sharply.

"You're right," he said. "What you say makes sense. Now help me up, I have a dwarf contingent to meet with."

Second Age, August 29th, 1699. 10:20 A.M.

"Lord Kardim," said Elrond, sweeping into the tent as graciously as he could while leaning on a cane. "I am sorry it took so long for you to get a proper welcome."

"I'm no lord," were the first words out of the Dwarf's mouth. "And as a simple Dwarf, let me tell you I'm surprised to see you out of bed. You Elves aren't as tough as Dwarves, and I heard you were gravely injured in the battle."

"Injured, yes," said Elrond. "But not gravely."

The Dwarf gave him a quick look over, stroking his gray beard. "Looks grave to me."

Elrond's smile was quick and unconvincing. "I have not come to discuss my injuries, but rather your presence here."

"How welcoming."

Elrond closed his eyes and winced. "That was not how I intended it. You must forgive me."

"Must I?"

Elrond sighed.

"I'm only having a bit of fun, my lord," said Kardim apologetically.

"No," said Elrond, sitting on a bench in the tent, the best the worn out troops could provide on short notice. "It is my fault. I did not want to admit it, but these wounds are trying my patience."

"As to be expected," said Kardim.

"Tell me, Lo...Kardim, how did you survive the last year?"

The Dwarf chuckled. "It would have been harder for Elves. I mean no offense, of course, it is just true. We escaped into the old tunnels and mines, although we did not dare to go past the outer halls."

"You ventured into Moria?" said Elrond, intrigued.

"Aye, but barely. We know the tales of what's down there, and there are barely forty of us. Not enough to fight anything much bigger than a scouting party."

Elrond nodded. "And with rumors of what's down there...how long were you in the mines?"

"Two or three months, at the beginning. Then the orc army stopped caring about us refugees and focused entirely on you, so we were able to escape into the mountains. Beautiful, they are, even in the winter."

"They are," he agreed.

"Anyway, we wanted to find you, but it was hard. Even with an army surrounding you, this valley is mighty hard to find."

"Good," said Elrond. "Perhaps the High King will find a use for this splendid valley if this long war ever ends."

Kardim suddenly got a twinkle in his eye that worried Elrond. "Is it true what they say about you and that Elf King of yours? That you two are bumping uglies?"

Elrond turned red. "I'm not sure now is the time for this discussion."

"When, then? Are you gonna invite me to your tent so we can discuss it in detail?"

"I thought you said you would stop 'having your bit of fun' or whatever you called it."

"I apologized, I never said I would stop."

"Lord Kardim," said Elrond firmly. "Take the subject up with the High King. For now we have matters of import to discuss. You are more than welcome to stay here, although your rations will be stretched thin, the same as ours."

"Thank you for your kindness," said Kardim, visibly surprised. "Ever since the disaster of Doriath, our kinds have not mixed well."

"Your ancestors took no part in the wars of our people," said Elrond. "And even if you had, I would not deny refuge to anyone, especially those who fought with us."

"You make a noble Lord," said Kardim.

"Thank you," said Elrond, smiling tiredly. "But it does not take much to make one a Lord."

"You know," said Kardim. "In return for your hospitality, us Dwarves could set about making this place a little more hospitable. Build some real buildings instead of these huts you have now."

"Just like that?"

"It would be good for the lads and lasses to have something to do, keep their hands busy. We'll even do it in Elvish style. They like a challenge."

"Speaking frankly, Kardim, that would be fantastic."

They spoke a few more minutes on the specifics of the Dwarves' staying in Imladris, where they'd camp, what they'd start building, how to find the latrines, etc. When it was time for Elrond to leave he started to struggle to his feet, but had no more than began when Kardim offered him a thick, calloused hand. Elrond took it and the Dwarf pulled him right to his feet, steadying him before he stumbled and even handing him his cane.

"I appreciate that," said Elrond breathlessly. "I'm glad we could make such beneficial arrangements. Now I'm afraid I have some other business to attend to."

"Hopefully resting is among it," said Kardim, eyeing him critically.

"I believe it is," he admitted, heading for the exit.

"You know," said Kardim. "Even though you're the more Lord-like Lord I've ever met, I like you."

Elrond smiled and took it as the compliment it was meant.