Healing by Astris

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Healing

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"Wake up, golodh."

Gildor's shoulder was on fire, every breath sending a spear through his nerves, pain sparking dancing red fire across the back of his eyelids. His eyes would not open, no matter how hard he tried. There was something soft under him, and the air smelled of bitter healing herbs.

"Come, now, surely even a coward such as yourself can manage to sit up now." A cold cloth dabbed at his face; something trickled down his chin and wound under his shirt, a twining path of icy chill. "We are tired of tending you."

"Achardis," someone hissed, and the cloth withdrew.

"Yes?" This was the first voice, again, vaguely irritated. "It is likely that he cannot hear me, so why should I––"

He pried his eyelids apart, managing to get one of them about halfway up. Through the blurred slit, he could see a dark-haired elf leaning over him, something white in his hand.

"I'm not a coward," he tried to say (the one thing he had picked up from that comment––his mind was a bit sluggish, for some reason), but it came out as more of a muffled groan. The elf swung towards him, eyes widening.

"Ah. You're awake. Achardis, can you––?"

The other elf muttered something under her breath and retreated from the tent, the flap swishing closed after her. He realized for the first time that he seemed to be under some sort of canvas shelter, the heraldry on the wall unfamiliar, and––no, that was a lie. He knew that sign as well as any, for all that it was not that of his people. And, recognizing it, he felt a pang of anxious fear.

Oh, Eru, what am I going to do?

"I'm sorry for her harshness," the healer was saying, rooting through the bag tied around his waist. "She's a soldier, truth be told, but one of her wounds got badly infected. I've had her helping me with the wounded since she's been able to walk around on her own––all the healers use those with lesser injuries as assistants––but I think that she resents it." He came to stand beside the bed. "Here. Drink."

The healer held up a bowl of something clear and he drank without thinking, wincing as a sharp taste flooded his mouth. He pulled away, a dribble of liquid spilling over his chin, and felt his face flush when the healer wiped it away as though he were a child. When he tried to speak again, he found that his voice had returned.

"Am I a prisoner, then?" he asked, voice hoarse. The healer frowned.

"Why on earth would you think that?"

He tried to gesture at the heraldry on the wall, found that his arms weren't quite up to obeying his commands yet, and settled for jerking his chin in the general direction. The healer looked at it, then at him, and laughed.

"Even if you were strong enough to make a decent prisoner, you are of the Eldar as much as I. We do not take our own kind prisoner, not even my lord Fëanorian." The healer's eyes softened as he set the now-empty bowl aside. "I am sorry if you think so, though."

He closed his eyes, fighting back creeping exhaustion. The healer turned away in a rustle of cloth, adjusting something on the shelves at the edge of the tent.

"Why am I still alive?" he finally asked, keeping his eyes shut. Even in the dimness of the tent, the light was painful. “What happened, healer?”

"Hm?" He heard the healer turn back. "Don’t you––surely you remember––"

"The doomed plan that your lord had, yes." He opened one eye and squinted at the healer, anger surging. He felt so damned weak, lying here, unable to even sit up, and he shouldn’t even have–– "The one that led us all to think that we could truly bring down Morgoth. The one that failed.”

"Not my lord." The healer returned to his side. "And I am not a soldier, but it seemed to me at the time that Lord Maedhros' plan had some merit––"

"Tell me, healer, how many of us walked away alive from that killing ground?" And I did not even walk on my own, it seems, but I am alive nonetheless. "If they had truly told us all they knew, surely we would not have dared march at all––" He found himself trying to sit up, arms trembling beneath his weight, and he wanted to leave, wanted to escape this stifling tent and return to Nargothrond and everyone there (wanted them to be alive again). "And if I am to be called coward for daring to survive, then I would that I had died alongside all the rest––"

The healer's hands pressed against his shoulders, trying to ease him back down onto the blankets. To his relief, there was no offer of sympathy, no concerned you ought not to say such things. Instead, the healer said, "We found you on the battlefield, buried under a massive Orc, his spear sticking out of your shoulder and a banner of Nargothrond driven through his heart. You were still alive, and Lord Caranthir ordered that you be brought with us––the others had fled already, and he was not willing to leave any to die on the field. Even Achardis would not truly accuse you of cowardice, if you came so near to perishing in defense of our lands."

He sank down, pretending he was letting the healer push him back instead of simply letting his weakened arms collapse under him. He did remember the end of the battle––being crushed to the ground beneath the dead weight of that foul creature, hands still clenched around the only weapon he had been able to snatch up when his sword had shattered.

