Healing Hands

Chapter Five: Out of the Woods

Author's Note: Here is a portrait I drew of Eyrell! Elvish translations will be at the end of the chapter.

The rest of the trip was heavy with fear and grief. All of the laughter had faded from the three remaining Hobbits, leaving them small and tired. None of them asked for more food than Strider gave them—not even Pippin, whose solemn face and silence suggested he was most affected by what had happened.

Eyrell didn't try to cheer them up, knowing it would be pointless and impossible. When a loved one's life was at stake, there was nothing to laugh at and it seemed perverse to force a smile. So, she simply remained silent as the group trudged through the forest.

But she did slip Pippin an extra apple after breakfast.

In the late afternoon of the next day, when the afternoon sunlight grew tinged with rose gold, they finally reached the beautiful city of Rivendell. Even in their somber state, Eyrell and the Hobbits looked up in awe.

The city was constructed of marble and stone; thin, graceful pillars supported bridges built over coursing waterfalls of clearest crystal water. The autumn-clothed trees grew between buildings and even on the side of the cliff Rivendell was nestled in. Leaves of red, gold, orange, and brown rained down from the branches above and covered the rooftops in colorful, plush carpets glowing with honeyed sun.

When the group reached the bridge into the city, they were greeted by two people: a tall Elf and a grizzled old man, hunched with age and robed in grey.

"Estel," said the Elf, bowing slightly and putting his hand to his chest. Strider returned the gesture, and the Elf continued in his own language, "Hir Elrond inith e suilann cin personnalui, hirth hon e busui guin i perian. Hon haru na haudh, hon en eithel."

Strider nodded and replied, "A híril Arwen?"

"Hen i dengwith o hen lend. Hen auth in Úlairi, ach hen i sîdh—onlui lostar. Cin thian hen daw."

"Hannad," said Strider, a smile on his face. He looked at the old man and addressed him in a more serious tone. "Gandalf—you never came to the Prancing Pony; what kind of trouble did you run into?"

The Elf turned to the rest of the group; his expression was welcoming, but Eyrell could tell by the way that his clear brown eyes flicked over her and the Hobbits' features that he was noticing how grimy they were. He gave a small bow and extended his hands in greeting to them. "Welcome to the House of Elrond, friends," he said in Westron, his accent high and lilting. "My name is Lindir, and I shall be your guide; if you come with me, I will show you to your rooms."

"What about Mister Frodo?" blurted Sam.

The Elf's inviting smile fell, his face turning grave. "Lord Elrond is tending to him personally," he assured Sam. "You may see him later, when he is healed—but I advise you to rest first."

"A bath would be welcome too," added Eyrell.

"And some food!" added Merry. Pippin looked up, a sign of a smile on his face.

The Elf nodded, smiling. "You will receive that and more here; do not worry about your friend, or your horse," he said, tipping his chin to Ingol. "We will take care of him as well." Then, with another small bow, he led them into the city.

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Eyrell took little time to relax; Frodo's welfare was the only thing she could think about. So, after she had taken a bath and changed into fresh clothes (a dress of pale green given to her by the Elves), she went searching for his room.