Faril Nin [My Huntress]

Title: Faril Nin My Huntress
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13 – R (for graphic violence detail)
Characters: Orophin/OFC
Time: Begins before the Fellowship come into Lórien in TA 3018… Ends FA 250.
Chapter(s): 8/12
Summary: No creature lived more than a moment after they crossed blades with him. But something was amiss and he could feel it drawing closer by the moment. He had only a second to turn and look before it happened.
Author: Codi Lyn
Disclaimer: I realize that Arwen was the last elf born in Middle Earth but I am changing it with my license as the author. Also, I don’t know quite what season it is when the Fellowship are in Lórien but I’ve also changed a bit of stuff in the timeline as well (i.e. Legolas having just left and then a few months later they’re in Lórien, which is not movie or book-verse…oh well). I don’t own anything (except for my OC’s) and it all belongs to Tolkien, the mastah.

Chapter 8

Orophin marched at an amazing pace at the head of the other galadrim through the oncoming storm. Their travel kept nonstop through the night, silent but for the subtle chinking of mail and armor. With any luck their speed would take them to Helm’s Deep before Saruman’s grand army arrived. Orophin ran next to his elder brother and captain at the forefront of their own small army of three hundred, there were no words spoken, nor songs sung as they continued on. It was not such a joyous occasion to join with men at this time.
They ran without cease into Rohan and before Orophin knew it, the elf on the far end of the front line blew his elvish horn loud and clear to signal their arrival. They had just made it. Upon looking beyond their humble force he could see the thousands of torches in the near distance portentous of the horrendous army’s arrival.
The gates were opened for them automatically and Orophin, though sober enough for the battle ahead, could not help himself but smirk at the awed looks they received from their rohirric allies. Haldir moved ahead to greet the King with lord Elrond’s message and Orophin stood at attention with the rest of the troop. At his signal they turned sharply and came into position about face to Theoden. To the warden’s surprise, he saw Aragorn stood at Haldir’s side and was obviously overjoyed to see the galadrim company.
The elves fanned out and distributed throughout the stone Keep, some on the lower parts with swords and many upon the walls of the battlement with their long bows. Haldir was one of these while Orophin commanded those on the lowest floor of the fort with their bows and blades. Aragorn came up to him after inspecting all their defenses and clasped the elf’s arm in greeting.
“How are you, mellon? It is good to have you.” Orophin nodded and gave him a genuine smile.
“I am well, my friend. As is your sister.” Aragorn’s smile turned inquisitive and Orophin relieved him quickly.
“The Lady has spoken with her and her thoughts are clear at last. Alas, I have not seen her but once and she was asleep with Véredhiel.” The ranger nodded and put a hand on his breast.
“I pray that we both live to see her once more. Valar protect you, my brother.” He then turned and quickly climbed the stone stairs to stand with Legolas and Gimli among the rows of elven archers.
The sounds of the army nearing the enclosure set off many young soldiers who were not accustomed to the sounds of battle or the feel of a weapon in their hands. Orophin glanced toward a young lad who was wiping tears from his eyes; he looked at the elven warrior and sniffed. Orophin gave an encouraging smile to the boy, who now stood a little taller and gripped the axe that was given him a little tighter. The lad was too young, Orophin knew, too young to be on the field in such a manner. Though a strong heart was sure to be grown in him, it was not developed enough and he would do no good but to be a terrible waste of a child’s life. But that was not his decision and he would do nothing but try his hardest to protect all he could.
The uruks sounded close now, just out of arrow range at the least. The rain was finally let loose began to fall hard upon helm and head, unfortunately letting the reek of death and refuse drift from the dark army toward Helm’s Deep in a fowl smog. They stomped and screamed and clashed their armor to intimidate the miniscule rohirrim force and were successful for the most part, excluding only the seasoned warriors of whom there were few.
Orophin gave the command to ready bows as Aragorn did the same on the wall ahead of him. Suddenly an arrow was let fly, on target, yet prematurely, and the orc noises ceased for a pregnant moment.
“Dartho! Hold!” Aragorn commanded to hold fire while the enemy army became roused in anger and at last started the charge toward the wall.