"Chew this." The healer pressed something to his lips and he swallowed automatically before the tingle across his tongue alerted him to the sedative. He tried to spit it out, but there was a leaden weight settling over his limbs already. He frowned up at the healer.

...Lord Caranthir ordered that you be brought with us...

"Caranthir?" he mumbled. "Better than––well, it could have been worse." At least Caranthir had not––to his knowledge––betrayed an entire realm. (Not yet. He was a Fëanorian, after all, and Nargothrod had yet to forget the last time it let one of them into its halls.)

"You'll feel better after you sleep," the healer offered.

He opened his mouth to express his disbelief and fell into a gaping black hole into silence, all the rest evaporating.

 

===

 

When he woke again, the pain in his shoulder had faded to a manageable level, a distant throb tugging at the edges of his awareness every time he moved. The soldier––Achardis, was that what the healer had called her?––was sitting on a stool at the other end of the tent, scraping a whetstone across her knife blade. She looked up when he shifted, grey eyes sharp with irritation.

"You're awake," she said, as though that fact were a terrible inconvenience. "Any pain?"

He considered this, then shrugged.

"Not much of an answer." She set aside the stone and sheathed her knife, but did not stand up. "Look, if you want me to get Elvëandil, I can." Her dark hair had been tied back in a braid, but several wispy strands had escaped to dangle over her forehead. She looked exhausted; he wondered how many more like him there were, how many she was expected to help care for.

He swallowed, found that the slight movement did not hurt. "I'm not in enough pain to warrant the care of your healer."

She made a noise of approval. "Well. Do you think you can stand up, golodh?"

"My name––" He levered himself up into a sitting position, glaring at her, "is Gildor. I'll thank you to keep that in mind."

"And mine is Achardis, but that never seems to stop people from calling me what they will. Is there aught that you need?"

"I think I'd like to stand up."

She considered this, then sheathed her knife with a sharp jerk of her wrist. "Don't blame me when you fall flat on your face."

"I won't." He took her offered arm to pull himself up, and when she stepped away he was pleasantly surprised to find that he did not waver overmuch. His legs were tingling painfully, but at least he could feel them. He also realized that he was only wearing a pair of breeches and that the bandages that enveloped his shoulder didn't do much in the way of covering his chest, but Achardis didn't seem to notice.

She did look reluctantly impressed as he took a step towards the center of the tent, then another. He turned to her with only a slight wobble, and spread his arms, a grin spreading across his face.

"How is that, milady?" he asked without a trace of mockery, and her face softened, just for a second. 

"Elvëandil will be satisfied that you have recovered."

Gildor started for the doorway and nearly tripped over his own feet when he found Achardis somehow in front of him, having moved so quickly that he hadn't quite caught the motion.

"Where do you think you're going?"

He drew himself up as best he could and smiled. "To see your healer, for one, and thank him for saving my life. And perhaps after that, your leader. I do not have much of a desire to remain in a war camp for overlong, you see."

She frowned. "I don't––"

Whatever she had been about to say was cut off as the dark-haired elf from earlier––Elvëandil ––appeared in the doorway. A pleased look flashed across his face as he took in Gildor standing half-clothed in the center of the tent, swaying slightly.

"You're awake!" The healer set down the bundle he had been carrying and rushed to his side, pushing back the wide sleeves of his robe. "How's the wound? Any pain?" Before Gildor could respond, Elvëandil had seized his arm and was inspecting the bandages, clicking his tongue with approval. "No infection yet," he added cheerfully, and Gildor pulled away with a bemused smile.

"That's––that's very good, I suppose."

"Oh, yes." Elvëandil smiled, wide and honest, and Gildor felt an answering tug at the corners of his mouth, as though the healer's cheerfulness was catching. "Do you think you can walk around a bit? Some fresh air would do you a world of good." He looked Gildor up and down, taking his bare torso in without a trace of embarrassment, then added, "We'll find you a tunic. Achardis?"

Achardis turned and rooted through a nearby stack of folded clothing, then thrust out a threadbare green thing that looked more like a supply sack than anything else. Gildor opened his mouth to protest, then realized that it was probably all they had––Elvëandil's robes didn't look much better, certainly.

"Thank you," he said instead, taking the tunic and pulling it over his head. It was a little tight across the chest and a little long in the sleeves, but it would do.

