Chapter Text
Galion had long served the Kings of the Wood-elves, serving even before they were Wood-elves. He had attended the first at Amon Lanc in the south of the Greenwoods when first they settled that forest, well before the site was abandoned to and turned by the Dark One, becoming Dol Guldur. He had served Oropher into the Last Alliance, and then his son Thranduil beyond it to the next turn of ages. His last duty to that ruler had been to oversee the festivities of the crown prince's marriage to another royal servant—a union that had brought special joy and satisfaction to the palace staff, as one of their own rank had finally been recognized as an equal by the king and court.
Professionally humble, Galion smiled to himself as he worked alone in the settlement. Even he, who had attended and arranged countless others—even he had to admit that it had been a particularly beautiful ceremony. In the company of the whole kingdom, representatives from lordships across Middle-earth and accompanied by as many of his fellow Ringfellows as could attend, Crown Prince Legolas married royal fletcher Iavasulad, formalizing nearly three thousand years of friendship, love and companionship. Beginning before sunrise on the first day of the new year, the beloved stars had shone their blessings on the couple and handed them over through the sunrise, to a new day and life together for as long as they all shone.
So pleased had the King under the Canopy been, in fact, amidst the many new beginning of this Fourth Age, that he granted Galion's request to accompany the two princes to their new settlement in Ithilien, and there to live and serve a third generation of Greenwood royalty as he chose. Released to his own interests—and he knew, to keep a watchful eye on the princes—after a long lifetime of faithful service, he had found great happiness in his freedom and new surroundings, and he took renewed pride in exploring and providing new fare in the new forest.
One such meal he had continued to keep warm through the night and into this morning while he also prepared cloths, herbs and other supplies for possible use by the settlement's healer. For this night had not been among the happy in Dundaur, as one of his kin was missing and all the forest on edge while the community searched. To that unusual tension, weariness and sadness were added as he heard the strange bellowing approach well before he sensed, heard or saw the search parties returning.
That the first to return was Auramdir, the healer, did not bode well though she smiled in gratitude at how well he had prepared for this possibility. "Einior,"(1) she asked respectfully as the distant bleating grew closer, "I can manage the athelas and petal water; would you please start a large pot of strong baby's broth?"
The oddity of the last request did not register, as his thoughts had caught on the second item. Perfumes… used for…burials. His heart sank as fear rose at for whose it might be.
"Some haste, Galion, please," she reminded gently. "We can help only those we can."
He nodded quietly, added a few logs to the fire, and went to his storehut for his richest blend of dried plants and meats—a recipe he'd not used in an age. It was only as he selected small earthware jars and leather pouches from their places that the full surprise of her last request struck him. Baby?!
Another round of bleats at a nearer distance broke his thoughts with partial answers. He gathered the last satchels, and leapt from the low platform back to the clearing floor. As he placed his armful on the table nearest the fire, across the space a solemn procession emerged from the treeline. All faces were long. All eyes were wet. Most were filthy. And two carried a sapling litter draped in cloaks of Lasgalen green, Lorien grey and deep Imladris blue.
Galion needed not mark the faces of those returning to know whom they bore, as the memory of the fallen kinsman hung heavily in the minds and hearts of the entire party. A whisper now too far distant, he thought.(2) This youth had been among the many elves born in the first decades of the Third Age, one of many living celebrations of life's survival against the plague of Sauron. Of the final generation of the first race of Middle-earth, begot in the echoes of the Last Alliance, he had survived the continued struggle against darkness through the last age and the final, fiery battle in the trees that freed the Greenswood and its people. And now he had fallen, never to claim the final ship-board view of the world to which he had been born and for which he had fought. What had robbed him of that fate?
As they gently laid the litter on one of the tables Galion had dressed for healing, the crown prince entered, all but carrying a dazed and dirty Dunthon whose left arm was bound against his chest only slightly tighter than Legolas held to him. The fletcher did not seem to register the cheerless scene around him as his head hung lazily against his worried archer mate, who also seemed to spare no thought for any but him. The stoic Duvenech and guilty-faced Ristolf brought up the rear, carrying the princes' bows and quivers.