“Tangado a chadad! Prepare to fire!” Orophin commanded his galadrim and readied his own bow, aiming it high above the wall and its occupants with the rest of them.
“Hado i philinn! Release arrows!” Quickly and precisely they shot their arrows and were given the command by Aragorn to hurl to flow. It lasted but a moment before the ladders began to draw up to the wall with berserk uruk warriors at their heads. Orophin was able to shoot several of them down from below his comrades but soon there were simply too many coming over and they filtered their ways through the soldiers, coming swiftly down the stairs killing as they went.
Orophin called for swords and drew his own before charging the first orc to arrive on the bottom level. More came, seeming to double in number after each kill before him. Orophin tasted uruk blood on his lips as it splattered from his victim’s vital arteries, the rain not washing it away quick enough for his like. Several blades came too close and clashed against his breastplate and outer armor. Already he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins with the rush of battle swarming around him. No creature lived more than a moment after they crossed blades with him. Yet something was amiss and he could feel it drawing closer by the moment. He had only a second to turn and look before it happened.
An explosion larger than he had ever seen erupted with a spine-numbing crack on a nearby section of wall, while boulders and bodies flew high with the blast. Shrapnel from broken stone and steel shot at him and hit in many places, including a breech in his chest near the arm and many places on the face though his arms had covered his eyes effectively enough. When he opened his eyes there was an enormous gap in the wall with rainwater rushing out to drain as uruk-hai flooded in the Keep to attack.
He got up with a light head and ran hastily to Aragorn who had fallen before him in the explosion, gathering the ranger in his arms he pulled him back from the charging danger. He roused quickly and Orophin helped him up, gathering the galadrim behind him to draw their bows. A volley of arrows slowed the enemy’s charge only a little and they were soon replaced. The elves charged at Aragorn’s command, many instantly falling to the uruks’ long lances with terrible noises of demise.
Orophin sliced through the first beast to challenge him and efficiently fell three more in its wake. An arrow grazed his neck, catching him off guard, as it was a stray from a rohirrin archer. Distracted, he turned round too late and received a stab in the same inflicted shoulder as before, wincing at the wretched pain that tore through the muscle. The uruk was soon, and angrily, taken care of before he painfully ripped out the serrated knife, cursing under his breath as he did so for the shrapnel was now deeply irritated within him.
“Nan barad! To the Keep!” He heard the command shouted over the sounds of battle and Orophin looked around him to gather those who had not heard above the ruckus. Several rushed past him and Orophin covered their retreat by destroying those that would have pursued.
“Haldir! Nan barad!” Aragorn called out his brother’s name and he turned quickly to find him among the carnage upon the wall. The Marchwarden called his galadrim to retreat to the inner Keep, but himself stayed and fought until a crooked blade caught his arm and ripped through the flesh.
Orophin called to him in horror and ran up the stairs three, four, at a time. But too late, for as he reached the top an unfortunate uruk cut through his brother’s back and his eyes numbed in excruciating pain. Orophin slaughtered the beast in rage and managed to catch Haldir before his body fell back fully to the stone of the wall. Aragorn, also, had come up to the wall and now protected them as Haldir spoke his last to the younger brother. Orophin held his captain to him firmly while tears threatened to burst forth and occasionally succeeded. Haldir looked up to him regretfully, knowing this to be his end.
“To die for those you love… is not a waste, my brother. I, myself, have done so. You take… my blessing?” Orophin nodded quickly and gasped as he choked and went limp upon his arm, death finally taking his spirit from Middle Earth. Aragorn put a hand on Orophin’s shoulder and beckoned to him urgently.
“Come, we must leave. We can not linger.” Orophin nodded and stood from his brother who now lay broken and alone.
“Come!” Someone shouted to him and he ran behind almost blindly, killing those unfortunate enough to cross him in his infuriated state. He stopped with many others and defended the Keep fearlessly, going numb to every wound he received as he went into a deadly dance of fist, sword and knife. Giant iron grappling hooks shot over the walls and killed many with simply the power of their weight, but Orophin knew better and could already see the uruk-covered ladders being pulled slowly up.