Elvëandil led him out into the sun, and Gildor had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted. All around him, soldiers bearing the Fëanorian sigil bustled around, shouting to one another. The glitter of sunlight off a nearby river was visible through the trees, though Gildor wasn't sufficiently versed in the geography of eastern Beleriand to figure out which river it might be (and eastern Beleriand was certainly where they were, since there were distant mountains to the east that could only have been the Ered Luin).

"We're in southern Thargelion," Elvëandil supplied helpfully, as though he had heard his thoughts, and took Gildor's elbow, steering him out of the center of the path and making way for a soldier carrying a crate nearly half his size. "Foothills of Mount Dolmed. That's the river Ascar, if you were wondering. It's Lord Caranthir's old territory, which is why we were able to retreat this way without much trouble. He knows the land well."

Achardis had disappeared from their side. Gildor cast around and found her leaning on a barrel, smiling at something another soldier was saying. The other elf's leg was bound in a split, and she had a bandage across her cheek.

"Right." Gildor blinked, still a little overwhelmed. It was too loud, out here––the walls of the tent must have been incredibly thick to block out most of this. "Have you been here long?"

"A few days." Elvëandil shrugged. "You and a few others weren't in any state to be moved further."

"And you'll be moving on soon?"

Elvëandil gave him a thoughtful look. "I'm never told when we're going to move. I suppose we'd have to do so soon, though, since we've been fleeing south just ahead of Morgoth's forces ever since the battle."

Ever since the battle––and snatches of that were coming back to Gildor now, falling banners and his feet slipping in blood-soaked mud. He closed his eyes, feeling his hands tremble, and when he opened them again Elvëandil was regarding him with something like concern.

"Are you––"

"Fine," Gildor said, perhaps a little too quickly. "Could you show me around the camp, perhaps?" Now that he was outside, it was nice to be able to stand up and walk around a bit. Breathe some fresh air. He wasn't sure how many days he had lost, but he did know that he was not willing to return to the healer's tent quite yet.

"Of course." Elvëandil started off, walking slowly enough that Gildor had no trouble keeping up. The milling soldiers seemed to move out of the healer's way instinctively, forming a corridor down the churned-up dirt path. He pointed out a few notable sights along the way––the pens for the animals that the refugees brought with them (refugees from Thargelion, mostly, and a few from further west––Caranthir was taking any that needed to flee and moving south, was the general idea that Gildor was getting), the perfectly ordered lines of troop tents (the Lord Caranthir was very fastidious, Elvëandil added)––and Gildor could easily pick up the things he omitted: nearly every soldier was visibly wounded; there were gaps in the line of perfectly ordered tents, as though waiting for someone to come back and fill them.

"Elvëandil."

The healer stopped dead, his discourse on the lack of bandages dying in his mouth. Gildor turned to see a tall, dark Noldo standing in the center of the path, hands folded behind his back. He wore a black cloak over a red tunic, and there was an elaborately decorated scabbard at his waist.

"My lord," the healer said, and Gildor felt his eyes widen.

"As you were." Caranthir shot a glance at Gildor, grey eyes narrowing. "And this is...?"

"Ah––the soldier from Nargothrond that we found while retreating, sir."

Caranthir nodded, a gesture which would have been thoughtful on anyone else, but came off as a little too predatory on him. There was something about the way he stood that made Gildor think of a wolf, tensed to spring (made him think of the two brothers who had stayed with Finrod for a time––they had had the same steel in their eyes, the same fire).

"What's your name?"

"Gildor." After a pause, he added, "Gildor Inglorion."

The corner of Caranthir's mouth twitched. "Are you the brat that Findaráto took in, then?"

"I was his ward, yes." And that should not have been a surprise to Caranthir––Finrod hadn't exactly made a secret of the fact that he had taken on the child of one of his lords as a ward rather than leave his love in Valinor for a woman here, in Middle-earth. Having someone ready to rule Nargothrond should Finrod fall had been a sensible enough measure, and a necessary one until Orodreth had retreated from Tol Sirion and returned to Nargothrond. Even then, perhaps Gildor's position would still be needed: time had proven well enough that no family line was exempt from danger.

Caranthir regarded him for a few more seconds, then seemed to reach a decision. "Elvëandil!"

The healer jerked as if startled. "Yes?"

"Will our guest be sufficiently healed by tonight to join me in my tent for supper?" Gildor didn't fail to notice Caranthir's purposeful use of guest, nor the slight gleam in his eyes. "I would not have him return to his home without tasting of Fëanorian hospitality at least once."