With this final four, Galion noted that still not all the community had returned. Two, of course, would remain on patrol as at least four sharp eyes ever watched over the woods. But four others also remained away. And still there was the unfamiliar cry and crashing some paces to the south.
Ethuil and Aduial took up guard positions at the head and foot of the covered form, while the rest of the company quietly removed and put away their travel gear and garb. Úrsir and Clair, the husband and wife from Imladris, gravely accepted towels and steaming bowls from the healer, and approached the draped table with somber grace. As they walked past and began their work, the glen was filled with the sweet and subtle scents of Greenwoods home.
Auramdir followed the princes into her groundhome, and Ristolf, after hesitating on whether to follow, instead took up his sentry at the door.
The Ithilien captain stepped beside Galion, but did not pause to share his reverie of the sad scene. Ever to task, he instructed simply, "She will need hot water for his wounds, and then we will take your broth to our captive."
Galion both nodded in understanding and looked at him in question.
"I will explain when we walk. For now, please see to the princes."
Another nod, and Galion moved to the fire where Suriel helped him draw two kettles of hot water from the cauldron. He quietly spoke instructions to her, showing her the ingredients he had fetched. Trusting the broth to her care, he glanced again at the Rivendell couple's soft-singing work, and headed to the healer's hut.
He nodded to the prince's guard as he entered, noted how near to tears he was. It was clear that they were not just for the fallen archer. If not for Haethros alone, then what else made this grown elf cry?
Beyond the fabric flaps, in the space usually open to the nurturing sights, sounds and smells of the forest, Dunthon lay almost still on the central bed, his eyes closed in rare elven evidence of his injuries. He had been quickly but carefully stripped and then modestly covered with a fine sheet from the waist down. And most every inch of his pale skin was smeared gray, brown and black of earth, or marred with various red, green and blue bruises and abrasions.
At the far end of the cot, Legolas sat cross-legged, with Dunthon's head cradled gently in his lap. As Auramdir worked, the archer sang quietly to his husband and tenderly washed the dirt and blood from his face—as surely as he would the pain if he were able. He did not look up as Galion entered, but rather kept his gaze, tune and caress focused on the drowsing face below his.
Auramdir turned from her care, and spoke quickly as she helped pour the kettles into open bowls. "Galion, please help us wash him, warm water only. I do not wish the athelas to revive him until I am certain his shoulder and arm have been re-set, and we have more of the blood and Mordor filth off of him."
"Mordor?!" exclaimed the eldest elf, more loudly than he had intended.
A sharp look from her amplified the regret he felt on speaking, and ordered him wait for an explanation at some later time. She spoke a little louder now, to include Legolas. "Please continue with his legs. Both your movements will distract him while I determine the damage to his arm."
Concern overcoming his curiosity, Galion took his cloths and a bowl, carefully wiped the mix of sweat, blood, dirt and even small rocks from the battered legs beneath the cloth. He noted small, dark spots on the crown prince's jacket where his concern and love splashed physically from agonied eyes. He watched as the healer's learned hands removed the cold, damp cloth and ran lithely along the discolored left arm and swollen shoulder, seeking pain to soothe. He felt Dunthon jerk slightly as her fingers rounded the joint, while his own fingers felt the faint scar on Dunthon's thigh, the mark of the service that had gained him the royal title, Ecthelgedon.(3)
Auramdir's face grew taut and pale with sympathy and anxiety at the prince's response. "My lord," she whispered regretfully to Legolas, "The shoulder did not remain in place during our return to Halsion. I must re-set it if it is to heal."
Legolas still did not look up, only pausing in his cleaning and nodding slightly.
"Hold him," she instructed with a firmness she expected them to apply themselves. "The sleeping draught I gave him and the shock may not be enough to keep him from the pain."
