My Fanfiction  ~*~*~  My Livejournal  ~*~*~  Main Page ~*~*~  My Links  ~*~*~  Email

'A Place of Future Dreams'

Part Two

Elrohir kept low, moving steadily away from the place where he had seen the creature. The noise he made crashing through the bushes was beginning to frighten him. If he could hear them, so could anyone – or anything – following him. He had no idea if a Balrog would take the time to track one small Elf, but he could take no chances.

The sound of running water close at hand made him stop in his tracks. In his mind he could hear his Adar’s voice saying very sternly, “You will not go down to the river alone again. The water can be treacherous.”

Whimpering softly, he paused, trying to think. Not that way, not to the water-sound then. Adar would be cross. Up? The ground sloped up and away from the river. He knew there were rocks aplenty to hide amongst up there because he and Dan often played Cave Troll along the cliff. And he would have warning; he would hear the Balrog’s approach, the roar of its flame, the cracking of its whip…

His head hurt, and he was frightened and desperately confused. He thought that if he could just lie down somewhere safe for a while, somewhere dark and quiet, his head would clear and he would know what to do next.

“It’s no use, Sparrow. No chance of finding any sort of trail in this weather. We should go back, wait till it eases off.”

Erestor had thought the day could get no worse, but the sudden downpour had proved him wrong. The rain, which had begun slowly, was now crashing down and Gildor needed almost to shout to make himself heard. Within the sounds of rain and wind, he thought he heard a low, warning rumble. Flickers of light across the sky confirmed his suspicion. Thunder.

“There is no trail.” His raised voice contained a discernable edge. “We were trying to find one, remember?”

“Superior tracking skills, and all that.” Glorfindel’s comment was made in an undertone, but the eddying wind chose that moment to change, carrying his words clearly. Erestor turned to glare at him, but the warrior was the picture of innocence, staring through the rain towards the natural sheep pen formed by berry bushes planted closely together to form a hedge.

“We were obviously not looking in the right direction,” the seneschal said flatly, his clipped tone a warning. “Otherwise either Gildor or I would have seen something. And the trees have no word for us – they would whisper of the passing of a stranger, but not a child born and raised in their valley.”

Gildor placed a hand lightly on his arm. “Perhaps we need to look higher up as you suggested? Are there any decent sized caves in the hillside?”

A jagged bolt of lightning forked across the sky and the grumbling thunder rose to a sudden, ear-splitting crack, drowning out Erestor's reply. He started, which encouraged Gildor to slide the hand up to his shoulder in yet another non-verbal reminder of how long and how well they had known one another. Erestor suspected he did it to annoy Glorfindel, although he was unclear as to why it should.

This time, however, the reborn Elf’s interest was elsewhere. Following his gaze, Erestor could make out sheep milling through the gap in the hedge into their pen. He knew there was a stone shelter at the far end. He also knew the sheep were notoriously too stupid to make use of it unless driven there.

“Idiot animals,” he muttered.

He was rewarded with a broad smile and laughing blue eyes. “Not the brightest, no. But I like the little black and white ones. They seem to have more energy than the plain ones.” Glorfindel had never seen sheep before coming to Imladris and found them, like much else in the valley, enthralling.

“They are wise in their own ways,” Gildor said smoothly, moving next to Erestor again so that they were standing with shoulders touching. “Intelligence would be a bonus, although it should be enough that they give us wool to weave into blankets and clothing.”

“Right,” Glorfindel muttered. Gildor was fond of offering such pearls of wisdom. Erestor seemed to find them fascinatingly clever and tended to look up at the Wanderer with wide brown eyes. For reasons he usually preferred not to analyse, this annoyed the Elf from Gondolin immensely.

Lightning turned the sky white, peals of thunder made the air vibrate. Glorfindel raised a hand to shield his eyes as the wind turned and gusted rain into his face. “Something fell down the slope above the sheep,” he exclaimed to Erestor. “Something large. Should we go and make sure they’re all right?”

