Some Futile Hope by Luxa

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Part Two: Chapter Eleven

Elrond relearns swordplay.

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Second Age, September 15th, 1699. 7:12 A.M.

"I hate this."

The statement was not filled with anger or resentment, but with quiet resignation. Elrond hated to hear it come out of his mouth, but he was frustrated and tired beyond belief.

He chanced a glance at Glorfindel, eyes flitting up quickly. The golden-haired warrior was his usual paradigm of calmness, smiling encouragingly at him.

"I spent a decade learning how to wield a sword properly, and now I am back at square one," he said, almost too quietly for Glorfindel to hear. "How can you possibly stand me?"

"I'll admit, the pessimism is trying," said Glorfindel. "But you didn't pick this, Elrond. We've just got to try our best to get your in fighting strength again."

Elrond smiled, trying to show Glorfindel how grateful he was. He couldn't see it, but it looked out of place on his wan, tired face.

"Back in form," ordered Glorfindel.

Elrond's feet instinctively slipped back into the familiar position, a slightly cheering prospect. It wasn't his feet that were the problem, though. He raised his right hand and prepared for Glorfindel's attack, wishing his right arm wasn't strapped to his chest with more bandages then he'd even known the camp had had.

He wasn't going to complain about it though. Not out loud. His head was full enough of the sound of his own moaning, he didn't want to inflict it upon anyone else.

"Stop," said Glorfindel. "Stop your brooding right now. I know that face."

"You...do?"

"Yes. It's the patented 'Elrond is sad and insecure' face, and it makes me so unhappy I might scream. Stop thinking so much and fight me!"

Elrond cracked a smile and finally let himself get into the right mindset, even if he was still using the wrong hand.

Second Age, October 21st, 1699. 7:24 A.M.

"Much better!"

"You've said that five times today, I think."

"Maybe it's, I don't know, because you're doing much better?"

Elrond grinned foolishly at that. "Hopefully you speak the truth."

Glorfindel gasped. "Are you questioning my honesty? I demand a duel to regain my honor!"

"A duel you will surely win, oh great soldier," replied Elrond, readying his blade. "But still, I must try."

Glorfindel was about to pounce when he called, "Wait! Adjust your bandage, it's sliding."

Elrond sighed and straightened the sling. He'd had it on for so long it felt like it was a part of him now. "Yes, yes, it's done. Let's go!"

"As you wish, my lord," said Glorfindel.

The sparring match was intense, but afterwards, he felt better for it.

Second Age, November 12th, 1699. 8:38 A.M.

"What," said Elrond, panting and massaging his ribcage with his free hand. "Do you think it my sling came off and suddenly I couldn't fight again? Wouldn't that be horrible?"

"I doubt all your skill in your right hand would go away like that," said Glorfindel. "At worst you could wield two blades."

"But what if?" said Elrond. "Orcs attacking and my hands are useless?"

"You could always put the sling back on," suggested Glorfindel.

Elrond considered it. "I could, couldn't I? A bit unorthodox, but as long as it kept me alive."

"Exactly my sentiment," said Glorfindel.

Elrond unsheathed his sword again, the sound of metal on metal filling the air. "Again? Today is one of rest for the soldiers, and I have few duties, for once."

Glorfindel was taken aback. "You still have the energy?"

"And you do not? Tut, where is the House f the Golden Flower now?"

Glorfindel growled with annoyance and attacked; Elrond was ready for him.

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Second Age, January 5th, 1700. 6:20 A.M.

"It is far too early for this, Elrond. I should be sleeping. You should be sleeping. We should all be sleeping."

"Do you think the orcs are sleeping?"

"Probably. It's too early in them morning for this."

"You wouldn't have said that three months ago."

"It wasn't cold enough to freeze my hair into individual strands three months ago."

They were interrupted by a messenger puffing up to them, breath visible in the frosty air.

"Lord Commander Elrond," said the messenger breathlessly. "Lord Glorfindel. News."

"Lord Commander?" commented Glorfindel. "I haven't heard that one before."

"Me neither," said Elrond. "I like it."

The messenger spared them a quick grin before launching into his news. "I have a letter."

"From?" prompted Elrond, amazed. "We haven't gotten any news in months. Last we heard the King was holding Lhûn to defend the Havens."

"No longer!" said the messenger, waving the letter in excitement. "Tar-Minastir's fleet has come finally! The Númenorians are here in force! The High King has marched from Lhûn!"

"To where?" asked Elrond excitedly.

"The letter does not say, but it speaks of the King's intent to battle here at Imladris when he can."

"Any bad news?" said Glorfindel. "I hate to burst the bubble, but there's always bad news."

The messenger's smile faded. "According to all reports, Eriador is overrun. We alone stand against Sauron."

"Only what we suspected," said Elrond. "And still we stand. Let us rejoice! The Númenorians have arrived, and Ereinion is on his way!"