“Pendraith! Ladders!” He shouted as a warning to those below and several drew bows to pick many off from where they stood. It seemed as if there was no end to the uruk army as bodies piled around Orophin and his comrades, many of them, also, falling to join the dead that littered the ground.
Something grabbed his arm from behind and he whirled around to strike but was stopped by its sword. His brother, Rúmil, stared at him with a frightened expression as he beheld the raw hatred shining in Orophin’s eyes.
“Orophin! Have you not heard the call for retreat? The castle is taken, we must fall back!” At last it finally registered to him that they had lost the fight and Rúmil put his arm under his back to help him flee to the final gate. Orophin had received a gash of a leg wound and limped best as he could with Rúmil’s help as a crutch. When they got into the large room he was set down against the wall carefully. It was scarce within, he noticed; so many had fallen. Orophin looked around as his younger brother inspected his numerous wounds.
He could not find any elves within the chamber and it sickened him to think once more of his fallen brother. Rúmil saw the pain in his eyes and guessed it partially, though his heart truly did not wish to know.
“Where is Haldir? I did not find him on my way to you.” Orophin could not bring himself to look his youngest brother in the eye and shook his head with a clenched jaw.
“He… died in my arms, Rúmil. He is gone from us.” He held the side of his head and neck to hold it firmly; giving him what comfort he could but leaving none for himself. Rúmil closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to keep his emotions in check and speaking a silent prayer for his eldest brother.
Quickly Rúmil distracted himself by assessing the damage taken by his middle brother and took it upon himself to remove several large pieces of shrapnel from his left side. Orophin gasped at the pain and took breaths difficultly as he turned his head to the doorway, watching a few men get ushered inside before the gate was closed and barricaded with whatever they could find in the room. Uruks on the other end began to shove a battering ram against the weak gate and it shook the room through to the very stone.
Orophin spat out blood as the last larger piece was pulled free of his flesh and he shook his head to rid himself of the droplets of sweat and rain on his brow. Aragorn was there and asked the King of ways in which the women and children could escape from the caves and afterward it was decided that the remaining soldiers and men would ride out to their last stand. Horses were sent for and Orophin forced himself to stand, costing him a flare of pain up his right injured leg.
“Orophin, you need not…” Rúmil attempted to dissuade him but he was immovable.
“No, my brother. I can still wield a blade, and I would not let you go to die unless I was already dead myself.” He was resolute and his eyes shone with a determination the younger had never seen before. Their horses were removed of their tack by the elves’ request and they mounted easily enough, Orophin bidding his shining bay to kneel so that he would not overly stress the leg wound. The King spoke what he believed to be his last to the men even as the gate was breaking through, and let out his battle cry once the first uruks could be seen.
“Forth Eórlingas!” At the King’s command they burst forth through the gate, bowling through the uruks as the monsters foolishly charged their trained war-horses. They fell quickly before them and those that did not were killed mercilessly before a sword could be raised in defense. The remaining company galloped out onto the causeway and down into the swarming field of enemy creatures and beasts. Orophin’s mare cleared a charge spear easily and landed upon two uruk-hai on her landing.
They fought until the sun rose over the eastern ridge and showed to them a great white rider, with a mounted rohirrin at his side. Many of the orcs turned and gathered to the base of the ridge, seeing the éored rush up behind the two riders and start a charge down the immensely steep mountainside. There were many of them and it took a moment for all of the army to become visible over the crest of the hill as the survivors’ spirits rose in the hope that they may yet live.
And indeed they did, for as the rohirrim charged into the orc army, the sun rose fully and blinded all the evil things that would have done any more harm, destroying or discouraging enough of them so that the remainder of Saruman’s forces fled and ran off into the newly arrived forest of huorns. Orophin and Rúmil smiled victoriously for they both knew of the living tree shepherds and their flock within Fangorn’s realm. In times past they would often visit the great forest so that they might learn to speak with the living things.
As victory was claimed Orophin felt his blood-rage and energy drain from him as his life-fluid slowly streaked his steed’s coat a dark red. He knew he was weakened from dark poisons injected into him by several different weapons of the foul army. He slouched heavily over his mare’s neck, his weight suddenly becoming a great burden, and urged her into the Deep so that he could account for losses and search for any survivors. Rúmil noticed this and urged his horse to follow him into the fortress. As he pulled up to one of the crude orcish banners Orophin drew his sword and hacked the wooden pole in half, causing the white hand to fall as his army had.