Elvëandil considered this, then nodded. Gildor felt distinctly ignored, and had to resist the urge to wave his hands in front of the healer's face and say something along the lines of how about you ask me how I feel about eating dinner with a kinslayer? The brother of the ones that betrayed my king?

Caranthir's eyes flicked back to Gildor, something like dark amusement in them. "At sundown, then. I'll be expecting you." He turned and strode off without waiting for a response, and Gildor was left with a protest on his lips and a sinking feeling somewhere near the pit of his stomach.

"Come." The healer tugged on his sleeve, offering a smile. "You'll be wanting to get cleaned up."

"Right." Gildor followed Caranthir with his eyes until the tail of his cloak disappeared around the corner. His shoulder was hurting again.

 

===

 

The sons of Fëanor are our allies, Finrod had told him once, tapping the tip of his quill against the parchment, leaving pinprick drops of black ink. Gildor had watched nervously, wondering where he was going with this––he always got that feeling whenever he talked to his father's king, confused and anxious that he would not know the right answer to the next question asked of him.

Allies, Finrod had repeated, but that does not mean that they are entirely trustworthy.

They are the kinslayers, right? Gildor had offered, repeating words he had heard his father use. There were others––betrayers, murderers––but they had also said that these sons were King Finrod's cousins, and none of those were words for members of the royal family.

Finrod had nodded slowly. Kinslayers. But it was never so simple. And I do not think I would have trusted some of them even before they swore that Oath...

That had been long before the Dagor Bragollach, and before Gildor was old enough to hold his own sword and fight for Nargothrond. Before Curufin and Celegorm came to Finrod's hall, bloodied and begging for refuge.

Caranthir is not either of his brothers.

As far as Gildor had heard, one son of Fëanor wasn't all that different from another.

And yet here he was, walking through a Fëanorian camp, on his way to dinner with the (allegedly) most volatile of the seven. Elvëandil hadn't provided him with directions, but Gildor had figured that Caranthir shouldn't be too hard to find.

Thus far, he was having a little more trouble than he had expected. The camp was larger than it seemed, and the paths between rows of tents were narrow and crowded. Gildor spent a good half hour searching among the walls of fabric for a tent that looked as though it might belong to a commander (a prince, at that, if one wished to be technical), and the sun was only just visible over the horizon when he found one that he thought might be elaborate enough. His wound was bothering him still, a steady pound of pain with every breath he took, and his head spun every time he moved too quickly.

Oh, Eru, I’m so tired. Just––get me through this.

He hesitated outside the tent, nervously adjusting his tunic (borrowed from Achardis, who was a little shorter than him, and broader across the shoulders, but it still fit better than Elvëandil's). He flinched when a voice came from behind him, amused and dry.

"I told you to come at sunset."

He spun, forcing his hands to his side and doing his best to look as calm as possible. "Your tent is a little hard to find," he replied coolly. Caranthir nodded.

"Come in, then." He ducked under the tent flap and held it open for Gildor, leaving just enough room for him to squeeze by. This close, Gildor could feel how warm he was, catch the scent of something sweet and wild. (And the fact that he noticed that set him even more on edge, because he couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not here.)

There was a low table in the center of the tent, the rest of the furnishings having been pushed back against the edges. Gildor knelt on a cushion, which put the table at about waist height, and waited for his host to take a seat across from him. There was food already on the table, a roasted bird on a platter and goblets of something dark for each of them. Caranthir lifted his and inclined his head to Gildor.

"For our health," he intoned with a lift of an eyebrow. "Eru knows we'll be needing something." He knocked back his glass with a laugh. Gildor took a cautious sip and felt the burn of an unfamiliar spice trace fire down his throat.

They ate in near silence, punctuated by a few inane remarks about the food on Gildor's part and a curt nod or two from Caranthir. The bird was delicious; the first real food Gildor had had since waking––the healer had offered him broth of some sort, but the bitter taste had made him nearly spit it out.

Caranthir ate neatly but quickly, pausing every now and then to wipe his fingers on a napkin, devouring his food as though concerned it would disappear if he looked away. When he was done, he settled back on his cushion and watched his guest. Gildor could feel his eyes on him, could imagine the sharpness of them even if he didn't dare look up; he finished his meal as hastily as he could, swallowing the last few bites with slight difficulty.

"Was the food to your liking?" Caranthir asked, and Gildor nodded. The food––yes, the food had been good, and he was not about to tell him that what made him most uncomfortable was being in the same room as a kinslayer, the brother of the ones who had betrayed his king.

