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It was inevitable. Camnir knew this would happen. He had begged Elrond to stop and they had, though only briefly, and only because he feigned the scar troubled him and then Elrond looked back with conflicted grief as if he yearned to run ahead and designate Vorohil as acting commander. He stopped all the same, twice at Camnir’s bequest, but he did not sleep.
Peredhil needed sleep just the same as Men. Their stamina might endure longer than their mortal kin, and they could run as fleet and sure as any Elf, but to go on night after night — after already marching day after day and battling evil besides — Elrond would drive himself to exhaustion if someone did not intervene.
Camnir tried. (By Nienna, he tried!) He compelled Elrond by sense and comforting words and finally by pity, claiming he could not rest for fear unless someone slept beside him. (He remembered well the days when Elros sailed, when Elrond could not sleep alone, and he thought their old arrangement of guarding one another would settle his spirit.)
Alas, it seemed to achieve the opposite effect. For Elrond permitted Camnir to rest whilst he guarded him, singing over the healed wound with haunt searing grey eyes, as if he relived again and again the moment Camnir was introduced to war.
‘Be at peace, mellon nin,’ Camnir tried to reassure him, to no avail. ‘I am well and whole. Rest beside me.’
Whether because of the ring he loathed, tucked in his satchel under every herb and flask (as if he could not endure the thought of accidentally brushing it with a searching hand), or whether his fear for Lord Celebrimbor and grief for Galadriel’s fate overwhelmed him, Elrond would not answer through ósonwë. He merely squeezed Camnir’s shoulder and insisted he rest, and he guarded his sleep as if Camnir was the one whose eyes closed in dreams. (They did close, in the exhausted plunge of unconsciousness as the physical drain of blood loss and the memory of pain drove him to escape.) When he was dragged to wakefulness by Elrond reluctantly shaking his shoulder, he remembered the traces of song soothing his dreams, and he knew his friend had not ceased to guard him.
Hence when they arrived at Lindon’s borders after days of running (pushing themselves harder and faster than they would their horses), Camnir knew Elrond’s collapse was inevitable. So he ran to one of the guards who trailed them after them (that tall, exasperating imposer who both minded Elrond and teased him to no end), and he nearly slammed into the hand that reached out to latch onto his shoulder.
“Easy, Scribbles,” Loreláthon huffed, looking down at him with disturbed blue eyes and paling expression.
Ai, for his tunic was still drenched in blood. Camnir brushed off the stabling hands of Lorel’s minder, that self-appointed apprentice who fancied himself a healer, and explained in a fierce whisper, “It is not mine!”
Lorel’s gaze flitted to the archway where Elrond had disappeared and his expression shuttered, as cold and lethal as a wolf prancing up silently behind the trapper. “Whose.”
Nae, that was the wrong conjecture. “Mine,” Camnir amended with a grimace. Then before Nuréin could besiege him with medieval remedies he insisted, “It is healed! I am well, truly.”
“Then why are you here?” Lorel probed, raising one lancing eyebrow as he leaned on his spear. “Tell no lies and I’ll tell nobody but Nur that you fell asleep in the archives with three kittens in your lap.”
“You should have fetched me,” grumbled the guard who often skirted his duties for sketchpad and charcoal.
“He should not — that isn’t important!” Camnir flustered, glaring up at the impossible natterer who had no place guarding the king except that his specialty was wearing Elrond down when he overworked himself. (A talent Camnir intended to use against his friend now, for disaster was inevitable if someone didn’t haul him to the healers, willingly or not.)
“I deign that immortalizing the bond between mousey mapmaker and fluffy mouse chaser is a feat worthy of the Valar,” Lorel said with an innocent air. “But what’s really going on? You never talk to me unless somebody’s limping, and Starshine just bolted in there like a thousand crows were chasing him.”
“It is Elrond!” Camnir hissed, shivering as days of flight dragged on his shoulders. “We were nearly to Eregion when we were forced to turn back. He hasn’t stopped or slept —”
“Say no more,” Lorel announced, snagging his comrade’s spear and tossing both spears onto the bench they had been assigned to guard. “Nur, fetch your songbird cousin. He won’t yell at her. Tell Yenneth to light a fire and close the windows.”
Camnir followed Lorel to the war room, stammering and shaking as finally someone with higher influence (be he brash and exasperating and a blight on every hall) vowed to intervene. “He would not stop. We ran for days and he did not sleep, even when we rested a few hours, and I know he has not eaten — unless he chose to do so while I slept…..”
“You’re going to explain that bloodstain sometime,” Lorel interrupted with a threatening smile. “But you’re not going in there until Mels sings over him. She doesn’t need that kind of distraction.”
