3441, Second Age. Plains of Dagorlad
The healer's quarters were set near the rear of the army. Men and elves came in groups or singly, some limped, some were carried strung between two others like pork haunches from the slaughterhouse. The dead and dying were stacked side-by-side and end-to-end while the living came and stared hard at their dirt slimed faces, seeking the familiar features of a brother or son or father. Five tents were managed by a group of thirty elven healers and nearly half that number of men. They were silent in the cacophony of screams and weeping and prayers. They went grimly about their work, offering consoling pats on the hand or shoulder; stitching together the ragged edges of flesh and closing the eyes of those they could not help.
Erestor carried Lindir and Cirdan carried young Gildor to the healers. The elves were slight, their weight nominal to the older warriors. Erestor looked around and despaired. The toll had been higher than he'd expected and would continue to climb throughout the day and well into the morrow. He stared at Lindir's pale face and wondered if he would join those behind the tents.
"Come, Lord Erestor," a healer recognized the Noldor and motioned him forward. "Lay the little one here and let me have a look at him."
Erestor did as he was bid and placed Lindir down on the pallet. Blond, blood matted hair splayed out in a fan and accentuated the youthful features.
The healer knelt beside Lindir and frowned. "Is this not one of the King's messengers?" He gently probed the wound to the back of Lindir's head, checking to see if the skull were caved in or broken. His hand came away warm and sticky.
"Aye, it is. The other is with Cirdan." Erestor pointed to the tall bearded leader of the Havens.
"The healer lifted his head and glanced at Cirdan. "Might as well bring the other one, my lord. I shall do what I can for them."
Cirdan grunted and came forward with his precious burden. Though their status within the army was low, the elf thought highly of the young elves. They had shown strength of character and purpose time and again. He lay Gildor gently on the pallet next to Lindir and removed the end of the cloak which had been stuffed beneath the armor to staunch the bleeding.
"Can you remove his armor, my lord?" The healer asked Cirdan as he continued to examine Lindir. "His shoulder would looks bad, and I fear that the bone is broken, but it can be set and should mend. The wound to his head I fear, for it was a harsh blow, though I can detect no signs that his skull was crushed. Still with a blow to the head, the organ inside swells and that has its own dangers. We will have to watch him carefully. Though in truth I fear he may never regain consciousness."
Cirdan removed Gildor's breastplate while the healer continued with Lindir. He winced anew when he saw the extent of the wound. While still in the armor, the damage was less visible. Now however, Cirdan could see that Gildor had indeed taken a heavy blow to his chest.
Erestor stroked the cool brow and leaned close to Lindir's ear. "Hear me little one. Do not fade yet. You still have much to do in this life before you may leave us for Mandos."
Another time the healer might have found the words humorous or even touching, now he did not. Too many elves had found Mandos' Halls of late. Too many men had found their own gods, as well. The price of victory had been extremely high. "Now to look at this one. Gildor, isn't it?" He gently probed through the blood. "I do not detect any damage to the vital organs. Yet, he has lost much blood." He turned his head to a passing assistant and called out. "Clean bandages here for these two." Turning back to Cirdan. "He will mend."
Cirdan sighed with relief. He was glad to know Gildor would survive, though he was still quite worried about Lindir. "I need to return to my troops. Erestor, will you stay?"
Before Erestor could reply, the healer spoke up. "There is nothing for you to do here, my lords. Please, return to your duties and let us see to ours. Gildor will not wake for some time. And all we can do for Lindir is watch."
"I should also get back to the lines," admitted Erestor. "I do not suppose there is anyone you could send if there is a change."
The healer grimaced. "We barely have enough hands for the living, my lord."
"Then I will return shortly and check on them." Erestor rose tiredly to his feet, as did Cirdan.
Together they left the healer's tent and returned to see where they might still be needed. They did not discuss the possibility that the messengers might not survive their injuries.
Elrond stood in the middle of a small circle of bodies, among them Elendil and his gray eyes filled with despair. "So many, Glorfindel. Look at them." His voice shook with emotion as the warrior in him estimated the cost of victory while the healer lamented the price.
Glorfindel's mouth tightened in to a straight line. "They died nobly, my friend. Grieve for them if you must, but do not belittle their sacrifice by lamenting their passage."
Elrond's broad mouth turned up at the corners. "Your wisdom is unquestionable. All here are heroes this day. Come, help me." He bent down and tugged Gil-Galad's body from beneath a pile. Though his hands shook and his eyes flooded with tears, Elrond refused to give in to the grief threatening to overwhelm him. He would not lament the price, as Glorfindel put it. He would remember and honor those who had fallen, but he would not give in to the despair as he cradled his lover in his arms.
Two men came up to Elrond then. "Lord? King Isildur has commanded that we bear his father's body away to a place of honor."
"He lies there," Elrond pointed to his right. "Bear him well for he was a king whose glory and sacrifice will not pass with the ages."
The men nodded and they went to retrieve Elendil's body. They would not try to take him west, but would see to his burial on the plain. He would be honored, in the fashion of men, and laid gently to the earth. And though they would leave him behind, all knew they would take the memory of his leadership with them from the place of horrors.