Are we done? Can I––

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said, and made as if to stand. Caranthir gestured sharply and Gildor froze halfway between sitting and standing, then immediately regretted his instinctive obedience.

"Are you in such a hurry to leave, then?" Caranthir asked mildly, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "Sit. Stay awhile. It has been long since I spoke to someone from Nargothrond."

Gildor sank back down, biting back the urge to snap what, didn't your brothers boast to you of their time there? "Speak to me, then."

Caranthir nodded. "How are you feeling? Wounds healing well?"

Gildor nodded curtly, wishing he could close his eyes and reappear somewhere else, away from that watchful gaze. He disliked how Caranthir’s eyes drew his own, how something like amused arrogance seemed to spark in them every time Gildor looked up.

"And how is my late cousin's kingdom?"

"Nargothrond was doing well, last I saw it," Gildor forced out, trying to keep his voice steady. You dare bring that up, he thought, wondering. You dare, when it was your kin who––

"That's good. Pity they couldn't spare us a few more soldiers," Caranthir noted, tapping a finger on the side of his glass. Gildor couldn't keep back his sharp retort.

"Pity your brothers couldn't resist the urge to betray King Finrod for the sake of power––"

Caranthir set his glass down a little too sharply, the wine sloshing over the side and splashing the table. "My brothers did what they deemed right, and it is not your place to condemn them for doing what they had to do."

Gildor supposed he should have been frightened (would have been, if he wasn’t still so exhausted), but to his surprise he felt an answering tug of fury. "I see nothing right about what they did, though I suppose you would. Was that a clause in that oath of yours, then, that you support all the idiotic decisions your brothers make in the name of regaining whatever it is you want––"

"Shut your mouth." There was a red flush spreading across Caranthir's cheeks. "Guestright or no, I can still throw you out of this camp and leave you for the Orcs to find if you don’t keep a civil tongue."

"Then why don't you?" Gildor’s fists clenched. "You were the one who decided I was worth saving, I suppose it's well within your rights to take that away again." He hadn't asked Caranthir to save him, hadn't expected (hadn't intended) to survive that battle, not after Gwindor's charge, not after everyone else had fallen.

"Did you wish to die, then?" Caranthir shot back. “Did I ruin your heroic little plan to sacrifice yourself for all the others who were dead anyways?”

"No." Yes. When all the others fell––what else––

"Then why––" Caranthir cut himself off with a jerk of his head and took several deep breaths, resolutely keeping his eyes on the table, then drank deeply from his glass. His hands shook slightly as he lowered it, and he seemed to be fighting to control it. Gildor followed the motion, belatedly realizing how much their voices had risen. 

"I did not mean to upset you," Caranthir finally said, the lightness in his voice clearly forced. "It is––well, it seems to be a habit of mine, really." When Gildor looked up, Caranthir smiled, small and unsure, as if it were not a gesture he was accustomed to extending.

"It's... that's fine," Gildor replied reluctantly. His limbs felt suddenly heavy, exhaustion making his head spin.

Caranthir stood up, abruptly businesslike again. "I suppose you're tired. Would you like me to escort you back to Elvëandil?"

Gildor pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the table, but when he finally gained his feet he only swayed a little––from his still-aching wounds more than from the wine, he thought, though it was hard to tell. "I think I can find my way back on my own."

“Very well." Caranthir nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on some point past Gildor's shoulder, "Good night."

"Good night," Gildor echoed, and stepped out of the tent as quickly as decorum would allow.

 

===

 

He woke in the middle of the night to the sound of feet scuffing across the floor of the tent, steps too light to be Elvëandil's. Before he could jerk upright, a small, cool hand tapped his arm.

"Gildor, sir?"

He sat up. The child––a girl, perhaps, though it was hard to tell by the light that filtered in from the torches outside––wore a threadbare tunic and a solemn expression.

"Elvëandil told me to come get you," she continued, tugging on his sleeve. "We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Gildor repeated, standing and grabbing a cloak from the pile of garments Achardis had left him. The girl nodded, stepping out of his way.

"Lord Caranthir says the Orcs are getting closer," she replied. "Elvëandil is seeing to the transport of the other wounded."

He followed her out, stumbling slightly as he ducked under the flap, and found the camp alive with activity, groups of soldiers packing up supplies and taking down the tents with startling speed. Gildor got the distinct impression that moving on without much warning was something they did often, judging by how efficiently they dismantled the camp. The only one out of place was him, and he stood to the side of the path helplessly, extending feeble offers of assistance and being brushed to the side by soldiers that rushed right on by, performing whatever meaningful task had been assigned to them.