He dismounted painfully and patted the faithful mare’s neck, speaking to her gratefully in his native Sindarin tongue. He left the horse there and began to search through the bodies for galadrim who still yet lived. Rúmil was at his side in but a moment and helped him to search for any living and silently noting those who had fallen. Orophin came upon the crushed form of the lad he had seen before the battle and he gently removed him from the rubble and dead bodies that surrounded him. He held him weakly, but close to his heart. By mortal years he could not have been any more than nine or ten summers old.
As the wives and mothers came with their little ones out of the caves, a young girl left her mother’s side and walked over to Orophin as he carried the forever-sleeping lad in his grasp. He slowly knelt before her, coming to her level and she began to tear up while she neared him, carefully touching her elder brother’s blood-smeared cheek. She looked up to Orophin with sad brown eyes.
“Is he asleep?” She asked innocently, too young, he thought, to be so brutally introduced to the cruelty of war.
“I’m afraid he will not wake up, little one.” He told her softly and her bottom lip trembled, breaking his heart as only a child could.
“I have also lost a brother, dear one. We must keep on for them. It is all right to cry...” He soothed as she tried to wipe the moisture from her eyes feebly. She nodded and reached out to hold the edhel’s bloodied and battle-worn hand, Orophin squeezing hers gently in assurance.
“Karina? Oh no…” Her mother came to her and knelt before the injured elf carrying her son. The woman let out a sob and reached for him, reverently taking the child into her grasp and weeping over his body. The little girl hugged her mother and as he stood away from them, Orophin could hear her whisper softly to the woman,
“It’s alright to cry, Mama.” Orophin smiled sorely and she looked up to him one last time as he murmured,
“May you be blessed, Meltithenniel.” Rúmil came up behind him and led him away from the sad scene, like so many others happening around them.
“The rohirrim have assured me they will bury our dead. There are too many and you are too weak to aid me for us to do it ourselves.” Orophin nodded somberly.
“And what of Haldir?” He asked while Rúmil continued to assist his brother to walk and answered him,
“He would want to be buried with his men, Orophin, you know that. The men of Rohan will take care of him, they are a good people.” He nodded numbly as Rúmil silently led him to the healing room, seeing if he couldn’t discretely force him to be healed. As they entered Orophin seemed to awaken out of his stupor and shook his head vehemently once he realized where he had been brought, pulling away from his brother.
“No. I will heal in Lórien… We must return now, Rúmil.” But his brother persisted and grabbed his arm.
“You are in no condition to return, Orophin. You can barely walk of your own!”
“It matters not! I have already talked with Theoden, their King; he will lend us the horses and we’ll set them loose at the borders of Lórien. They will find their own way home.” Orophin limped determinedly towards the stable; angered from his losses and from his wounds, which now plagued him sorely now that some infection had set in as effect to the poison going untreated. He was the only being who knew of the poisons. He was certain if he told anyone now, they would keep him bed-ridden for weeks; which was another reason for his haste to return, if the poison was left alone overlong it would certainly prove his death.
They found the horses they had ridden that morning and mounted once more, this time Orophin heaved himself up on his own, eager to close the distance between them and Lothlórien. They trotted out of the Keep and galloped once over the fields of Rohan, the horses more free as they wore no saddle and harness to inhibit movement. Even the armored elven galadrim upon their backs seemed to weigh nothing. Rúmil followed his brother closely at the high speed of their gallop for several hours until the sun began to set and they were in great need of rest, both horse and rider.
Orophin slowed his mare gently and tried to calm his breathing before Rúmil caught on to his ragged condition. He knew he could not for long though, his brother was no dotard. The horses were both coated in sweat and foaming at the mouth from the hard ride. Orophin led his horse over to a smallish creek and let her drink her fill before dismounting with a hard grimace at the aggravated pain. Rúmil came up behind him to help but Orophin shook his head, keeping his back facing him so that he would not suspect by his expression. They were still close enough to return to Helm’s Deep rather than press forward to Lórien and he did not want to chance it.
