curiouswombat (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
curiouswombat) wrote2009-03-31 07:44 pm
curiouswombat) wrote2009-03-31 07:44 pm
Entry tags:
- brotherhood,
- d-d,
- fic,
- life,
- lotr,
- returnverse,
- tolkien
Brotherhood, Chapter Four.
Here is Chapter Four of 'Brotherhood'. Chapters 1,2, & 3 are here.
Chapter Four is
3,720 words.
Rated 15.
And
Chapter Four.
“Echuio, meleth, echuio!”
Dawn had been dreaming of Sunnydale; there had been demons, and one of them had picked her up, and it was tossing her around by her coat collar. It took her a minute to wake enough to tune in to being Tindómë and to understand the quiet, but insistent, voice.
“Wake up, beloved, wake up!” Rumil was saying, as he shook her shoulder.
It was still almost dark.
“Uh?” Tindómë asked.
“Yrch!” Rumil answered.
“Yrch?” Surely she must have misunderstood.
No, she hadn’t misunderstood. On the other side of the smouldering fire both twins were already standing up, and fastening their sword belts, faces grim. It was just light enough for her to make out their expressions.
The orcs couldn’t be all that close – Rumil had his bow in his hand, but his arrows were still all in his quiver.
Tindómë rubbed her eyes and then pulled on her boots as Rumil passed her sword and belt, followed by her bow and quiver, and helped her adjust the quiver straps in the half-light.
She heard movement and realised that Orophin was sending the horses into the forest – clearly the ellyn intended to fight, not run.
“How many? How far away?” she asked.
“It will be at least ten minutes before they are within range. Twenty or thirty of them…”
‘Twenty or thirty?’ Tindómë thought. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Why are we thinking of fighting these things? Why aren’t we hiding quietly? Why am I here with these four? Why not four elves that are not determined to kill every orc they find?
‘Silly thought!’ she almost smiled.
The twins had resolved to try and rid Middle Earth of every orc, in revenge for the terrible injuries done to their mother, and the brothers sought revenge for the death of Haldir. But there probably wasn’t an elf in Middle Earth that would lay low and let orcs pass when the odds were only five or six to one.
“They are heading almost straight towards us, they must intend to hide in the forest, or skirt it,” Rumil said. “We will gather up our bags and bedrolls, but leave the fire smouldering – that should make sure that they do come exactly this way…”
“Come, little warrior,” Elrohir said, his voice soft and serious; “we will pull back into the edge of the forest.”
……………………………………………………………..
Soon Tindómë found herself in one of the trees at the edge of Fangorn. Rumil and Orophin were on branches close by; the twins below, on the ground, in the deep shadow of the trees.
“Rumil and I will use our bows until the orcs are right upon us, and then drop to use our swords. The twins will use their bows from the ground – they will change to swords before we do. Use your bow when the orcs are within your range; stay in the tree even when you can no longer use your bow for fear of hitting us. Do not get down unless you decide it is absolutely essential – you are not as skilled with your sword as we are and, more importantly, you have a shorter reach!”
This was, most certainly, ‘Orophin the Lorien Patrol Second’ giving instructions. Tindómë thought that she would be quite happy to stay in the tree, thank you, especially as Rumil had been talking quietly to the tree in question and said that it was willing to let her remain within its branches.
She could hear the orcs now – they were not quiet; they were turning towards the remains of the elves’ campfire. They came into her sight. There seemed to be even more than Rumil had said and an assortment of weapons showed vaguely as black on grey.
Almost silently Orophin and Rumil released their first arrows and two orcs fell. There was noise and confusion amongst the orcs, two more arrows found their marks, and the orcs were moving towards Tindómë and the others, at a sort of jog, shouting.
‘Fuck! These guys are bigger and even uglier than the Turok-Han – and I’m stuck up a tree with a bow and only four guys on my side.’ She could feel her adrenalin level rising and the beginnings of panic.
‘Stop it, Dawnie, pull yourself together or it might get through to Rumil and worry him, or put him off his stroke,’ she lectured herself.
Much later she would realise that this was the last time that she thought of herself as Dawn.
She held back her own fire until the dark mass of orcs was within her range, and then fired into the group without being able to clearly identify her targets, but there were bodies falling, and the orcs had not yet pinpointed the elves’ position to shoot back – so far the elves were definitely winning. Tindómë took a deep breath and then loosed another arrow. The brothers beside her were firing steadily, and she was sure the twins were doing so as well, even though, in their grey cloaks, she couldn’t make out where they were.
Suddenly there was movement from beneath her – the twins were charging forward, swords drawn, their long daggers in their other hands. Tindómë fired another arrow, aiming towards the back of the orc mob to be sure not to hit a twin.