"Hey, outta my way!"

He spun and nearly tripped over something small and feathery. There was a loud honk, and a sharp pain in his leg. Looking down, he realized that the culprit was a large bird with beady eyes and a long beak.

A boy swept in and tucked the goose under his arm, then hurried away, shooting a glare back over his shoulder. Gildor wondered if this was where his meal with Caranthir had come from. Nearly everything was packed up, now, which left him empty-handed and more than a little lost.

"Move out!" someone nearby called.

They marched through the steadily thickening forest with surprising silence, as though even the children in the refugee group were used to this. Gildor stumbled along, the pain in his shoulder getting steadily worse––it had never really stopped hurting, truly, but it was certainly hurtingmore.

He wasn't sure how long it was before they stopped, but the sky to the east was several shades lighter than it had been when they left, and Gildor was nearly asleep on his feet.

Caranthir found him sitting on a bundle of supplies, head in his hands. "There you are. Elvëandil was wondering where you'd gone off to."

Gildor glanced up, stubbornly resisting the urge to slip to the ground and fall asleep for a few years. "Hm. Why'd he send you, then?"

"He didn't send me," Caranthir replied. “Do you think so little of me as a host, that I would not care for the wellbeing of my guests?"

Had Gildor been a little more awake, he might have held his tongue. As it was, Caranthir's smug face was a little too abrasive for this hour of the morning, especially since he hadn't slept for more than a few hours.

"A guest that you do not care to have, that you would likely have rather left to die on the battlefield if it hadn't been for the banner in my hand and the political potential of rescuing a child of Nargothrond––did you already know that I was Finrod's ward, did you recognize me, or was that only a fortunate discovery on your part, after I had already been healed?" Gildor struggled upright, swaying slightly, and nearly fell over. Caranthir’s hands flashed up to catch him.

“Gildor?”

He tried to throw Caranthir’s hands off (let me go, kinslayer), but something seemed to be tugging him down, insistent and strong, and there was a net of pain drawing tight around his shoulder.

“Get off me,” he managed, the world reeling around him, and there was something that could have been concern in the grey eyes above him, but that couldn’t be right...

"You need to take better care of yourself," Caranthir muttered, soft enough that Gildor wasn't quite sure he had heard him right, and then, louder: "Elvëandil!"

Gildor fell back into darkness, Caranthir's fingers digging into his arms the last thing he felt.

 

===

 

"Is he getting better?"

"I'd be able to work on that more efficiently if you didn't insist on coming in here to distract me."

"I think I have a right to––"

"And I think I have a right to work in peace. My lord."

"You'll keep me informed."

"You know I will." Pause. "And there's no special reason you're interested, of course."

"Of course not."

 

===

 

We have many more such at home––the smell of blood, and Gwindor's contorted face––we will deal with them all when we return––

The midsummer sun was too hot, the battlesmell of death and pain festering in the heat. Gildor's horse slipped in pools of blood, an Orc-arrow caught in its leg, the armor-shine of Gwindor's host too far ahead, fading in the oncoming sea of black.

He cried out, trying to urge his horse on, because he should be there, with the rest of his people.

Quiet, someone whispered in his ear, and he felt cool hands on his cheeks. Elvëandil, he's burning up, what––

He struggled, trying to fight back, but the summer sky was fading into black and there was a fire in his shoulder, tendrils of flame curling through his veins and wrapping around his throat. Someone held him down, arms trapping his; something cold trickled into his mouth and he felt the hands again, running through his hair, soothing him. Sleep.

 

===

 

"Why hasn't he woken yet?"

"He'll wake in his own time, my lord. And you hovering over him like a concerned parent won't do much to help that."

"I'm not concerned, Elvëandil."

"Which is why you're not coming by every few hours to check on him.”

“You––”

“I never said it was necessarily a terrible thing."

"Regardless. Has something gone wrong with him, is that––"

"The wound on his shoulder has gotten infected. It must've been showing signs of that beforehand, but both Achardis and I were busy tending to so many at once, we must have both missed it––and the strain of moving camp doubtless aggravated it. He's fighting it off well enough for now, but we've been keeping him asleep so his body can recover on its own."

"And if the infection spreads––will you have to––" The voice broke off. There was a long pause.

"He'll recover."