Camnir’s cheeks flooded as Mellírin was casually mentioned. She would be furious with both him and Elrond, no doubt. Yet even her scold as a healer would be kind. (Unlike Yenneth, who had vowed time and again that she would tie Elrond to a cot if he tried to slip away from her ward one more time.)
“It’s just exhaustion, right?” Lorel said as he snagged Camnir’s shoulder and steered him down the correct branching hall. “No concealed arrowheads or twisted ankles?”
“Nae,” Camnir said wearily. “Elrond is not wounded.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Releasing a handful of Camnir’s cloak, Lorel marched to the doorway of the war council and leaned against it, folding his arms and daring the High King to banish him.
Gil-Galad paused mid-sentence and closed his eyes briefly. “Attend to your post, Loreláthon.”
“Got a message from Yenneth,” Lorel said, smirking when Elrond dragged his chin up to glare.
(Mecín, did they not see how Elrond swayed and supported himself by hanging onto the table?)
Dark eyes flitted between the incorrigible guard and the newly-appointed commander. How grateful Camnir was for Gil-Galad’s perception, clouded as it seemed when Elrond was driven over the falls, for without a note of censure Gil-Galad nodded and casually dismissed him.
“Return to your duties. We will speak further in the morning.”
“By tomorrow there will be no time!” Elrond exclaimed, leaning forward in a frightful demonstration of flayed temper. “One legion of Orcs may turn into many before —”
“You are dismissed, Commander,” Gil-Galad said firmly. He nodded to Lorel to intervene, then motioned for Fëlaria to share her insights.
Ai, but Elrond was beyond reason, as he had been at the falls. (Had he ridden without resting then as well, pushing himself beyond the limits of his mannish heritage? Had he also collapsed in Mithlond, ere he was dragged back and guarded by healers as well as soldiers?)
Scarcely had Lorel stepped forward with an outstretched hand than Elrond swung at him, livid in expression despite the dullness deepening grey eyes to the hue of cold charcoal. “You will not lay hand to me!”
The chilling silence seemed to mortify Elrond into compliance, however unwillingly. He nodded deference to the High King and then slunk around Lorel as the guard raised his hands in innocent surrender. Scarcely had Elrond taken three steps without the support of the table than his face went ashen. His eyes rolled back and he fell forward, nearly sprawling full length before Lorel caught him from behind.
“This council is adjourned,” Gil-Galad stated crisply. He swept around the table, dark eyes fixed on Elrond as the guard rolled him to his back and lifted his tunic, proving the blood hidden under his cloak led to no wound.
“That’s it then,” Lorel said, smirking darkly at Camnir as he resettled Elrond’s tunic. “You’re also going to the healer.”
“What happened?” Gil-Galad demanded, searching Camnir briefly before he knelt beside his herald. He pressed his hands gently to Elrond’s temples and murmured a ward against the darkness before he nodded sharply, assured that Elrond’s mind at least was hale.
“Kid drove himself into the ground. Again,” Lorel said. “Usual measures?”
Distantly Gil-Galad nodded. His brow furrowed as Lorel stood, scooping Elrond into an easy cradle. Grimly he cautioned, “Make sure he stays there until Yenneth releases him.”
“More fun than guarding a bench.” Lorel shrugged.
“Hm.” It was not the way of kings to roll their eyes, but Gil-Galad looked dangerously close. “Retrieve your fool of a comrade to mind him.”
“Surround Nuréin with kegs of dry plant matter and dubiously translated healing scrolls,” Lorel hummed, already striding off before Gil-Galad realized his err. “Great plan.”
Now Gil-Galad did close his eyes, twitching with the desire to sentence this guard to a quick lunge over a long pier. He held up his hand as Camnir bowed, bidding him linger.
“Is he wounded?” the High King asked plainly.
“Nae,” Camnir answered honestly. “We are all well…. Those who returned.”
Ai, but now he had a chance to remember the crunching of Daemor’s bones and the last fervent look from Galadriel before she….
Suddenly a hand braced his shoulder and Camnir found himself leaning on another as he was escorted from the war council. As soon as he realized who stood alongside him he stuttered, stammering apologies and swaying to right himself.
“You are weary and wounded,” Gil-Galad said without inflection. “You will also remain in healing halls until you are dismissed.”
“I am no longer wounded,” Camnir insisted, resigning himself to the humiliation of casual stares as he was borne to the healers by none other than the High King. “The ring Galad….” Nae, he could not yet speak her name without a pang of bewildered grief. Never before had he witnessed death in combat. (He never wished to leave the archives again.) “…. The ring seems to heal, as well as bring visions.”
Gil-Galad seemed to absorb this and dismiss it until a later time. “You will give me your report while Elrond is tended,” he declared softly. “…. There you may reassure yourself of his state.”
Uncertainly Camnir looked up to the High King before his gaze flickered back to the floorboards. How could one so magnanimous deign to concern himself with a mere cartographer?