Erestor looked at him blankly. They were sheep…

“They seem – upset by something,” Gildor conceded, his head tilted to one side to catch the faint bleating through the overlay of driving rain.

Water trickling down his face and neck, his hair hanging around him like a sodden cloak, Erestor looked from one to the other of his companions in disbelief. “Elrohir is out there somewhere in – this – and you two want to go and check up on a flock of sheep?”

“We should also get out from under these trees while there’s lightning,” Glorfindel tried to sound reasonable despite having to raise his voice. “Not the safest place.”

“Elves don’t get struck by lightning,” the seneschal snapped with an assurance based upon nothing more than his own annoyance.

“Trees do,” Gildor said with the equanimity that was starting to work badly on Glorfindel’s nerves. “Sometimes small animals. Is there any shelter down there? I seem to remember a hut of some kind? Be reasonable, Sparrow, we can’t see a thing in this rain.”

“Stone structure,” Erestor replied shortly. If they were both determined, there was no point in arguing. He started down the trail towards the field. “We can wait out the worst of the storm there. But as soon as the lightning stops, we continue the search.”
 

Erestor had forgotten what it was like to be caught outdoors in a storm of such magnitude, the vulnerability of being exposed while the thunder crashed and the landscape lit with blue-white light. Protected as it was by the power of one of the Three, extreme weather was a rarity in the Elven stronghold of Imladris. Under normal circumstances, Vilya reached out and spoke to the excesses of nature. Right now, however, rain came down in a solid sheet and the wind howled.

‘This,' the seneschal reminded himself as he leaned into the wind, head bowed, 'is what happens when Elrond goes away and Vilya lies inactive.'

Currently the Ring of Air was tucked away in a drawer in Erestor's bedroom. This was not the first time it had been left in his care; it became his responsibility every time Elrond was absent from Imladris because, meshed into the fabric of the land, the Ring never left the valley. In times past it had also hung on a chain round his neck every time Gil-galad went into battle, including the final assault against Sauron. As a master strategist in charge of signals, the King had reasoned – rightly as it turned out – that Erestor would be outside of the main fighting and less likely to get killed.

He had a sudden, stinging memory of the night of mind-chilling grief that had marked the end of the Second Age, of pulling the chain over his head and all but flinging Vilya at Elrond…

Glorfindel’s hand on his arm was just in time to keep him from walking straight into a tree. “Careful… Are you all right?”

The light, slightly husky voice was unexpectedly close to his ear, dispelling past memories. He returned to the here and now, to Imladris and concern for its lord’s youngest son.

“Rain in my eyes,” he replied briefly, dashing a hand across them. “Thank you.”

And yes, after so long that was the only explanation he would admit to. He had no patience with Elves who failed to know when it was time to put off mourning and move on with life. He could feel Glorfindel watching him, and turned hastily away. The hedge was just ahead, the rain so heavy he could barely see Gildor making his way around to the opening used by the sheep.

“Through here.” Glorfindel had to shout to make himself heard above the wind and rain. A large hand closed on Erestor's arm, guiding him to a gap in the bushes. They pushed their way between branches, coming out on the edge of a small clearing, at one end of which stood the promised shelter. The sheep, as expected by Erestor at least, were nowhere near it, but were instead huddled off to one side.

Gildor, entering the clearing at the same moment but from the opposite end, shouted for their attention and hurried towards the animals. For a bemused moment, Erestor thought he wanted help in chasing them under shelter, but then Glorfindel yelled something, the words whipped away by the wind, and ran to join him. Erestor followed, shoving confused sheep out of the way, and was the last to reach the figure huddled on the ground beside the hedge.

“Elrohir?” he gasped, pushing past Glorfindel. Almost fearfully he rested a hand on the young Half-elf’s chest to make certain he was breathing.