More arrows from Rumil and Orophin, every one finding its mark; the orcs were at the camp-site and still coming forward, the twins had almost closed the gap. Their hoods had slipped off their heads, their hair streamed behind them, they made no sound as they met the leading orcs and the sheer speed and fury of their approach seemed to have caught those leading orcs off balance – they fell, almost sliced in two, without much attempt to defend themselves.
The brothers loosed more arrows; the remaining orcs were now within about thirty yards of the trees, and there were five or six of them surrounding the twins. Two of those fell, arrows in their chests, and then, on either side of her, there was a sudden flurry of movement and the two Galadhrim warriors were on the ground, swords in hand.
Tindómë fired her arrows again into the back of the mob of orcs, gratified to see a dark shape drop to the ground – she was pretty sure that was the third or fourth hit she had made; she was pulling her weight.
The fighting on the ground was still fierce though; the four elves fought in a curved line and, as their swords thrust and slashed, orc bodies were beginning to pile up around them.
It seemed to Tindómë that only maybe a third of the orcs were left standing, but it was getting more difficult to shoot without any possibility of hitting an elf, and so she kept an arrow nocked but held back from letting it loose.
She watched the fighting; she could not see the elves’ faces but, this close, she could feel cold fury from Rumil. The elves moved with grace, almost as smoothly and beautiful to watch as when they were on the practice field.
Then two things happened almost simultaneously; Tindómë heard a scream which sounded female and, before she could consider the implication of that, there was a sense of almost physical coldness instead of fury from Rumil, then pain.
For the first time since they had started firing arrows she heard an elven voice; “Rumil!” Orophin shouted.
Rumil still held his sword, and was fending off the orc that was trying to kill him, but his other hand was clutched to his stomach and he was not moving with any grace at all.
The twins were fighting four orcs between them and a really big guy with a glaive was attempting to decapitate Orophin over the head of one who was fighting him sword to sword. Tindómë had an awful feeling that it wouldn’t take the orc with the glaive long to realise that Rumil would make a better target.
She was not confident enough in her own skill with the bow to attempt to shoot the orc before it occurred to him to change opponent, because of the risk of hitting Orophin, and she wasn’t sure that Orophin would be able to stop the orc if he chose to attack Rumil. This was, she decided, the point where coming down from the tree could well be considered ‘absolutely necessary’.
“Don’t let me fall,” she muttered quietly and suddenly the leaves around her rustled and shifted slightly – she could see a clear drop to the ground below. She landed easily, much better than she would have done before her time in Lothlorien, and ran towards Orophin and Rumil.
Her sword was in her hand by the time she reached the ellyn. It was still the short sword that she had brought through the Hellmouth even though the elves were slowly teaching her to use their own, curved bladed, bastard swords. One of the elven smiths had taken time to decorate the grip for her so that, at least in its scabbard, it looked more like an elven weapon.
Orophin was right about it giving her a much shorter reach, though. Against her target opponent this should, she reckoned, actually be an advantage.
In the minute or so since she had made the decision to join the fray she had adjusted to knowing that Rumil was in pain; at least it didn’t slow her down, she thought, but it was still clear that he was in pain, angry and, just a little, scared.
In that minute Rumil seemed still to be holding off his opponent; the twins had reduced their foes to three, but could not yet come to Rumil’s aid; Orophin was still fighting the orc with the sword; and the only other orc standing, the guy with the glaive, was just moving to adjust his thrusts towards Rumil, as Tindómë had feared.
Keeping low, trying to stay below the orcs’ natural eye-line, she angled her approach between Rumil and Orophin.
“Im si!” she said, just as she reached them, so that they wouldn’t accidentally swing back and hit her. Neither elf replied, but there was now a gap just big enough for her to get safely between them.
She stepped towards the glaive-wielding orc and was quickly inside his reach. The other orcs were too busy to do anything about her, and ‘her’ orc could not defend himself because the blade of his weapon couldn’t reach her.
She remembered her lessons ‘their armour is weak at the neck and under the arm…’ – well, this one looked weak enough around the stomach, as he wasn’t wearing much armour. She thrust her sword in, as hard as she could, and black blood ran out and over her hand.
‘Yeuch! Gross!’ she thought, ‘Really much more demon than human!’ But she still felt her stomach contents rising up her throat.
She stepped back quickly, pulling her sword out of the orc with some difficulty, and was sure she could hear it ‘gloop’ as it finally came free and the orc fell to the ground.
She realised that ‘Rumil’s orc’ had his side to her and that Rumil was really able only to defend and not to attack. She swallowed hard, aimed at the orc's known weak spot, and thrust home under his sword arm.