Perhaps a little of Camnir’s uncertainty spilled into his stride. Gil-Galad hummed over him, gripping his shoulder as might a comrade on the field. When he spoke his voice was as serene and soothing as when he sang their last farewell to golden wood.
“Be at peace, Camnir. It is the matter of kings to look after their own.”
“I… can walk,” Camnir said, flushing and ducking his chin as Nuélon stared after him.
“Am I to presume you ignore my herald’s excuses when he speaks thusly?” Gil-Galad said wryly. “I can only gather that you are also weary beyond reason, to refuse aid so defiantly.”
“Nae! I would never — never defy you, High King.” Camnir very nearly yelped in distress. “Forgive me, I was — I mean….”
“You have learned much from your commander,” Gil-Galad said drolly. “Too much, perhaps.”
Successfully he had distracted Camnir all the way, and now he directed him past the archway where fountains rippled and athelas hung in curtains and every window invited light and hope and birdsong.
The Elleth who usually tended such birds (until a stubborn Peredhel who listened to no one else demanded particular attentiveness) looked up just as Camnir was herded inside. She set aside her herb knife with a pleasing smile, golden hair falling over her shoulder, and Camnir decided perhaps he might faint after all.
“Another task for you,” Gil-Galad said (rather bemusedly no less), giving Camnir a light shove and vanishing most inconveniently.
Mellírin smiled, warm and pleasant and confident and everything Camnir wished he could be in this moment. Then her gaze flickered to his bloodied tunic and she dropped her knife with a clatter.
“It’s all right!” Camnir blustered before lithe fingers could reach his side and a Loreláthon-inspired curse spring to gentle voice. “I am well. Truly. Galadriel healed me.”
And then he did sway, for they had held vigil for Daemor but not their first lieutenant and Elrond had spoken as if he and Galadriel parted on disgraceful terms and now she would never walk in golden wood again.
Mellírin ducked under Camnir’s arm to catch him and shouted for Yenneth. Her voice was a mere hum in the fog. Somehow Camnir was borne to a cot near the window, where the air was freshest and the atmosphere most quiet. He became fully aware of himself the moment Yenneth tried to divest him of his tunic. (And then he remembered why he feared their eldest healer, for she had an ill temper and cold hands and she gave him very few choices except to permit her examination or wait in mortification for someone to fetch the High King.)
Thank the Valar, Yenneth did not work alone today, for Mellírin was the current of kindness pushing against her abrasive temperament. She sang while Yenneth prodded the scar and she warmed the blankets exchanged for Camnir’s soiled tunic and distracted him so thoroughly that he was rather surprised to find himself dressed in a clean gown and tucked under light coverlets to sleep off the horrors of their journey.
Finally Mellírin pulled back the curtain and Camnir saw the cot beside him. (Or rather, the mop of limp, leaf-strewn curls which testified Elrond had received the same treatment with or without his consent.)
“Did he wake at all?” Camnir asked, leaning over until Yenneth rolled her eyes and planted her hip against the cot, shoving it so close that two invalids could nearly share the space together.
“Nae,” Mellírin said with a soft smile. “He pushed himself too far… again. Rest assured, Camnir; he will be well.”
“I know….” Nae, that was wrong. “… I mean, I had hoped he was not concealing his hurts.”
Ai Elrond, how foolishly he gambled his life, when there was no one like him to be found in this world. (No one who would ever be as true a friend to a mere cartographer.)
Mellírin’s eyes were troubled as she lingered by the window, standing as a slip of shadow over Elrond’s deep, unconscious slumber. “He is not the only one who hides, Camnir.”
Her scold was unmistakable. Swallowing, Camnir rubbed his torso absently and nodded. “Perhaps… better habits need be instilled,” he admitted. “For I cannot carry Elrond alone, should he fall.”
“And he alone cannot carry you,” Mellírin sighed. She tucked the blankets up to Elrond’s ear, lifting her chin to shake her head fondly at Camnir. “Sleep,” she insisted in a tone which assured him that he was forgiven for frightening her. “He’ll be here in the morning.”
Alas, she was wrong. For Camnir slept and woke at dawn, only to see an empty cot hastily arranged to look tidy despite the rumpled sheets.
Elrond was gone, and so was every soldier whose duty it was to protect Elvish lands.
Camnir wondered if he would ever see Elrond again. He rubbed the scar on his chest, counting the friends who had stayed behind, and found them frightfully few.
Tucking his knees up to his chest, he covered his face and wept.
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(But canon brings at least 3/4 of Elrond’s hunting party back to Lindon in some timeline or another? From here we continue on with Se2Ep7 and imagine other sparkly scenarios for #CelebrimborLives and #howitshouldhaveended.) :P