“Ready a fire, my brother. I shall need it this night.” He told him, exerting his authority so that he could buy enough time to at least lie down and rest a little. Near midday he had felt his body begin to tremble uncontrollably and he could only hold it at bay for a moment when Rúmil had come behind him, but now he felt sick to his stomach and freezing besides. Limping and staggering, he made his way to a small tree growing near the water’s edge and collapsed as best he could to the ground without looking desperately sick, which was a difficulty, since he was. Turning on his side away from Rúmil, he wrapped his cloak around him and shivered as more nausea drew near.
“Orophin?” Rúmil called to him after hearing nothing for quite a while. He walked over to him and immediately noted his constant trembling. He pulled the hood off of his face and cursed upon seeing an unconscious and extremely feverish Orophin lying on his back.
“Blast, you are not well!” The elder’s face and skin was clammy and cold, indicating the fever, and raising open his eyelids showed yellowish coloring around the iris. This was much more than infection. Quickly he put some water on to boil and took off the warden’s dense armor, fully revealing wounds that should have been tended hours ago. He slapped his cheeks several times and finally splashed water over his face to rouse him and keep him awake.
“Do not take me back to Rohan, Rúmil…” Orophin mumbled once he knew he’d been found out, but Rúmil scoffed.
“We’re still in Rohan, brother. And I’d say that’s the least of your worries at this point.” He ripped open the sweat and blood stained jerkin and grimaced at the severely yellowing puncture wound that currently oozed fluids and some syrupy blood.
“Why did you not tell me, Orophin? This could have been prevented!” Orophin breathed in ragged successions and shook his head.
“I thought I could… hold on until we reached Lórien. I had no idea how… bad it had come to be.” Rúmil tore extra clothes angrily to make rags.
“Liar. You knew it was poisoned and yet did nothing!” Orophin coughed and winced at the pain that accompanied it, his lungs seeming to constrict with some foul mucus.
“Forgive me, my brother.” Rúmil glanced up to his face while he used the rags and boiling water to clean his nasty wounds. It was a wonder he could even lift his left arm. The younger dabbed his emotion-filled eyes with the back of his wrist and reasoned somewhat heatedly with a mask of anger to cover his concern.
“I do not wish to be the only son left. If you leave me then who would be the responsible one?” Orophin coughed out what sounded to be a laugh and attempted to smile at his brother.
“I’d say you are being the responsible one now, while I’ve gone and done something thoughtless.” Rúmil smiled reluctantly but made a face as Orophin coughed up some thick blood and spit it to the side, laying his head back so that he might take a deep breath. Rúmil lifted a palm-full of water up to his lips and let him rinse out the muck in his throat, giving him another swallow before he continued in his ministrations. Orophin knew it was the stab wound from the serrated knife he had received in battle, with every blot and touch from the hot rag he could feel its pain double over again.
It took a long time to clean all of just the one wound, so bad it was, and after some convincing Rúmil placed a broken stick between Orophin’s teeth so that he would not bit his tongue and mayhap endure a little longer. The tremors had not ceased and they nearly turned to seizures at times when the pain was at its most intense. Orophin’s shouts of anguish began to disquiet the horses but obediently, they stayed where they were and did not budge.
Orophin was thankful his brother had not faired as he had; having been one of the archers on the higher battlements, he’d not come down to sword fighting till he had run out of arrows. For once, Orophin was thankful for Haldir’s over protectiveness concerning Rúmil.
Blood and puss stained the ground where Orophin lay, emitting a foul smell that only served to make his stomach sick. The flesh about the wound was now splotched in green, purple, and black, though it had been cleaned as best as could be done while it still secreted mucus and fetid blood. Rúmil dared not to stitch it shut for that would but seal the toxins within. The sun began to rise after long hours of rigorous labor with no rest and Rúmil looked up to his brother’s bruised and pale face, rousing him as he took the chewed branch stub out of his mouth.
“Can you ride?” The younger stroked his brother’s forehead with the warm rag and Orophin opened his eyes briefly before shutting them for the strain of the sunlight.
