#lcmion

War may not be upon them at the moment, but that did not mean peace was free of any quarrel. The sons and daughters of Eorl were prideful and grievances weighed as heavily as appreciation. If two Eorlingas were at odds, it could be a matter of many moons, perhaps even years until it was settled.

Unfortunately it was part of the king's many duties to listen to both parties and aid them in finding a suitable solution. Éomer sat on the throne in Meduseld and listened intently as two of his friends complained to him. One claimed the other had gifted him a fine sword, while the other clarified he merely borrowed it to him. Both had been drunk and there were no witnesses. The one friend refused to return the sword to the other.

By Éomer's side sat Lómion today, his unconventional, but dearly beloved son. Éomer valued his opinions and advice, as he did Írisse's. Hazel eyes wandered over to meet the Elf's dark greens. In the end the king decided that he would think about this and sent his bickering comrades away with a sigh. He had hoped this would have been the last of it for now.

Ranyasúre is trembling with excitement.

This is her second cursed meteorite talking sword today. You people have no idea. This is her more exciting than her begetting day.

Full lips smiled against the rim of the teacup in her hand. Lómion had such a way of dealing with his pain using humour. At first Arwen had worried it was merely a front, like a bridge over a river that hid its brittle wood under a layer of fresh moss, but would crack if one took one step on it. And perhaps at first this had been the case, long before she was born. By now he had weathered the river and stepped on solid soil that carried him reliably, but the moss remained as a soft cushion.

Arwen set the teacup down and reached out to place her hand on his. Though the past that connected him to her grandfather was turbulent, he had long proven himself to be a trustworthy protector and she felt safe and cherished in his presence. "I would like to hear about the light too. The small things. The sun rising and setting over Gondolin. Your achievements in the forge. Your mother's warm embrace."

The advantage of being a healer was not only that at times Elrond could tend to his own injuries - depending on their extent and the location on his body - but also when they proved too grave, he knew how to act the best way without making them worse. He had witnessed too many soldiers, drunk on the heat of battle coursing through their wild veins, pull out an arrow out of their flesh, further injuring themselves.

Elrond knew not to do that, and so he remained on the ground, laying on his back as the arrow shaft protruded from his pectoral, like a gruesome landmark. From what Elrond could asses it was not buried deep enough to damage bone, but the pain was sharp as a glacier and made him take short and shallow breaths, as any more jostled the crude metal embedded in him. Vile taint characteristic for orc weapons spread in his system, though he focused on keeping it at bay to the best of his abilities.

He was unable to move when sharp ears picked out the sound of approaching orcs. He was easy prey like this, all they would have to do is finish him off and put him out of his misery, but orcs were known to take glee in prolonging an Elf's suffering. Panic threatened to overwhelm him. Through his blurred vision he could make out shrubbery nearby to his right, and if only he could crawl there, then he may hide-

The orcs cried out in pain and bodies dropped. Elrond hoped it was a friend, not a common foe, who had slain them. His lids drooped when the pain lapped away at his slipping consciousness, yet he was still alert enough to flinch when a face came into view. "Amarthdir?" he whispered, relief flooding him where the agony allowed it. He was safe now.

He allowed himself to drift away when he felt strong arms lift him with utmost care. Amarthdir's voice drifted over to him, but it was is he had been coated in cotton and Elrond could not hear him clearly. He gave an answering sound, if only to acknowledge that he had at least made an attempt to understand. "Amarthdir," was all Elrond managed to mumble, before darkness claimed him.