Following the silent instructions of her eyes, Galion bent diagonally across Dunthon's legs and waist, using the width of his own body to apply pressure broadly, rather than focusing the force through his hands alone. Legolas, having gently lifted the groggy head to the cushioned surface, stood at Dunthon's right side and similarly stretched himself across Dunthon's chest. Pinning the able right arm to the table, with his own left hand he braced himself on the bed's edge. With his right hand he turned his beloved's face away from the healer and kissed the ashen forehead. He whispered loudly and with reassurance, "Strength, my love, this quick pain will bring relief," and pressed his cheek against Dunthon's.
Their gentle restraints in place, Auramdir stood at Dunthon's left side, holding as low on his upper arm as she dared. Inflicting a moment of pain for a pure purpose as only healing hands and hearts can, she counted and acted. "Min... Tâd... Neled." Galion and Legolas pressed down as she pulled on his bound arm, twisted slightly and then pushed firmly inward with the flat of her hand against the front of his shoulder. Dark eyes flew open as his entire body arched away from the third agony of the day; parched mouth let fly a deep and piercing scream—as unmelodic a sound as any had ever heard the fletcher make.
In an instant it was over, leaving wide eyes, an echoing scream and a guilty archer to soothe and reassure a suffering love.
Her worst work well done, Auramdir turned to the older elf. "My thanks, Galion. As I steep some athelas, would you please bring some cold water? I will keep the chill cloth on a while longer, and then warm the shoulder to ease the swelling."
The elder nodded, and gathered soiled cloths and clothing to take for washing. As he stepped to the doorflaps, he gazed back on the royal couple, his heart as ragged for them as the tattered cloth he held. Legolas had not looked up once from where his entire world lay before him on the cot; his forest princedom no longer existed for him at this time.
Emerging into that nonetheless realm, Galion saw Eluvenel jog southward into the forest, his shoulders strung with coils of hithlain, the elven rope of Lorien. Nearer, he saw Duvenech speaking sternly to Ristolf, a tension between them broken only when the captain's strong hand returned some confidence through the warden's shoulder.
That exchange complete, the captain turned and approached Galion. "Your face could yet be longer, friend; and so I take it that the prince improves?" Without waiting for an answer from Galion's drawn but thankful face, he continued. "When your broth is ready, you and I shall take it to your next care."
Slightly more than a slow-cooking, dirge-filled and bleat-broken hour later, the Captain of Dundaur and the former butler to the King of the Woodland Realm stepped into the southing forest carrying a still warm cauldron of rich broth. Few more words had been said in the settlement in that time, though eyes fluttered to every bustle of the healer's tent flap as she went about her work. Ears turned to each sound from that direction as if Dunthon himself might emerge. And hearts hung heavy as he did not, and as Haethros lay in their midst in example of an end made worse by its rarity among this immortal folk.
Despite the heavy and awkward load they shared, Galion noted how Duvenech led swiftly, though notably slowed by grief or dread or fatigue or all. They were well clear of the campfire grove when he said simply, "Annabon," as if the word and the image it conjured resolved all questions of the day's sad events. "Prince Dunthon and Ristolf found a family of small mûmakil atop the ledge where Haethros fell. The old cow was freshly dead from the birthing, and the newborn calf still weak. The bull, half-blind from age, already angered by its mate's death and protective as any father, returned and trapped them against the cliff face. As the others came to their defense, the prince drew the wounded beast to the precipice. And despite Ristolf's best efforts and its arrow-flecked hide, it managed, in its final act, to take the elder prince over with it. Were he not able to land atop it first, his injuries would have been much greater. Still, with the long height, the bony carcass and the stony ground, no feather's fall did he have."
Galion walked some steps in silence before giving voice to his rushing thoughts. "That explains our injuries and loss indeed, but what of the beasts themselves? Could it have been these Haradrim mounts that have ravaged our plantings? And regardless, how have they lived here so long without our knowledge of them? They are large, just as hungry and were grown under Shadow. It has been sixty turns of seasons…"
"All true, and questions good, Galion. As the prince is preoccupied, I had hoped we might consider this puzzle. Yet, I have no experience with these creatures. Might you shed some light from your greater collection of years."