“We have to get him under cover!” Despite the fact that their heads were almost touching, Gildor had to shout to be heard. “Over there…”

“We need to check him for injuries first,” Erestor shouted back, starting to feel along Elrohir’s ribs. “Not move him until we’re sure…”

“You can’t see a damn thing in this,” Glorfindel interrupted. “He’s likely to drown before you’re finished.” A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, outlining land and trees in blue radiance. Thunder roared. With a warrior’s pragmatism, Glorfindel reached down and lifted Elrohir almost effortlessly into his arms. “Come on. Let’s go. Now!”
 

Elrohir regained consciousness almost as soon as Glorfindel picked him up. He seemed not to recognise the warrior, but began struggling and lashing out wildly. The storm was almost on top of them, conversation rendered all but impossible by roll after ear-splitting roll of thunder. There was no point in further discussion - they ran for cover.

The rough-built shelter consisted of three and a half stone walls with a thatched roof and a floor of beaten earth; it was basic but at least it kept the rain off. A few of the more sensible sheep had found their way in and occupied one corner. They were Glorfindel’s favourites, the little ones with the randomly scattered black patches. Erestor wondered vaguely if they were really smarter than the others, or just more susceptible to the cold.

The warrior carried Elrohir to the driest corner and laid him on the ground with as much care as he could muster. The Half-elf immediately rolled onto hands and knees and began to crawl back towards the entrance, his hair falling down over his face, his body shaking.

Seriously worried now, Erestor hastily knelt and placed his hands firmly on Elrohir’s shoulders, wincing to feel him jump and try to pull away. “Rohir,” he said firmly and clearly. “It’s me, Erestor. Everything is all right; no one is going to hurt you. Look, it’s me, open your eyes…”

“…must run,” Elrohir whispered. “Must get away. It will find you too. It is here…”

“Child, there is nothing and no one here except myself, Gildor and Glorfindel.” And a few sheep, he thought, forcing down a bubble of inappropriate mirth.

“Glorfindel?” Elrohir asked in a small, hopeful voice. He blinked, raising his head to try and focus on Erestor's face. ”He can stop it… He will know how to fight it.”

“What is hunting you, son of my friend?” Gildor asked gently. He crouched with cat-like grace on the ground next to Elrohir but was careful not to touch him. Yet another crash of thunder combined with a searing bolt of lightning punctuated his words. Elrohir whimpered and cringed.

“It’s there…” he gasped. “The Balrog… It’s here!”

“..Balrog…?” Glorfindel blinked and resisted an impulse to look around.

Erestor reached forward and pulled Elrohir into his arms. The Half-elf was soaked to the skin and shivering. Erestor held him close, stroking his hair back as he said in a voice that carried clearly over the storm, “Elrohir, child, there is no Balrog here. There is nothing, only us and the storm. There is a storm, Rohir, thunder and lightning, nothing more. You are safe, we will keep you safe.”

“…Nana. Want Nana…”

The three Elves exchanged startled glances. Gildor shook his head firmly at Glorfindel who had opened his mouth to speak.

“Sshh, it will be all right,” Erestor said gently. There was a large swelling on the side of Elrohir’s head, which he explored quickly though carefully. The dark head tried to pull away from his touch, suggesting the area must be as painful as it appeared.

Deeply concerned, Glorfindel was watching over Erestor’s shoulder. Now he asked, “He struck his head? Would that have caused this confusion? He sounds like a small child...”

“I am no healer,” Erestor replied, “But it seems possible. And they tell the children stories of Balrogs that sound like a great storm, fire and thunder…”

“Sounds about right,” the former Balrog Slayer muttered.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to trivialize it…”

“Not a problem. It was rather like being in the middle of a storm as far as I remember… not that I remember much. Fortunately.”

Erestor had Elrohir’s head pressed against his shoulder now and was unconsciously rocking him. He looked behind him through a tangle of wet hair at Glorfindel. “You don’t remember? I never realised that.”