The orc made a strangled noise and looked towards her with an almost puzzled expression. She glanced towards Rumil; his face was still totally impassive but even paler than usual. He took a step forward and caught the orc in the groin with his sword. Still with a look of surprise on his face the orc crumpled.
So did Rumil.
………………………………………………………………………….
Echuio! – wake up!
tithen maethor – little warrior
Im si – I’m here.
………………………………………………………………………….
Everything seemed to Tindómë to be happening in slow-motion; and yet hardly any time seemed to pass before there were no more sounds of clashing metal and the fighting was over.
She realised that she was standing in front of Rumil where he lay on the ground, her sword still held up, ready to defend him from all comers. Orophin had dropped to his knees beside his brother, holding the orc’s sword, and Elladan was gently touching Tindómë’s arm and saying “You can put your sword down, little warrior; there are none left to hurt him. Elrohir will make sure of it.”
Slowly she lowered her sword and noticed again that her hand was covered in warm, black, orc blood. She could feel last night’s supper still trying to escape and had to swallow hard again.
‘How stupid,’ she thought, ‘to be worried about barfing, and embarrassing myself, while Rumil is lying injured at my feet.’
She was afraid to turn and look where Elladan had now also dropped to his knees beside Rumil; instead she focussed briefly on Elrohir. He was moving methodically from one orc to the next, face totally impassive, as he thrust his sword into each body.
“Meleth…” the voice was very soft, but quite clear.
She turned. Orophin and Elladan were peeling Rumil’s tunic and shirt carefully away from his body, there was an awful lot of blood, but his eyes were open and he was looking at her.
‘Feel calm, feel calm, if you are panicking, or shit scared, he’ll pick it up if he’s conscious,’ she told herself, in a mental version of ‘resolve voice’.
“Orophin, you know what to look for,” Elladan said, “go and bring my healer’s pack and water. Tindómë, are you uninjured? Good, come and help me.”
The deadly warrior had been replaced by the skilled healer. He sounded so calm that Tindómë felt better just listening to him.
Orophin gently touched Rumil’s cheek as he got to his feet and went to where their bags were beneath the trees.
Tindómë took his place, wiping the orc blood from her hand onto her leggings, trying not to kneel in Rumil’s blood because that would have felt wrong somehow. Elves always looked pale, almost luminous, but Rumil’s face was beyond pale – he was more the colour of Gandalf’s robes. Despite the stink of orcs and orc blood she could still taste the smell of Rumil’s blood in her mouth; she swallowed hard yet again.
Elladan glanced sympathetically at her but said nothing. Rumil was also watching her – he was still conscious. Tindómë thought it might be better for him if he wasn’t. She touched his cheek, as Orophin had done, ‘sending’ as much love as she could through ‘the faer thing’.
She helped Elladan peel the blood soaked leggings away from Rumil’s wound so that he lay bare from chest to knee. The day was getting lighter by the minute, and it was clear that an orc must have caught him with a slashing attack rather than a thrust; he was sliced from the bottom of his ribcage across his abdomen to the front of his hip. She could see bone at the top and guts through the cut abdomen.
‘Viscera,’ she thought, and then a mental picture of Buffy saying “She knows about viscera. Makes you proud,” hit her so hard that she could almost imagine Buffy right behind her.
Elladan was poking his fingers into the wound. “Orophin and I saw no sign of poison on the blade and I think it has missed everything vital…” he was saying to Rumil.
Rumil’s eyes focussed on Elladan, he licked his lips, and then spoke. “Good… I hope to need… my grond… for many years…”
“Males!” said Tindómë, rolling her eyes. His remark had the desired effect, though; she was less scared for his life.
“I was thinking more of the large blood vessel in your groin.” Elladan’s voice was serious, but there was a slight smile on his lips. “He missed it by two or three finger widths, and I see only slight damage to your gut, but you are bleeding badly enough and it will take me some time to stitch you back together. You will not see Lord Námo just yet, but you will be weak from the blood loss.”
Orophin returned. Elladan quickly opened the pack while telling Rumil to drink the water to replace the fluid he was losing.
It suddenly occurred to Tindómë that they didn’t seem to know about IV fluids – in a trauma show on American TV putting in a line would have been automatic. They hadn’t used one when she was injured either; all she could remember was soft, urgent, voices and water dripped into her mouth. When this was all over she must talk about it to the Els.
As Rumil tried to drink, lying flat on his back, she realised why the water had been dripped into her mouth… Orophin was doing it for Rumil now. Tindómë felt helpless, she didn’t know what to do to help, and then she felt Rumil’s hand squeezing hers and she wondered who was comforting who. She tried to ‘push’ great waves of reassurance and love through their tentative faer-link.
