Under strange stars by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 9

Glorfindel knew that this very moment would haunt his nightmares until Arda’s end.

The great Mûmak’s cinch broke, and the release of its tension made it snap the air like a gigantic whip as the battle turret slid off the oliphaunt’s back. There was nothing left for Elrohir to hold on to. As Glorfindel looked on in horror he was pulled down by the falling debris and disappeared from sight in the cloud of red dust thrown up by its crash.

Then at last battle-rage possessed Glorfindel, the red-hot wrath of close combat. Whoever dared to stand between him and Elrohir, it would be their last deed in life. Despite their fall, hard fighting remained against the survivors of Arnuzîr’s retinue. 

Glorfindel pulled Hadhafang from the last Umbarian’s throat with a gurgling gush of blood. He did not spare a glance for the richly adorned corpse that had to be Arnuzîr himself lying at his feet. The general’s great battle turret had been light, made of silk and bamboo. Elrohir had to lie beneath its wrecked remains, and he was not dead yet. The smallest of flames still burned within the Peredhel at the very edge of Glorfindel’s perception.

As he dug frantically among the wreckage hope bloomed hot within him when he felt Elrohir’s mind stir. There! A piece of Haradi desert-coloured cotton just visible underneath a heap of bamboo beams. With the strength of the desperate Glorfindel lifted the whole tangle, throwing it aside like a handful of twigs. He fell to his knees beside the still figure he uncovered. Elrohir moaned when the harsh afternoon light hit his sore eyes. One side of his face was an unrecognizable mass of swelling and congealed blood where a beam had struck him.

Giddy with relief Glorfindel made a note to lecture him extensively on the necessity of wearing helmets in battle, much later on some quieter and more mundane occasion. Glorfindel drew his hands across Elrohir’s body, immensely grateful to find nothing more sinister than a few broken ribs. The young fool had been knocked out cold, but he would live.

Glorfindel cradled the child in his arms and began searching for a camel. He no longer needed to concern himself with the Umbarians, it seemed. 

The Haradrim had paid their victory in blood, but they had won.

 ----

Utter chaos ruled the keep when Glorfindel rode in, cradling Elrohir before him in the saddle. What few healers the Haradrim had set up a meager field hospital in one of the lower passages, only to find themselves overrun with wounded fighters staggering in or being carried by their agitated comrades. The caves echoed with screams, moans and barked orders. 

The pandemonium bore no resemblance to the strict organisation of a well-supplied Noldorin healers’ ward, but the stench of battlefield medicine assaulting Glorfindel’s nostrils was familiar nonetheless. He inhaled the metallic tang of blood, cauterized flesh and that unmistakable putrid smell of gut wounds, and revolted against the very idea of Elrohir being treated amidst this dangerous, destitute mess.

Glorfindel carried Elrohir past the harrowing scene to find their packs in one of the upper galleries. It was strange to see their belongings just as they left them behind less than a day ago. The sight of Elrohir’s saddlebags made Glorfindel wonder what had become of Ot, who had served his master so bravely before being abandoned to whatever fate had befallen him amidst the raging battle.

Glorfindel laid Elrohir down beside his own pack. Thanks to Elrond’s foresight it contained everything he would need to take care of him. First he washed the matted blood and sand off Elrohir’s face with clean water. Its cool touch briefly brought him around. The one eye that was not covered in a dark blue mass of swollen tissue opened, clouded with pain and confusion, his hands weakly pushing Glorfindel’s away.

Glorfindel’s voice was a gentle whisper, all kindness. “Peace my friend. All is well now. I will make this better, but you need not be aware of it. Sleep.”

Elrohir sighed, turning his face into the hand that cupped it as he gave in to the beckoning darkness of spell-induced sleep. Only then did Glorfindel realize that he had spoken Sindarin.

What remained to be done now was delicate work. Glorfindel was glad for the opportunity to busy his hands and gather his thoughts. First he removed the blood-soaked ruin of Elrohir’s clothes and the mail hauberk, and dressed him in a reasonably clean change of clothes from his pack. Then he set to work on the head wound. With endless care he pried apart the grotesquely swollen eyelids, cleaning and briefly examining the eye underneath to find it mercifully unscathed. Most of the blood came from a long cut in Elrohir’s scalp, which he sutured with fine silk thread.