“Not of myself. But I could bare it, I think.” Rúmil nodded and took off his own jerkin, shredding it into long strips to wrap around his brother’s waist. Orophin grunted as it was tied off a little tightly and tried to aid Rúmil in helping him to stand.Rúmil whistled to his horse, a dark brown colt with white socks and a white star upon his face, called Ramses. Obediently, the horse knelt down to assist Orophin mount and the sickened elf hunched over his neck in pain, grasping the thick mane so he wouldn’t easily tumble off.
The younger warden gathered their small amount of belongings and put out the embers of the fire. He fastened their armor to Orophin’s mare and spoke to her in elvish, directing her to follow them closely. He knew she understood her master’s condition and had faith that she would be obedient. Securing their things once more for the hard ride, he walked over to where his brother sat on the colt shaking. He mounted up quickly and wrapped his cloak around Orophin, urging the horse on into a gallop after leaning into his brother and confirmed with him.
“You will tell me if you must rest. I’ll need to check your condition from time to time in any case, so there’s little use in persevering unnecessarily.” He received a nod and a sound of pain as the colt rocked beneath them. It was going to be a very long ride.
They did as he said and stopped every couple of hours to rest, cleaning and rewrapping his bandages and wound. Orophin had never experienced so much pain at one time in his several thousand years. He knew others had, others that he had fought with and watched die before him in much the same way he was suffering now.
He couldn’t die. He would not succumb to grief and despair… he had so much to live for, more than he ever thought he’d have. A beautiful maiden waited for his return and the elfling child she cared for that he felt in his heart, was his daughter. He had to live; no pain mattered now compared to leaving them alone on this earth.
Rúmil knew his brother worsened by the moment and rode hard through the night, finally arriving at the borders some time after midnight. He knew the watches would recognize them and therefore galloped straight through to the supply flets where he was relieved to see they brought fresh horses for them to continue into Caras Galadon. The Lady had seen them coming and must have known Orophin’s injuries to be grave. Rúmil trotted up to one of the fresh horses that he recognized to be his own, a much quicker thoroughbred than Orophin’s half-draft which also stood nearby. He lifted Orophin over onto the lithe stallion and mounted himself from the rohirrim steed, speaking his thanks before instructing a nearby elf that the two horses were to be released back to their land.
Rúmil held to his brother and instructed the stallion to give him all speed to the City. The pearly-white horse obeyed his master completely and flew from the outposts with a speed even he had never tried over such terrain before. When they arrived at the Lord and Lady’s mellorn home, he found they waited out side for him with a stretcher-like bed and elves to carry his brother securely. Rúmil dismounted and, with the help of Lord Celeborn, carried Orophin down from the tall steed to gently lay him on the stretcher. Galadriel led the elves carrying him while Celeborn followed behind with the youngest brother close by his side.
“I was not aware he was in such a terrible condition. Surely he could have been healed earlier on in Rohan by their physicians?” Celeborn inquired of a weary warden and the younger sighed as they climbed the stairs considerably slower than the others.
“He could have, my lord. But he refused, at that time preferring to come back to Lórien immediately. He neglected to tell anyone that his worst wound had been poisoned.”
“I see. And you are the only survivors? You made certain to leave no one?” Rúmil did not make eye contact with his Lord, but nodded in reply.
“We scoured the Keep in search of our own, my lord. There were none alive, and we would all have died if their mounted reinforcements had not arrived with Mithrandir the White.” Celeborn nodded, having heard the way things had gone from his wife.
“Not even our Marchwarden survived, then.” Rúmil shook his head with a heavy burden.
“Orophin told me he died in his arms. I was not able to see him before it…” Celeborn put a hand on the young one’s back, silently bidding him to say no more, but to just let his Lord comfort him like a father would.
“Go and take rest, Rúmil. There are those that wish to see you, I’m sure.” He looked to him curiously but the Lord only smiled and continued to climb the stairs far behind his wife and her charge, leaving Rúmil to return home on his own.