It hit her then, almost as hard as an orc glaive would have done, that it really was love that she was trying to wrap around Rumil’s faer like a blanket. It was not ‘lust’, ‘mutual attraction’, ‘really, really, like’, ‘the faer thing’, or anything else. She totally loved this elf and, if Elladan was wrong and his injuries were fatal, she did not think that she could live without him. If anyone from Sunnydale turned up now she would fight to the death to stay here, with Rumil, if she had to.
She could feel a lot of pain; ‘sending’ must open you up to ‘receive’, she thought, but she could also feel a calmness – Rumil clearly had confidence in Elladan and believed that he would live to fight another day.
“Poppy syrup,” Elladan said, holding up a small bottle capped with its own silver measure.
“No!” Rumil said. “I am a warrior. I will sit on my horse… to meet the Rohirrim… not be carried like the baggage… or an elfling!”
“Yes!” said Elladan firmly. “I do not want you squirming around whilst I stitch, nor do I want to have to use your brother, my brother, and Tindómë to all hold you still.”
Tindómë realised that Elladan intended to stitch the wound, all twenty inches or more of it, here and now with no major anaesthetic.
“Use salve…” Rumil countered. “Numb it a little… I will stay still.”
“It will not numb it enough,” Elladan said, and then Orophin spoke.
Tindómë remembered Legolas once saying that, as a Patrol Leader in his father’s wardens, he could speak in such a way that another warrior obeyed without second thought.
This was Orophin, Lothlorien Patrol Second, speaking again. “You will drink enough poppy syrup to tolerate the stitching without screaming.
“You will drink enough poppy syrup to tolerate the stitching with no more than my strength to hold you still – we still have to pile and burn orc bodies and do not need your treatment to require all of us.
“You will drink enough poppy syrup that your pain at being stitched is not too great for Tindómë to tolerate! For, even as I knew that you had been wounded, she must also have felt it.”
All three ellyn looked briefly at Tindómë and she nodded slowly.
“You will drink the amount of poppy syrup that Elladan gives you. When we are finished here you will ride sitting, as befits a warrior, and I will ride behind you. There will be no further discussion.”
Fascinated, by what she thought might well be a glimpse of Haldir in Orophin, Tindómë watched as Elladan silently measured poppy syrup into the cap of the small bottle and passed it to Orophin, who supported his brother’s head as Rumil drank without another word.
Quickly Rumil’s ‘presence’ faded from her as his eyes lost focus and glazed over as they did when he slept. She moved aside as Elladan and Orophin turned Rumil slightly onto his side, so that the water Elladan now poured into his abdomen ran out again, and then, taking a pot of grey-green salve, Elladan slathered it into and around the gaping wound, wiped his hands dry, and took up a curved needle and a length of silk.
The first stitches repaired the ‘slight damage’ to Rumil’s gut, and he didn’t seem to notice them, but when Elladan pushed the needle into the flesh at his hip he flinched and moaned quietly; the poppy syrup clearly did not render him completely unconscious, or pain-free, but it must have helped.
Orophin reached down, from where he had been holding the two edges of his brother’s flesh together, to Rumil’s boot and pulled the small knife from its hiding place. He placed the handle firmly between Rumil’s teeth, for him to bite on, and then looked at Tindómë with the ghost of a smile.
“My brother’s knife handle has many tooth marks when you look at it closely,” he said. “It bears the signs of each stitching even after they fade from his body!”
It brought home to her, more than anything she had ever been told about the elves as warriors, that this was something that these elves had all been through, in one role or the other, countless times over their many centuries of fighting.
Tindómë was both impressed and nauseated by the ‘field surgery’. They didn’t need her help; she wondered if she should go and gather up the rest of their belongings, and maybe light a fire as the orcs had trampled the one that had burnt through the night.
She was just going to ask if this would be the most useful thing for her to do when Elrohir’s voice called to her. He was about half way down the trail of orc bodies which led back to the point where the first arrow had found its mark.
“Tindómë, will you please come here? Not Orophin, but Tindómë - I need your help.”
Well, that answered the question of what to do next, although she wondered what would need her rather than Orophin.
“I’m coming,” she answered, and moved to get to her feet.
Orophin dipped his head towards her. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, and Tindómë knew it was not just for going when Elrohir called.
......................................
The BtVS characters do not belong to me, but are used for amusement only. All rights remain the property of Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, and the original TV companies. The same is true of the LotR characters for whom all rights remain the property of the estate of JRR Tolkien and the companies responsible for the production of the films.
In other news - so far in my week off work I have
Oh - we did finally find a pair of bright red shoes - decided her little gold 'jacket' will do, oh - and now we are vaguely looking for a red handbag...
I think I will need another week off to recover!
Chapter Four is
3,720 words.
Rated 15.
And
“Echuio, meleth, echuio!”