The delicate bones of his skull were fractured in several places. Glorfindel laid his hands on the broken face, feeling the warm, pulsating course of arteries and veins, the small, lightning-bright twinkle of each tiny nerve beneath his fingers. The breaks were a jangling dissonant in the song that was Elrohir, but Glorfindel found a far more concerning matter. The brain itself had been bruised and was swelling within the tight confines of the skull. It seemed Elrohir’s death had not been averted yet. Glorfindel’s voice did not waver as he wove his response. He sang of wholeness, calm and healing, and even as he chanted he could feel the damaged tissues beginning to knit together. 

When his song had run its course Glorfindel rose. He briefly felt light-headed, so much of himself had he poured into the singing. He needed a few moments to recover, but soon Elrohir was resting comfortably, covered in a camel-hair blanket with his head elevated on a makeshift cushion of saddlebags. All he needed now was the stillness of sleep.

The night that followed was long and harrowing. From the lower levels sounded cries of pain, grief and despair. Glorfindel was torn asunder by the suffering of the Haradrim. He could barely restrain himself from going down to the field hospital to lend what aid he might. Then his eyes came to rest on Elrohir’s still form. His injuries required constant watching. Leaving Elrond’s wounded son alone to go to the aid of others, only to return to Elrohir having a seizure or choking on his own vomit was unconscionable. This was a hard and bitter choice, just as it had been in wars long past. He could not help all those in need, at least not without abandoning the task he had sworn to fulfill. Once more the choosing left Glorfindel feeling stained and diminished.

After sunset the remnant of the Haradrim took up a rhythmic chant, probably in honour of their dead, that was kept up throughout the night. A few times people carrying torches wandered into the pitch-dark gallery where Elrohir slept and Glorfindel sat motionless like a sentinel carved from the cave’s red stone. Most were in search of belongings, some after missing friends. Once, a visitor came in the dark. It was a boy not much older than fifteen, simply lost and wandering blindly in a daze of grief. For him, Glorfindel sang to lift what he could of the fog of horror and desperation shrouding his mind. He descended back to the main host with a purpose, at least.

Elrohir was asleep through it all, undisturbed by dreams or pain. Glorfindel released his hold on the boy’s mind when a pale, grey light filtering down from the plateau enabled him to see his hands in front of his face once more. It took another hour for Elrohir to come to, the onslaught of pain drawing him awake despite his exhaustion. Glorfindel listened as his breathing became fast and irregular before his one good eye opened. 

In the cave’s reddish twilight Elrohir tried to make sense of the world once more. He brusquely sat up, seeming panicked and unsure of where he was and with who. Glorfindel sensed echoes of a wave of blinding pain and nausea brought on by the movement as Elrohir retched. Glorfindel fetched a pail, then helped him lie back down with as little jostling as possible, whispering what he hoped were reassuring words in Haradi.

At least Elrohir was properly awake now. His one good eye stared intently at Glorfindel with fear in his gaze. 

“Are we under siege?” His voice sounded so hoarse and raspy he had to repeat himself twice and switch to Númenórean before Glorfindel understood.

Glorfindel shook his head, quick to allay that particular fear. “As far as I know not a single Umbarian was left alive out there.”

“Then why am I hearing the chant of despair? How many have we lost?!”

There was no comfortable way to say such things. Glorfindel was unsure whether it would be crueler for Elrohir to remember so many gruesome deaths, or for the memories to be lost to his injury and the realisation endured a second time.

“I have no numbers. I don’t believe anyone does at this point in time. But many.” Glorfindel said at last.

Pain flitted across Elrohir’s face. It seemed he did remember the battle, or parts of it at least. Glorfindel did not have the heart to mention Hamalan.

Elrohir tried to sit up once more. “Where is Amuk?” 

Glorfindel quickly laid a hand on his shoulder to keep him down, lest they need the pail again. “I do not know. If you promise me to stay here and rest I will go down and find out for you.”

Elrohir nodded, then winced from the stab of pain upon moving his head.

Glorfindel rose to find a waterskin, unstoppered it and pressed the spout into Elrohir’s hand. “Here, you must be thirsty. Take small sips. Do not even think about getting up!” 

He turned to leave in search of news.

“Glorfindel?” Elrohir’s voice sounded shaken, and afraid. “Did I lose my eye?”

Glorfindel knelt beside him once more and smiled. “Fear not. It’s under there somewhere, and bound to turn up again one of these days.”

Even if Elrohir’s smile was a brave facade, at least it did something to lift Glorfindel’s spirits.