 

===

 

The next time he woke, the moon was shining through a rip in the tent cloth, a sliver of white visible through the translucent fabric. He stared at that for a long time, trying to figure out what it reminded him of––and why his body felt so light, like there was something burning him to ash from within.

His blood felt like molten metal, pooling sluggishly in his veins. There was something––

Go back to sleep.

He shifted, and the motion was an effort. It hurt, too, and a soft sound escaped his lips. Why did it hurt so much?

"Gildor?"

He didn't try to move again, and after a long stretch of silence he started wondering if that voice had been another part of the dream. Though hearing Caranthir's voice in his dream, of all people, was rather strange.

"The Orc host that was following us caught up with us yesterday evening,” Caranthir added, after awhile.

Still here? Surprising, somehow, though he couldn’t quite remember why that should surprise him.

"There weren't as many of them as we thought, so maybe our scouting parties did some damage, but there were enough, and we did drive them off, but––I suppose we should've kept running, shouldn't we?"

Orcs. There had been Orcs––somewhere. Maybe that was why his shoulder hurt so much. It was too much of an effort to remember anything, and much nicer to float like this, let the pain buoy him up. And Caranthir, here, his hand warm on Gildor’s arm, fingers pressed to the side of his wrist as if seeking his pulse, keeping a watch on his heart.

Caranthir sighed. "There were too many wounded, too many civilians. You were––I don't know who thought I was a good choice for commander of a refugee group, because I've never been good at protecting people. Ask––ask Maitimo for that, or––" He snorted. "I'm ridiculous. Even if you were awake––"

Awake? he thought fuzzily. I think I am.

"You need to get better," Caranthir said softly. "Or give up already. I don't like having to worry about which way you're planning on going."

 

===

 

Gildor woke from disjointed dreams of blood and battle cries to something heavy on his chest, something warm and––furry?

He peered blearily at the small black cat curled up on his chest, trying to remember where he was. The cat opened one green eye, then closed it lazily, starting to purr.

"Hey. Shoo." A pair of hands appeared from out of the corner of Gildor's vision and scooped the cat up. There was a soft thud as the cat sprang free to the ground.

Freed of the feline, Gildor tried to sit up. He only got about halfway there before his arms gave out beneath him, depositing him back onto the pile of cushions.

"Feeling a bit weak, are we?" Caranthir asked, coming to stand by the bed. Gildor frowned at him.

"Where's Elvëandil?"

"Tending to someone else, I expect," Caranthir replied dismissively, as though to say you can't possibly expect me to care about something like that. "Why would you want him when you could have a son of Fëanor attend to you?"

"And is that what you're here for? To attend to me?"

Caranthir laughed. "Of course not."

"Didn't think so." His strength was returning, bit by bit. He no longer felt quite as weak as he had when he woke, and his shoulder––the wound barely even hurt at all, was in fact the best it had been since he had woken the first time.

"You gave him quite a scare, you know," Caranthir added. "Collapsing like that. If you dropped dead right after he declared you mostly healed, it could ruin his reputation forever." The last part was said dryly, a mocking note in his voice, and Gildor couldn't help a small smile.

"Hm. Well, I hope there's no risk that I'll be threatening his reputation any time soon...?"

Caranthir shook his head. "Seems you'll make it this time. Try not to get impaled again, though. Elvëandil might take it personally."

Gildor wondered how much of that was simple truth, and how much of that was Caranthir carefully not saying and I might care, as well, so try not to die. There were a few hazy memories trickling back in, and Caranthir had sounded almost––concerned.

Which was absurd, of course. Son of Fëanor. Kinslayer.

Does that exempt him from caring?

“Were you here?” he blurted out, and Caranthir’s eyes widened. 

“Where?”

“Here. With––when I was asleep, were you here? I thought... I thought I heard you.”

“And if I was?” There was a steadily spreading flush crossing Caranthir’s cheeks despite his even voice. “What of it?”

“What––it was––” Gildor swallowed, remembering cool hands on his face, running through his hair (had that been Caranthir?). “I didn’t mind,” he finished lamely, feeling a prickle spread across his cheeks. Didn’t mind, a soft voice in his mind mocked him, and he couldn’t look up from his hands, twisted in the sheets.

Caranthir seemed frozen for a split second, as if he didn’t know what to do with that––but when he spoke, his voice was soft and thoughtful.

“Then I hope you will not mind if I trouble you with my company in the future?”

Gildor shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he replied, finally finding his voice.

Caranthir nodded jerkily, then muttered something under his breath about seeing to something in the camp. He hurried out of the tent, leaving the door flapping open behind him.