Dawn had been dreaming of Sunnydale; there had been demons, and one of them had picked her up, and it was tossing her around by her coat collar. It took her a minute to wake enough to tune in to being Tindómë and to understand the quiet, but insistent, voice.
“Wake up, beloved, wake up!” Rumil was saying, as he shook her shoulder.
It was still almost dark.
“Uh?” Tindómë asked.
“Yrch!” Rumil answered.
“Yrch?” Surely she must have misunderstood.
No, she hadn’t misunderstood. On the other side of the smouldering fire both twins were already standing up, and fastening their sword belts, faces grim. It was just light enough for her to make out their expressions.
The orcs couldn’t be all that close – Rumil had his bow in his hand, but his arrows were still all in his quiver.
Tindómë rubbed her eyes and then pulled on her boots as Rumil passed her sword and belt, followed by her bow and quiver, and helped her adjust the quiver straps in the half-light.
She heard movement and realised that Orophin was sending the horses into the forest – clearly the ellyn intended to fight, not run.
“How many? How far away?” she asked.
“It will be at least ten minutes before they are within range. Twenty or thirty of them…”
‘Twenty or thirty?’ Tindómë thought. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Why are we thinking of fighting these things? Why aren’t we hiding quietly? Why am I here with these four? Why not four elves that are not determined to kill every orc they find?
‘Silly thought!’ she almost smiled.
The twins had resolved to try and rid Middle Earth of every orc, in revenge for the terrible injuries done to their mother, and the brothers sought revenge for the death of Haldir. But there probably wasn’t an elf in Middle Earth that would lay low and let orcs pass when the odds were only five or six to one.
“They are heading almost straight towards us, they must intend to hide in the forest, or skirt it,” Rumil said. “We will gather up our bags and bedrolls, but leave the fire smouldering – that should make sure that they do come exactly this way…”
“Come, little warrior,” Elrohir said, his voice soft and serious; “we will pull back into the edge of the forest.”
……………………………………………………………..
Soon Tindómë found herself in one of the trees at the edge of Fangorn. Rumil and Orophin were on branches close by; the twins below, on the ground, in the deep shadow of the trees.
“Rumil and I will use our bows until the orcs are right upon us, and then drop to use our swords. The twins will use their bows from the ground – they will change to swords before we do. Use your bow when the orcs are within your range; stay in the tree even when you can no longer use your bow for fear of hitting us. Do not get down unless you decide it is absolutely essential – you are not as skilled with your sword as we are and, more importantly, you have a shorter reach!”
This was, most certainly, ‘Orophin the Lorien Patrol Second’ giving instructions. Tindómë thought that she would be quite happy to stay in the tree, thank you, especially as Rumil had been talking quietly to the tree in question and said that it was willing to let her remain within its branches.
She could hear the orcs now – they were not quiet; they were turning towards the remains of the elves’ campfire. They came into her sight. There seemed to be even more than Rumil had said and an assortment of weapons showed vaguely as black on grey.
Almost silently Orophin and Rumil released their first arrows and two orcs fell. There was noise and confusion amongst the orcs, two more arrows found their marks, and the orcs were moving towards Tindómë and the others, at a sort of jog, shouting.
‘Fuck! These guys are bigger and even uglier than the Turok-Han – and I’m stuck up a tree with a bow and only four guys on my side.’ She could feel her adrenalin level rising and the beginnings of panic.
‘Stop it, Dawnie, pull yourself together or it might get through to Rumil and worry him, or put him off his stroke,’ she lectured herself.
Much later she would realise that this was the last time that she thought of herself as Dawn.
She held back her own fire until the dark mass of orcs was within her range, and then fired into the group without being able to clearly identify her targets, but there were bodies falling, and the orcs had not yet pinpointed the elves’ position to shoot back – so far the elves were definitely winning. Tindómë took a deep breath and then loosed another arrow. The brothers beside her were firing steadily, and she was sure the twins were doing so as well, even though, in their grey cloaks, she couldn’t make out where they were.
Suddenly there was movement from beneath her – the twins were charging forward, swords drawn, their long daggers in their other hands. Tindómë fired another arrow, aiming towards the back of the orc mob to be sure not to hit a twin.
More arrows from Rumil and Orophin, every one finding its mark; the orcs were at the camp-site and still coming forward, the twins had almost closed the gap. Their hoods had slipped off their heads, their hair streamed behind them, they made no sound as they met the leading orcs and the sheer speed and fury of their approach seemed to have caught those leading orcs off balance – they fell, almost sliced in two, without much attempt to defend themselves.
The brothers loosed more arrows; the remaining orcs were now within about thirty yards of the trees, and there were five or six of them surrounding the twins. Two of those fell, arrows in their chests, and then, on either side of her, there was a sudden flurry of movement and the two Galadhrim warriors were on the ground, swords in hand.