“Not too much, no. A lot of the time it’s more like sharing some one else’s memories…”

“Excuse me…” Gildor had to speak twice, his voice raised on the second attempt.

The rain battered down, the sheep shuffled in their corner. More had wandered in, following the Elves. Two heads, one dark, the other a shade of dull gold, turned to him.

Gildor gestured before him. “Fire,” he aid shortly. “When you’re finished you might want to bring him over here.”

Erestor blinked at his tone. Glorfindel shrugged and moved in front of him. “If you help me, I can probably lift him without disturbing him too much. Look, his eyes are closed.”

Between them they carried Elrohir over to the small fire Gildor had built up from twigs and leaves. And sheep dung Erestor noted, wrinkling his nose. He sat close to the small flames, still holding Elrohir. “I have no idea how you do this,” he told Gildor, his face alight with admiration. “You’re amazing. How long can you keep it burning for? He’s ice cold.”

Green eyes sparkled in the firelight. “Long enough,” Gildor assured him. “We just need to keep feeding it with what we can find around here – yes Glorfindel, good. Collect whatever you can find to use for fuel.”

Glorfindel, who responded badly to patronizing tones, looked ice in the Wanderer’s direction, but continued collecting dried debris. One corner even yielded a couple of neatly cut branches, possibly intended for firewood. One of the sheep went over to see if he had found anything for it to eat and he patted its head, amused. The wool was wet and a little coarse but was far thicker than he had realised. He smiled, rubbing its ears as one would a dog.

Gildor, watching, arched an eyebrow but made no comment. Instead he said softly to Erestor, “He seems at peace with you, Sparrow. I think he sleeps.”

“He must have been hurt when the fire started. See, here on his head? This lump?” Erestor moved Elrohir’s hair back and, taking Gildor’s hand, placed it on the swelling. “I think he might be concussed – he seems to think he’s still a child. When he heard the thunder, he must have imagined it was – well, a Balrog. I wish his father was home to care for him, but Onnenad is competent. We need to get him back.”

“We have to wait till the rain lifts,” Glorfindel said, returning to the fire and adding one of the cuts of wood that he had found. “And if he’s concussed, aren’t we meant to keep him awake, Erestor?”

Erestor shook his head slowly, looking a query to Gildor who was still examining Elrohir’s head. “I – think not? He must have been wandering around like that for hours. I would suppose he needs rest. I don’t know for certain... So - if we can keep him warm here, do you think we should wait until the storm dies down?”

“That would probably be best,” Gildor agreed. “As for concussion, as I understand it we need to watch his breathing and wake him every few hours to make certain he can be woken.”

Gildor the All-Knowing, Glorfindel thought tartly. Aloud he said, “Some one needs to go back and tell Elladan before he’s tempted to send out search parties.”

Erestor nodded. “True. He must be sick with worry about his brother.” He looked down at Elrohir, then up at his two companions. “Well, I can hardly go. It will have to be one of you – the other can keep me company and help feed the fire.”

Blue eyes met emerald green across the small fire. Over the sounds of pouring rain and sullen sheep, silence reigned.

Finally Gildor said mildly, almost casually, “As a member of Elrond’s household you probably feel it is your responsibility to go, but will you be able to find your way back unaided? Darkness is falling; we are miles down the valley…?”

Glorfindel seemed to think about this for a moment, then he quirked an eyebrow and smiled pleasantly. “Well, when you put it like that, I have to agree you are probably better suited to the task.”

Gildor, who had plainly expected demurral and argument to which he would have acquiesced with a show of reluctance, stared disbelievingly.

Glorfindel’s smile broadened. “I am seldom stung into action by appeals to my pride,” he said easily. “If I were, I would probably have sworn that damned Oath and now where would I be? No, I am sure it is best that you go for help. I will stay and do - whatever Erestor finds for me to do.”

~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

~*~*~*~*~