Third Age of Middle Earth – 93
Na onen teri ad pân i naeth o hen amar ammen ad erio or pân hain
The slight shuffle of a booted foot shattered the pace of Celyndailiel's grief, and though she could not reach a state of calm, the mantle of queen settled over her trembling shoulders, and looking up at the litter bearers, forcing herself to her feet, though she did not let go of Thranduil's cold hand, she ordered, "Take him inside; up to the Northern Spire."
They began moving immediately, and as they reached the doorway she had no choice but to let go, but stayed near the litter as they carried Thranduil quickly up the winding pathway. As they went she began relaying desperate instructions to servants ahead.
"Lay a low fire in the hearth, set flagons of water either side to moisten the air, and draw back all of the drapes at the windows."
"My Lady?"
At her side the King's Second queried her command.
"The room must be bathed in natural light – the stars, the moon... all of it," she answered, then to the servants again, she added breathlessly, "And bring all the healing supplies you can find. Go! You... run ahead, strip the bed and cover it with a fresh sheet of cotton only. Bring up water for washing. Hurry."
It took an age, and yet no time at all, to reach the Northern Spire, the highest point within the Halls of the Elvenking, and even as they set him down upon the newly stripped bed she turned to the one of the remaining servants.
"Help me with the laces of my gown," she instructed, turning her back so that the servant could reach them. She could not have her long sleeves trailing over him as she tried to help her husband, she would work in her shift if she must, but she would not leave him to the care of any other hand than her own. "I will need a sharp blade. The sharpest you can find, and a brazier of hot coal beside the bed."
"My lady, please," Thranduil's second tried to still her, calm her, but already the hurry and bustle of servants bringing the things she had ordered was becoming stifling and the only way she could stop herself from succumbing to it, and descending into a helplessness that would be deadly to both her, and her husband, was to keep moving; to act.
As she stepped out of her dress, as the servant picked it up and hurried away, she spared a glance toward the captain and snapped, "How many dead?"
As she waited for his answer she moved to sit on the side of the bed, by the insensate king, and taking up the blade she had requested, with trembling hands she began to cut away the burned and melted clothing from her husband's shattered form.
"You do not have to do this," the captain told her gently, as she revealed, little by little, the full horror of the terrible injuries Thranduil had suffered. Almost the entire left side of his face, his neck, his shoulder and his arm had been clawed and burned to bare sinew – almost to the bone. Major blood vessels were packed by silken linens by the field surgeon that had no doubt tended him before they moved him. The left side of his torso, his hip and his left leg, though less mortally burned, were serious enough, nonetheless, to have taken the life of all but the hardiest of folk.
"How many dead?" she repeated.
"There are other healers," he persisted, "and we have sent to Imladris for aid, we—"
"Answer me, Captain!" she snapped, the loss of control allowing out the sob her words had masked. Still working to free her husband from his melted armour, she made herself speak on. "How many of our kin lost their lives to this cause?"
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Laer o Faen
FanfictionA near fatal encounter with the Serpents of the North leaves Greenwood the Great's queen with but one choice, one that cost her own life, but she makes a promise to her beloved King, born of a love that has already lasted through more than an age of...