Tindómë fired her arrows again into the back of the mob of orcs, gratified to see a dark shape drop to the ground – she was pretty sure that was the third or fourth hit she had made; she was pulling her weight.
The fighting on the ground was still fierce though; the four elves fought in a curved line and, as their swords thrust and slashed, orc bodies were beginning to pile up around them.
It seemed to Tindómë that only maybe a third of the orcs were left standing, but it was getting more difficult to shoot without any possibility of hitting an elf, and so she kept an arrow nocked but held back from letting it loose.
She watched the fighting; she could not see the elves’ faces but, this close, she could feel cold fury from Rumil. The elves moved with grace, almost as smoothly and beautiful to watch as when they were on the practice field.
Then two things happened almost simultaneously; Tindómë heard a scream which sounded female and, before she could consider the implication of that, there was a sense of almost physical coldness instead of fury from Rumil, then pain.
For the first time since they had started firing arrows she heard an elven voice; “Rumil!” Orophin shouted.
Rumil still held his sword, and was fending off the orc that was trying to kill him, but his other hand was clutched to his stomach and he was not moving with any grace at all.
The twins were fighting four orcs between them and a really big guy with a glaive was attempting to decapitate Orophin over the head of one who was fighting him sword to sword. Tindómë had an awful feeling that it wouldn’t take the orc with the glaive long to realise that Rumil would make a better target.
She was not confident enough in her own skill with the bow to attempt to shoot the orc before it occurred to him to change opponent, because of the risk of hitting Orophin, and she wasn’t sure that Orophin would be able to stop the orc if he chose to attack Rumil. This was, she decided, the point where coming down from the tree could well be considered ‘absolutely necessary’.
“Don’t let me fall,” she muttered quietly and suddenly the leaves around her rustled and shifted slightly – she could see a clear drop to the ground below. She landed easily, much better than she would have done before her time in Lothlorien, and ran towards Orophin and Rumil.
Her sword was in her hand by the time she reached the ellyn. It was still the short sword that she had brought through the Hellmouth even though the elves were slowly teaching her to use their own, curved bladed, bastard swords. One of the elven smiths had taken time to decorate the grip for her so that, at least in its scabbard, it looked more like an elven weapon.
Orophin was right about it giving her a much shorter reach, though. Against her target opponent this should, she reckoned, actually be an advantage.
In the minute or so since she had made the decision to join the fray she had adjusted to knowing that Rumil was in pain; at least it didn’t slow her down, she thought, but it was still clear that he was in pain, angry and, just a little, scared.
In that minute Rumil seemed still to be holding off his opponent; the twins had reduced their foes to three, but could not yet come to Rumil’s aid; Orophin was still fighting the orc with the sword; and the only other orc standing, the guy with the glaive, was just moving to adjust his thrusts towards Rumil, as Tindómë had feared.
Keeping low, trying to stay below the orcs’ natural eye-line, she angled her approach between Rumil and Orophin.
“Im si!” she said, just as she reached them, so that they wouldn’t accidentally swing back and hit her. Neither elf replied, but there was now a gap just big enough for her to get safely between them.
She stepped towards the glaive-wielding orc and was quickly inside his reach. The other orcs were too busy to do anything about her, and ‘her’ orc could not defend himself because the blade of his weapon couldn’t reach her.
She remembered her lessons ‘their armour is weak at the neck and under the arm…’ – well, this one looked weak enough around the stomach, as he wasn’t wearing much armour. She thrust her sword in, as hard as she could, and black blood ran out and over her hand.
‘Yeuch! Gross!’ she thought, ‘Really much more demon than human!’ But she still felt her stomach contents rising up her throat.
She stepped back quickly, pulling her sword out of the orc with some difficulty, and was sure she could hear it ‘gloop’ as it finally came free and the orc fell to the ground.
She realised that ‘Rumil’s orc’ had his side to her and that Rumil was really able only to defend and not to attack. She swallowed hard, aimed at the orc's known weak spot, and thrust home under his sword arm.
The orc made a strangled noise and looked towards her with an almost puzzled expression. She glanced towards Rumil; his face was still totally impassive but even paler than usual. He took a step forward and caught the orc in the groin with his sword. Still with a look of surprise on his face the orc crumpled.
So did Rumil.
………………………………………………………………………….
Echuio! – wake up!
tithen maethor – little warrior
Im si – I’m here.
………………………………………………………………………….
Everything seemed to Tindómë to be happening in slow-motion; and yet hardly any time seemed to pass before there were no more sounds of clashing metal and the fighting was over.