"Help me, Glorfindel." Elrond slipped his hands beneath Gil-Galad's shoulders and heaved him upwards. "He is heavy."
Glorfindel moved around and captured Gil-Galad's feet. Just then, Erestor and Cirdan came and they too helped to lift Gil-Galad from the dirt. Amroth followed them, and he took up Gil-Galad's great sword and bore it before the great elf lords as they marched through the toiling ranks bearing the body of the one who'd united them all against the common foe. As Gil-Galad and Elendil were escorted through the masses, a hush fell and heads were bowed. All who witnessed the procession knew they witnessed the last greatness upon Middle Earth.
High on a lonely hill, Thranduil sat by his father's mangled body and watched as the other two kings were escorted off the field. His father would receive no such honor, for his father had defied the king of elves and though they were victorious, he knew it was not because of Mirkwood and he grieved. He grieved for his father and his friends and family that had perished that day. He grieved for Anarion, even as his pride was pricked by the harsh words spoken in secret. He watched as Isildur alone carried the prince from the field and tears rolled down his pale cheeks. Never again, he vowed, would he allow another to take over his heart as Anarion had done. He would not suffer the risk of such pain again.
Slowly, he gained his feet and with the help of a few archers, gathered his father's body. Like Anarion and Elendil, Oropher would remain. Though he would not pass to the earth, for he was an elf and his ashes would scatter upon the wind ere the evening veiled the land. Together, they carried Oropher to the camp and laid him gently on the trampled earth. Elves had begun gathering anything that would burn, for wood was a high commodity on the plain and they were forced to use tents and tent stakes and cloaks and pieces of cloth.
As they stacked the pile and laid Oropher upon it, Thranduil noticed Elrond and the other captains standing alone but close enough to watch. "Why do you stand so far away?" He demanded. "My father sacrificed his life for your victory. Will you not honor him?" In his ears his words sounded trite and petulant, but he could not stop them.
"We were unsure of our welcome," spoke Elrond as he stepped closer to the circle of elves. "Your father is a hero, like all those who perished this day, Thranduil. And we honor him as much as any other. Your words are full of anger and bitterness, but I do not understand why you feel you should have a corner on grieve, for we all grieve today. Even in our victory, we mourn loved ones."
Thranduil was shamed by Elrond's words and the shame only heightened his anger. "We will depart with the dawn and return to Mirkwood."
"You may come and go as you please, King of Mirkwood," acknowledged Elrond. "You have given high honors to you and yours. May your travels be lightened."
Thranduil took a blazing torch and touched it to the pyre and a slow flame trickled amongst the combustibles. "He was a good elf, Lord Elrond." Thranduil whispered. "I have no way of judging how history will treat him, but he was my father and a good leader and well respected among those who served him. He was every bit the king that Elendil and Gil-Galad were."
Amroth laid his hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "We have no doubts, King Thranduil, of your father's skills. He is already greatly missed."
The flames danced higher and higher in to the darkening sky. Thin smoke rose and ashes drifted on the winds. Elves gathered on the edges of the small group and their sweet voices filled the plain. Wherever there were men to hear it, they stopped and tilted their heads to listen. Nor were any who heard left unmoved, for the lament was sad and sweet and terrible in its grief and hope.
Gildor opened his eyes and whimpered. The pain in his chest was so great that he could barely breath. He remembered little of what had happened, save that he saw Sauron lift his mace high in to the air and then there was pain and darkness. He blinked in the dim light and turned his head. A man lay beside him bearing a wound so great that it was a wonder that he'd made it to the healer's tents alive. Gildor closed his eyes, not wishing to see and then turned away. When he opened his eyes again, he stared at the smooth face of Lindir.
With jolt of fear, Gildor tried to sit up, but strong hands pushed him down. "Easy young one," Erestor kept his voice low and soft.
"How is he?" Gildor whispered.
"He is resting."
"I can see he sleeps, Lord Erestor. Is his wound great?"
Erestor stared at Lindir for a moment. Someone had come through with damp cloth and wiped the worst of the blood and dirt from most of the patients. Now the elf's pale countenance seemed even starker in the lantern light. "He received a blow to the back of his head. We do not yet know if he will recover."
For a moment, Gildor was overcome with guilt. Lindir had asked for his love and he'd refused. He regretted that now. "He confessed his love for me, but I refused him." Gildor did not realize he'd spoken aloud.
"I'm sure he forgives you, Gildor. Think no more about this and get some rest. Though you are not as gravely injured, you still need rest in order to heal."
"Lord Elrond? How fares he?"
"Under the circumstances, he is well enough."
"And the battle? I remember Sauron attacking, but I can remember nothing else."
Erestor explained that they had won certain victory, though they had lost many leaders, including Gil-Galad in the bargain.
"Gil-Galad is gone?" Gildor could not quite keep the wonder from his voice.
"Aye, his body lies in his tent. Tomorrow, he will be given to the cleansing flames."
Gildor's eyes drifted closed and he tried to calm the butterfly beating of his heart.
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