Laer o Faen

Dartho Na Anim

Third Age of Middle Earth – 93

Dartho na anim

Every moment, she worked tirelessly with means arcane and less so: poultice and salve, and waxed silk to hold together flesh that would not knit, no matter the effort. No sooner would she stop the bleeding of one wound, than another would reopen, start again. Such was the hideous nature of dragon fire – though it would sear flesh from bone, its fell magic was such that it would not, as other fire would, cause such wounds to cauterise.

Minutes became hours, became days, and spell upon spell, upon prayer fell from her lips, unfailing, unending.

"Lasto, Thranduil, Melethron," she whispered urgently, "Dartho na anim. Lasto beth nín, matho ngalad nín... Rado bardhlein."

Still she could not feel the answering thread of his light, not even brushing against her reaching, searching touch. She was losing him, he was slipping into the gathering dark against even the weight of her healing energies.

More urgent yet, and in mounting desperation, she reached deeper within herself, having no choice; daring everything to save the one she loved. Appealing to all that was sacred, to the very essence of Eru itself, and to every star that ever shone.

"Menno o nín na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth." She barely drew breath to add, "Eterúno hon!"

** ** **

What should have still been dappled green and gold was fading to the red and dull shades of brown, and not simply because autumn had come early to Greenwood the Great. The truth of the urgent message that had come to Imladris barely four days before came as a flash in his sight and he bent lower against the horse's neck, urging the mount to greater speeds yet as the Greenwood Guard parted before him, granting him free passage across the bridge and into the Royal Halls.

Hooves clattered on the courtyard, and even before Elrond brought the horse to a complete halt, he all but threw himself from the saddle, trusting the Stable Master to see to him and he turned to the Elf approaching him.

He recognised him as the King's Steward, and with barely a brief nod of greeting, he demanded, "Take me to him. Tell me everything."

"It was dragon fire, my Lord Elrond," Galion said softly, and Elrond hissed as he followed the steward's hurried steps with his own, knowing full well the horror such wounds wrought upon their vicitms. "As the captain reports it, he was caught almost directly in the creature's breath as he attempted to save those on the front line. Field surgeons packed the wounds, and..."

Elrond turned a deep frown Galion's way as the other Elf faltered in his telling.

"And?" he demanded with soft urgency.

"Many more of our warriors than those who lost in battle gave their lives to bring him home, and now the Queen—"

"She is with him?" Elrond all but pushed the steward against the wall of the stair which they now hurriedly climbed toward the room at the top of the Northern Spire to bring him to a halt. "What of your healers?"

"My Lord, she will not leave him, nor allow any other to tend him." Galion said, and at the stricken look on the Elf's face, Elrond almost softened, but his heart contracted in fear, and he knew by the steward's words that he was there not to save one life, but two.

Spitting a soft curse, he released Galion, and demanded urgently, "Does Eluilosloth grow within your gardens?" As Galion nodded he continued, "Bring me your strongest fortified wine, and as many blossoms as are still growing. Hurry."