She realised that she was standing in front of Rumil where he lay on the ground, her sword still held up, ready to defend him from all comers. Orophin had dropped to his knees beside his brother, holding the orc’s sword, and Elladan was gently touching Tindómë’s arm and saying “You can put your sword down, little warrior; there are none left to hurt him. Elrohir will make sure of it.”
Slowly she lowered her sword and noticed again that her hand was covered in warm, black, orc blood. She could feel last night’s supper still trying to escape and had to swallow hard again.
‘How stupid,’ she thought, ‘to be worried about barfing, and embarrassing myself, while Rumil is lying injured at my feet.’
She was afraid to turn and look where Elladan had now also dropped to his knees beside Rumil; instead she focussed briefly on Elrohir. He was moving methodically from one orc to the next, face totally impassive, as he thrust his sword into each body.
“Meleth…” the voice was very soft, but quite clear.
She turned. Orophin and Elladan were peeling Rumil’s tunic and shirt carefully away from his body, there was an awful lot of blood, but his eyes were open and he was looking at her.
‘Feel calm, feel calm, if you are panicking, or shit scared, he’ll pick it up if he’s conscious,’ she told herself, in a mental version of ‘resolve voice’.
“Orophin, you know what to look for,” Elladan said, “go and bring my healer’s pack and water. Tindómë, are you uninjured? Good, come and help me.”
The deadly warrior had been replaced by the skilled healer. He sounded so calm that Tindómë felt better just listening to him.
Orophin gently touched Rumil’s cheek as he got to his feet and went to where their bags were beneath the trees.
Tindómë took his place, wiping the orc blood from her hand onto her leggings, trying not to kneel in Rumil’s blood because that would have felt wrong somehow. Elves always looked pale, almost luminous, but Rumil’s face was beyond pale – he was more the colour of Gandalf’s robes. Despite the stink of orcs and orc blood she could still taste the smell of Rumil’s blood in her mouth; she swallowed hard yet again.
Elladan glanced sympathetically at her but said nothing. Rumil was also watching her – he was still conscious. Tindómë thought it might be better for him if he wasn’t. She touched his cheek, as Orophin had done, ‘sending’ as much love as she could through ‘the faer thing’.
She helped Elladan peel the blood soaked leggings away from Rumil’s wound so that he lay bare from chest to knee. The day was getting lighter by the minute, and it was clear that an orc must have caught him with a slashing attack rather than a thrust; he was sliced from the bottom of his ribcage across his abdomen to the front of his hip. She could see bone at the top and guts through the cut abdomen.
‘Viscera,’ she thought, and then a mental picture of Buffy saying “She knows about viscera. Makes you proud,” hit her so hard that she could almost imagine Buffy right behind her.
Elladan was poking his fingers into the wound. “Orophin and I saw no sign of poison on the blade and I think it has missed everything vital…” he was saying to Rumil.
Rumil’s eyes focussed on Elladan, he licked his lips, and then spoke. “Good… I hope to need… my grond… for many years…”
“Males!” said Tindómë, rolling her eyes. His remark had the desired effect, though; she was less scared for his life.
“I was thinking more of the large blood vessel in your groin.” Elladan’s voice was serious, but there was a slight smile on his lips. “He missed it by two or three finger widths, and I see only slight damage to your gut, but you are bleeding badly enough and it will take me some time to stitch you back together. You will not see Lord Námo just yet, but you will be weak from the blood loss.”
Orophin returned. Elladan quickly opened the pack while telling Rumil to drink the water to replace the fluid he was losing.
It suddenly occurred to Tindómë that they didn’t seem to know about IV fluids – in a trauma show on American TV putting in a line would have been automatic. They hadn’t used one when she was injured either; all she could remember was soft, urgent, voices and water dripped into her mouth. When this was all over she must talk about it to the Els.
As Rumil tried to drink, lying flat on his back, she realised why the water had been dripped into her mouth… Orophin was doing it for Rumil now. Tindómë felt helpless, she didn’t know what to do to help, and then she felt Rumil’s hand squeezing hers and she wondered who was comforting who. She tried to ‘push’ great waves of reassurance and love through their tentative faer-link.
It hit her then, almost as hard as an orc glaive would have done, that it really was love that she was trying to wrap around Rumil’s faer like a blanket. It was not ‘lust’, ‘mutual attraction’, ‘really, really, like’, ‘the faer thing’, or anything else. She totally loved this elf and, if Elladan was wrong and his injuries were fatal, she did not think that she could live without him. If anyone from Sunnydale turned up now she would fight to the death to stay here, with Rumil, if she had to.
She could feel a lot of pain; ‘sending’ must open you up to ‘receive’, she thought, but she could also feel a calmness – Rumil clearly had confidence in Elladan and believed that he would live to fight another day.
“Poppy syrup,” Elladan said, holding up a small bottle capped with its own silver measure.