Véredhiel refused to sleep this night and Gwaeron had a feeling why. It set her on edge more than anything especially as she began to cry harder, for she knew not if Orophin was troubled, hurt, or worse. She sat against the wall of the talan on the front porch and held Véredhiel close in her crossed legs; the baby had quieted down a little about an hour before midnight but still whined from time to time in her sleep. He had been gone nearly a week; she ran with Tar and fought in the sparring field endlessly in attempt to keep her thoughts positive and away from the dangers she knew he faced. He had to come home to her alive.
She had just allowed herself rest when Tar perked his ears and wagged his tail, the rhythm of it thumping against her thigh woke her up and she looked ahead to see someone walking towards their flet slowly. Gwaeron stood carefully, letting Verry sleep as long as she may. She stepped down the stairs quietly and watched as he came toward her. For a moment she thought it was Orophin, coming home to her at last; but he didn’t carry himself right, wasn’t as tall as her elf. Finally the edhel looked up from his boots and his face was that of Rúmil’s. A bit of relief flooded through her, but not all. She was glad he was safe… but where was his brother? Why did he not return also?
She went to him and embraced him without a word as he grasped her also, careful to avoid Verry on her shoulder. He pulled back and kissed her cheek, seeing the concerned expression on her fair features he immediately guessed her thoughts.
“He yet lives.” She nearly collapsed in joy and looked down with a smile and tears in her eyes.
“He is in Galadriel’s care, now. It would be good if you went to him.” She looked up alarmed once more.
“What’s happened, Rúmil?” He sighed.
“He has been terribly injured, Gwaeron. The worst wound has poisoned his blood.” She gasped and he put a hand on her shoulder gently but told her clearly of his exhaustion,
“Gwaeron, I am weary and have not slept in six days. Where is Anameleth? I have given her a promise that I would not soon go back on.” She turned a little and gestured to his own talan beside Orophin’s.
“She sleeps now in your bed, as she has for the duration of your absence.” He could not help but smile as he looked toward his flet. He bid her good eve and left her to walk alone to the great tree of the Lady and her hurt elf.
Gwaeron grew anxious as Véredhiel started to cry afresh in her arms, no doubt sensing her father’s grief in pain. She walked as quickly as she dared, thinking all the while of the many terrible things that might have happened to him, what agonies he must be going through. Her eyes welled up and tears streamed down over rosy cheeks. She missed him so much; even his scent had begun to fade from the tunics she slept with and Verry had seemed to sense it, too.
The baby wailed over her shoulder and clenched and unclenched her hair that had been let down for warmth on the cool, early spring evening. She finally reached the tree castle and began to climb the many flights of stairs, a breeze from the east giving her chills as it rustled through her long skirt. Her toes were bare for she had not bothered to pull on any boots before leaving the talan and each smoothed grain of wood felt like hot coals as she ascended higher and higher.
She stopped dead in her tracks as a man’s cry, she recognized only too well, rent the air in exasperation of pain. Véredhiel, she noticed, was no longer screaming but miserably weeping into her mother’s neck in too sad a way for but an infant to know.
The further she climbed the louder his shouts of suffering became and soon she stood before the closed door that he lay beyond, just out of her reach. She knew it was no place for a child and did not try and enter. If Rúmil said that he was under Galadriel’s care, then she would know that she was waiting. Gwaeron prayed to every Vala she could think of for his protection and was forced to sit down on a nearby bench as his screams reached her ears and from there, her aggrieved heart.
“Dear Illúvatar, do not let this child lose another father before ever she knows him.” Gwaeron bowed her head in tears and rocked back and forth, holding Véredhiel close to her as something of a harbor while her emotions sought to drown her in their rage.
Orophin writhed terribly on the cot he had been laid upon. Four elves, including their Lord, tried to hold him down as their Lady operated on his numerous shrapnel wounds, her long fingers buried deep within his flesh to remove even the most insignificant piece of rubble that could cause pain or infection. He was stronger than they had anticipated. His mind battled futilely over his body’s desire to resist the seemingly torturous treatment of his wounds. His body had retched considerably on the journey to Lórien and, though now felt nausea in the worst way, had nothing left to give.