 

===

 

Gildor was starting to wonder if Caranthir’s reaction to someone confessing even the vaguest affection for him was to simply hide, because excepting a couple of distracted visits to the healer’s tent, the son of Fëanor had been nowhere to be found.

Elvëandil released Gildor after about a week––several days longer than he himself would have chosen to remain, but considering what had happened last time he was more than willing to let the healer keep him under his care for a little while longer. When he finally walked out of the tent, he felt far stronger than he had in a long time.

“Do try to stay alive,” Elvëandil called after him, and Gildor waved back at him. Most of the paths were deserted, the soldiers having retreated into their tents. Gildor, of course, now had nowhere to sleep, but surely Caranthir could take care of that––if he could find him.

Where was Caranthir?

“Gildor.”

He spun, startled, a curse rising to his lips. Of course. “You keep sneaking up on me.”

“It isn’t my fault you don’t pay attention.” Caranthir raised an eyebrow. Gildor felt a sharp prickle of annoyance. 

“You move too quietly,” he replied, as mildly as he could. “I’m sure you enjoy trying to surprise people by appearing behind them without warning.”

“Perhaps.” Caranthir sketched a small bow at Gildor, smirking. “I have so very few talents, you see, I must take advantage of what I might––”

“I don’t suppose you’d mind playing the good host for a few seconds and offering me a place to sleep, would you?” Gildor interrupted. Talking to Caranthir was like standing on the shifting deck of a ship––he was never quite sure when another wave would thrown him off-balance. Easier to try to steer the conversation himself, even if Caranthir was extremely uncooperative.

“I could find you a place to sleep, I’m sure,” Caranthir replied breezily. He started down the path, but froze when Gildor’s hand darted out and grabbed at his sleeve.

Gildor swallowed. “Have you been avoiding me?” he asked, and felt Caranthir tense.

“What would ever give you that impression?” He didn’t turn around.

“You––I hope you know that I meant it when I said I wouldn’t mind your company, and then you never returned––”

“What did you expect?” Caranthir whirled, something desperate in his eyes. “You were still weak and half-asleep, you doubtless spoke those words out of pity, or––or obligation to the one who rescued you, and do not attempt to tell me that you did not instantly regret them––”

“I didn’t,” Gildor protested, suddenly angry because why did Caranthir have to be so damned difficult, why couldn’t he just–– “You saved my life. Isn’t that enough for me to be grateful?”

“You were––are an honorable soldier of Nargothrond, and I––even if you held me in respect, even if you did, it would never change any of the facts––” He shook his head. “Kinslayer, Gildor, don’t you remember? And brother of the one who doomed us all with his plan to assail the only one who was ever mighty enough to pretend to rule this Valar-forsaken land. And brother of the ones who betrayed your king. Isn’t thatenough?” 

Gildor’s hand closed around Caranthir’s shoulder before he quite knew what he was doing, and the way Caranthir seemed torn between wrenching away and leaning into the touch made him tighten his grip a little more. “I don’t care,” he said, lowering his voice and meeting those sharp grey eyes. “I won’t say I never cared, but I don’t think that any of that means anything anymore. You are not your brothers. I figured that one out a long time ago.” When you were the one there every time I woke, when you held me until I fell asleep––that. That’s what’s enough. Don’t you see?

And then it was Caranthir’s hand on his arm, fingers digging in, and Caranthir’s face a little too close, eyes wild and furious (at himself, or at Gildor, it didn’t seem to matter) and afterwards, Gildor was never quite sure who closed the gap between them first, but their lips met in something that wasn’t quite a kiss, wasn’t quite––but close enough.

“Even now?” Caranthir asked, pulling away, and there was no fury in his voice, only something like startled hope.

Gildor smiled. “Even now.” This should have felt wrong, he realized, standing so very close to someone like Caranthir, and yet he found that his words had not been a lie. I care about something else, now, and––and is that so strange?

To his surprise, Caranthir took a step closer, smile widening. “And as for your sleeping arrangements––if you wouldn’t be averse to sharing a tent with a kinslayer––”

Oh.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he replied, maybe a little too quickly, because that might have been a gleam of something unsettling in Caranthir’s eyes and oh Eru what had he gotten himself into––

(And the best part, perhaps, was that he did not care.)

“Good.” Caranthir hesitated, then smiled, taking Gildor’s hand and leading him down the path and into the sunlight.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

golodh - vaguely derogatory term, used to refer to a Noldo.