“No!” Rumil said. “I am a warrior. I will sit on my horse… to meet the Rohirrim… not be carried like the baggage… or an elfling!”
“Yes!” said Elladan firmly. “I do not want you squirming around whilst I stitch, nor do I want to have to use your brother, my brother, and Tindómë to all hold you still.”
Tindómë realised that Elladan intended to stitch the wound, all twenty inches or more of it, here and now with no major anaesthetic.
“Use salve…” Rumil countered. “Numb it a little… I will stay still.”
“It will not numb it enough,” Elladan said, and then Orophin spoke.
Tindómë remembered Legolas once saying that, as a Patrol Leader in his father’s wardens, he could speak in such a way that another warrior obeyed without second thought.
This was Orophin, Lothlorien Patrol Second, speaking again. “You will drink enough poppy syrup to tolerate the stitching without screaming.
“You will drink enough poppy syrup to tolerate the stitching with no more than my strength to hold you still – we still have to pile and burn orc bodies and do not need your treatment to require all of us.
“You will drink enough poppy syrup that your pain at being stitched is not too great for Tindómë to tolerate! For, even as I knew that you had been wounded, she must also have felt it.”
All three ellyn looked briefly at Tindómë and she nodded slowly.
“You will drink the amount of poppy syrup that Elladan gives you. When we are finished here you will ride sitting, as befits a warrior, and I will ride behind you. There will be no further discussion.”
Fascinated, by what she thought might well be a glimpse of Haldir in Orophin, Tindómë watched as Elladan silently measured poppy syrup into the cap of the small bottle and passed it to Orophin, who supported his brother’s head as Rumil drank without another word.
Quickly Rumil’s ‘presence’ faded from her as his eyes lost focus and glazed over as they did when he slept. She moved aside as Elladan and Orophin turned Rumil slightly onto his side, so that the water Elladan now poured into his abdomen ran out again, and then, taking a pot of grey-green salve, Elladan slathered it into and around the gaping wound, wiped his hands dry, and took up a curved needle and a length of silk.
The first stitches repaired the ‘slight damage’ to Rumil’s gut, and he didn’t seem to notice them, but when Elladan pushed the needle into the flesh at his hip he flinched and moaned quietly; the poppy syrup clearly did not render him completely unconscious, or pain-free, but it must have helped.
Orophin reached down, from where he had been holding the two edges of his brother’s flesh together, to Rumil’s boot and pulled the small knife from its hiding place. He placed the handle firmly between Rumil’s teeth, for him to bite on, and then looked at Tindómë with the ghost of a smile.
“My brother’s knife handle has many tooth marks when you look at it closely,” he said. “It bears the signs of each stitching even after they fade from his body!”
It brought home to her, more than anything she had ever been told about the elves as warriors, that this was something that these elves had all been through, in one role or the other, countless times over their many centuries of fighting.
Tindómë was both impressed and nauseated by the ‘field surgery’. They didn’t need her help; she wondered if she should go and gather up the rest of their belongings, and maybe light a fire as the orcs had trampled the one that had burnt through the night.
She was just going to ask if this would be the most useful thing for her to do when Elrohir’s voice called to her. He was about half way down the trail of orc bodies which led back to the point where the first arrow had found its mark.
“Tindómë, will you please come here? Not Orophin, but Tindómë - I need your help.”
Well, that answered the question of what to do next, although she wondered what would need her rather than Orophin.
“I’m coming,” she answered, and moved to get to her feet.
Orophin dipped his head towards her. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, and Tindómë knew it was not just for going when Elrohir called.
......................................
The BtVS characters do not belong to me, but are used for amusement only. All rights remain the property of Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, and the original TV companies. The same is true of the LotR characters for whom all rights remain the property of the estate of JRR Tolkien and the companies responsible for the production of the films.
In other news - so far in my week off work I have
- ordered a birthday cake for D-d and her friend for their official 21st party on Friday.
- posted one of my pass-it-forward gifts.
- been shopping with D-d for a whole afternoon looking for shoes and a shrug for her to wear at said party.
- been back to town to buy a birthday present for my niece from my mother (niece is 18 on Thursday).
- bought a present for said niece from S2C and I.
- made an appointment to have my hair cut.
- collected the Sunday School books from the Church Bookshop.
- bought a gift for our friend whose birthday is also Thursday.
- bought some plants to improve the garden before anyone visits us now the weather is better.
- planted them.
- tidied the yard - a bit...
- at least ten more things I've forgotten, like food shopping, meal cooking - oh and got the ingredients to make a 'home' birthday cake.
Oh - we did finally find a pair of bright red shoes - decided her little gold 'jacket' will do, oh - and now we are vaguely looking for a red handbag...
I think I will need another week off to recover!
no subject
no subject