He knew he must stay conscious to allay the power of the dark poison within him; but as he healed from one wound, the others must be tended to as well. At this moment he dearly regretted being so close to that blast. Orophin’s muscles flexed against his elven restraints and Celeborn, himself, putting all his weight and more upon the warden’s right shoulder and arm to keep him from striking anyone again. Once more, he shouted in fierce hurt as Galadriel removed another shard of steel from his side.
Orophin grew light-headed from excessive loss of blood and he heaved every breath miserably during the brief respite. His muscles trembled weakly as they strained to be freed and he felt nauseated and cold once again. He was so sore from pulling against the good elves and his Lord at his sides, and their pushing against him did nothing to alleviate that pain.
Gwaeron waited for hours outside the private healing rooms, hurting in her heart at every gasping shout of torment that was heard from within. She feared the worst for nearly half an hour when there was no sound at all, not even the talking from elf to elf. Her hands shook from nerves and the fear of the unthinkable having happened.
She jolted when the lord Celeborn emerged out of the room with a weary sigh, Véredhiel stirred only slightly in her deep sleep. Gwaeron stood and attempted to peer over his tall shoulders into the chamber, yet to no avail. He looked on her sympathetically.
“Have you been here this whole time, young one?” She nodded, hardly able to meet his gaze without collapsing into a nervous wreck of tears and hiccups. He sensed her distress and reached forward to take a hand of hers in his own gently.
“Orophin has endured much that I do not believe he would have lived through had it not been for you, Gwaeron.” The lady Galadriel appeared at his side and linked her arm through her husband’s.
“He murmured your name several times as I aided in curing the poison. It would do him good, I believe, if you went to him now.” She suggested to the worried ranger and they stepped out of her way to go, no doubt, to their own rooms. The other elves, also, were removed from the bedchamber and one smiled at her with a subtle ‘it’ll be all right’ wink.
She entered the room hesitantly, humbled by the amounts of soiled and bloodied rags there were to the corner area of the room in large bowls and basins. How much had he gone through? She could not even imagine. There were very few men that had been as bad off as she believed him to be, and those poor souls had not lasted. She trembled at the possibility.
He lay on the bed with his head limp to one side, only covered up to his lower waist, which revealed the many bandages that were faintly stained with his blood. His chest rose and fell slowly with the sporadic hitch in his breathing that frightened her. He shifted slightly and she sat herself in the chair beside him, holding Verry tenderly in her lap as the elfling slept off her exhaustion.
“O-Orophin?” She whispered hesitantly and brought herself to touch his bruised fingers cautiously, not sure if she wanted to wake him after such an excruciating ordeal. He said nothing at first but she felt his hand close around hers weakly, bringing it up to press against his heart while turning to look down at his lady ranger. He smiled.
“Faril nin.” His voice was quite raw but still just as she remembered, deep and gentle with his delightful accent. She could no longer contain herself when he called her by his favored name and she wept openly, smiling all the while. She was overwhelmed. She had not spoken to him in months, had rejected and wounded his love deeply, nearly starved herself in depression and guilt, had waited anxiously for him to return from a terrible battle, and now that she saw him just barely alive and with the same affection he’d always held for her, it was just too much to hold inside.
“I love you, Orophin… I am so sorry for what I’ve done to you.” She sobbed and bowed her head at his arm on the bedside. Gently he shushed her and stroked her hand, now that his left arm was temporarily immovable.
“I know, shh I know, my Gwaeron. But I am all right now, I am alive and you are with me. I don’t remember a time when I’ve been happier.” He assured her softly and finally she sniffed and looked up to him with those bright and shining green eyes he had missed so desperately. She wore her hair down and curled around her oval face, her cheeks were flushed and freckled as he remembered and in that moment she was more beautiful to him than Galadriel and all the elven maidens combined. He could not help himself.
“Gwaeron, daughter of Arathorn and Gilraen, faril nin… will you bind to me and be my wife?” He was moved to do the thing he had dreamt of for so long and brought her hand up to his chapped lips, kissing her knuckles with loving care. She laughed through her tears and managed to nod, blushing an even deeper pink than before.
“I’ve never wanted anything more, Orophin. I always wanted it to be you… I always knew it would be you.” Tears came to his eyes, also, as he looked down to her lap and saw their tiny daughter smile in her sleep.