"I recall no such sights in the battles of old. Stories, yes, over the years; but Legolas' father let little of song or light from the outside into the Woods through the last age."
Duvenech was shocked at first by the former servant's thinly veiled connection of the king and the mirking of the Greenwood. But under Galion's knowing gaze and with the honest possibility that stubborn isolation indeed may have contributed to the silencing of much of the forest under cobweb and cower, the captain held his tongue on that point. Instead, "They are perhaps newer beasts of the Shadow?"
"These creatures would have been in service to, but not made by the Dark Lord, I think. As you say, they bore men and nothing more to battle at Pelennor."
"And were abandoned by them at war's end, rather than taken home? Yet most men live not five dozens of years. Could their beasts?"
"Who knows what calendar this creature keeps, and what may have been added by foul spells."
"Though surely we would have sensed some, more clear echo of that dark touch. If not over the years or recent weeks, then certainly in their presence today. And yet there was none."
"Left by Mordor and mortal both, they may simply again be free creatures of Iluvatar, and thus in harmony with these lands such that we heard not the discord of old in them." Had not the Ringbearer halfling been freed from the One's control, and in fact been welcomed aboard a Grey Ship? Did not the very land they now walked continue to blossom with the Shadow literally lifted from it? Why should the long-noses be different?
"Perhaps," said the Captain, by nature and occupation suspicious of possible threats. "I am simply relieved they were not so large as the stories come to us from the siege of Minas Tirith."
"Were they not?" asked Galion, surprised and perhaps relieved that his imagined threat might not be so monstrous.
"Still large, yes—nearly three elves tall, the bull. But no moving mountains with cities atop as the elders in Elessar's court tell. The cow had old calloused scars around her midsection; and so I wonder whether these were not breeds meant as beasts of burden rather than of battle."
"Yet still hardy enough to eke a living on plains, hills and forests without catching our eye," chuckled Galion, amused anew at the tenacity of survival. "The growing calf must have driven the cow to the nourishment of our summer crops and new plantings, and the father followed. We were planting a feast, not a forest, without knowing it." He smiled openly at that thought, and knew that Dunthon too would take the calf as just such a sign that even the most unlikely of life prospers in the renewed Ithilien. "So, captain, where is this no small wonder of creation?"
"Prince Legolas ordered it spared, brought along and..." Stepping into an opening in the thick trees, he presented it "…given into your care until it will be taken as a gift to the court at Gondor."
Before he could react to this unexpected responsibility, Galion entered the clearing himself and saw that there, already more than two halflings high though no more than a day old, wobbled a wrinkled mûmakling. Having calmed and quieted, whether from familiarity or fatigue, the calf now reared and roared with the arrival of the two new elves.
Eluvenel and the three other guards on hand moved quickly to calm the frightened infant. Two checked the hold of the elven rope leg shackle; one noting its strain on the large tree at one end, the second paying careful heed to the padded anklet end that held the newborn leg. The other pair directed their efforts on the beast's other end; Eluvenel singing soothing words, and Erethir placing calming hands upon its shoulder.
The new arrivals settled into their work as the others settled their ward. While Galion made its acquaintance, Duvenech unslung a large satchel from over his shoulder and busied himself on the ground. Unrolling a large cured leather hide, he tied lengths of hithlain to its three corners and with Lindlir's help, hoisted the odd quilt between two nearby trees. Happy with the placement, Duvenech lowered the roughly triangular device to ground level, and had the others quietly help him pour some of the cauldron's contents into it. As Galion watched from the corner of his eye, the large pouch filled quickly and they heaved it up again above shoulder height.
