#golodir

"hold still" | possession | impaled

Content: post-whump injury reopening, sympathetic caretakers, romantic caretaker

It was finally done. He was free. Lothrandir sat in a clearing surrounded by his brethren. If not for the pain in his mind and body he could almost believe the last weeks of torment were but a bad dream.

And she had gotten out too. His Sunflower had escaped and come back to save him.

He forced himself to stand. Radanir and Corunir were running through sword forms a few yards off. He picked up his sword. It felt good to have it in his hand but when he lifted it, his aching arms protested. He gritted his teeth, striding over and joining the other two.

Radanir raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. He followed the forms that his muscles knew as well as breathing. He overextended himself on a lunge. A wound in his back lit with pain and he stumbled, falling to one knee.

Radanir and Corunir stopped and came to his side. He heard Anarlossë’s gasp as she too came over, putting a hand on his shoulder uncertainly.

“No, I’m… it’s fine, I’m fine.”

“Here, let him be.” Golodir gently pushed the others away from him. “Take a breath. Just breathe, lad.”

Lothrandir obeyed. Golodir had suffered far worse, he knew, and the understanding in the other man’s eyes dampened his shame. Anarlossë brought him some water.

“Drink, melleth.”

He drank.

Then she spotted the blood beginning to stain his tunic. “You’re bleeding!”

Golodir stood. “I will bring athelas.”

Lothrandir removed his tunic, grimacing as his wounds twinged. The worst of them, a gash on his back from a too-eager orc whip, had opened as he did his drills and now trickled blood down his ribs. He hated the look in Anarlossë’s eyes, hated that he was not stronger for her, for all of them.

She poured something across the wound, washing off the blood. It stung. He grimaced, flinching. Golodir had returned and his heavy, calloused hands held Lothrandir’s shoulders still.

“Hold still, melleth.” He grimaced but tried to obey as she washed the wound and cleaned it with alcohol. The athelas was soothing and calmed the angry wound, and she put a clean bandage on him, her face a little flushed.

He looked between his two fellow Rangers, the two among his brethren who probably understood best. His shoulders sagged. “Thank you.”

Golodir thumped his shoulder. “Just let it rest as much as you can, lad. Don’t push it too soon, save your strength. You will need all of it all too soon.”

It galled him to stay still, to rest instead of practicing and training and helping. But he would do what he had to. The fate of everything could very well hinge on this company and he needed to be strong.

“Corunir, help me,” he orders, and gets no response but the same choking noise Corunir’s been making on and off for an hour.

“I’ve tried. My arm is broken, Captain. You might have noticed.”

It sparks a memory: a cry and a crack, surprise and betrayal. “Stay there, then. This door will not hold forever.” Nothing can with his daughter on the other side. “Hold on, Lorniel!”

Her response is too muffled to hear clearly, but just her voice so nears sooths him. She’s alive, she’s alive, I haven’t failed, not yet...

Corunir’s is closer and louder, “Why don’t you take a break?”

“Lorniel—!” Can’t he see? They’re so close.

“Yes, but neither of us will be any good against... whatever’s on the other side of that door... if we both have broken arms.”

“I’m fine.” But Corunir does have a point. Golodir switches the shoulder that he’s slamming into the door from the right to the left.

“So much better, thank you. Two broken shoulders is much better than one.”

“That how you broke yours?” The memory stays hazy in his head. First Corunir had not been here, then he had been but not helping... Crack.

Golodir! Why have you come to this place? Get away from the door!

“No. It was an accident.” Corunir’s voice is short. Pained. “I hope so, anyway.”