Dipping his hand in the remaining brew, the captain wet the pointed base of the pouch, and quietly beckoned Galion to lead the beast toward it. He splashed some broth on the youngster as its head turned, and Galion, recognizing the game from tending two-legged youths in his own time, stepped ahead, dipped his own hand and reached back to the groaning mouth. With a whiff of the soup through the trunk, and a taste of the juice on the tongue, the mûmakling groped greedily with both for more. Teasing it directly to the hanging pouch, Galion and the gathered caretakers were rewarded swiftly as the not so little one chomped keenly on the pouch, and wrapped its long nose lovingly around the sack, slurping loudly.
"Well done, captain," lauded the smiling butler. "But, how do you keep the contents from spilling?"
"A taut flap inside holds the liquid in until the babe's suckling pulls the broth past it. Suriel suggested and sewed it like a large waterskin."
"And they say that dwarves are the masters of clever contrivances..." smiled Galion.
"It cares little for the how of the meal, only the now," observed the Lorien ropemaster, confident that his lines would hold both bottle and baby in place, each to its proper tree.
"'It' is a 'he,'" corrected Galion, proud of his people for their ingenious care and of his newest charge and its brave appetite.
"He is quiet for the first moments in a while. He feeds with the greed of a dragon!"
"Greedy indeed, Eluvenel," smiled the elder. "And so we shall call him, according to his character. Melch he is, and 'Melch' he shall be."(4)
"And busy shall you be," laughed Duvenech, "for we shall need a number more broth batches before we deliver him to the nurseries of the White City."
Indeed, half-smiled Galion, as the literal weight of his responsibility became clear to him. He began a mental inventory of his herb stores, hoping he had enough for this large appetite.
Back in the settlement, Legolas stepped from the healer's tent, his eyes now dry but grief still plain on his face. "Ristolf!" he barked almost immediately, his eyes searching.
Showing guilt for his part, Ristolf nonetheless presented himself immediately. "My lord, I…."
Legolas clasped the stammering archer on the arm and spoke with the authority born of rank, character and, now, relief. "Dunthon speaks of how you leapt after him, how you nearly fell yourself in an attempt to catch him. Swift as he can be, I am grateful for your efforts on his behalf. Your concern probably held him from more reckless steps."
His leader's relief washed into the warrior, his redemption tempered quickly by the still serious status of his friend and ward. "I am honored to serve, sir. How…. How is he?"
"He is in great pain, but Auramdir says that he will recover. The flight, he says, was quite enjoyable, and that he regrets only the landing." He smiled slightly, relieved himself that Dunthon was capable of such jest. "Perhaps you two can work on that skill when he has healed?"
"Of course, my lord." A shared smiled. "Might I see him?"
Legolas glanced back the healer's way, and admitted, "That you must ask of Auramdir." He squeezed Ristolf's arm again, and let him on his way, his own eyes falling on the burial preparations still underway at the clearing's edge. Drawing up himself and his resolve, the elf-lord of Dundaur took his place among the attendants and paid his reverent respects with royal hands and hymns.
The laments for Haethros in elven voices were drowned more widely and through the night by the bellows of the young mûmak—frightened, confused, hungry, lonely and angry as loudly as an orphan of any of Iluvatar's creations would be. To avoid its cries leading anyone directly to the settlement, it had been kept some distance away under the gaze of the night watch. Echoing off the same cliff faces that had claimed its father and Haethros, the calf's cries brought shudders to the men of Ithilien, still garrisoned at Henneth Annûn and Cair Androsfor whom the uneventful half-century of the restored King of the West had not dispelled old tales of elven sorcery. The cries also served to both mirror and mask the grief felt through Halsion for its loss, as the small community said its farewells to Haethros and prepared his body for the halls of Mandos.
NOTES
1 Sindarin: "elder," adjective used here as a proper title
2 Haethros: hae "far, remote" lenited rhoss "whisper"
3 Sindarin: "spearcatcher," a title bestowed by King Thranduil; see my Travel as the Sun.
4 Sindarin: melch "greedy"