Beyond Canon
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Erestor stood with his back against the door to his suite, his gaze shifting around nervously as he watched for someone. "I think I need to resign myself from this," he admitted to his companion of the watch, who was across the hallway with his back against the wall. "I have exhausted my options, and his distress is permeating my own emotional barriers. It brings back memories of things I buried deep and have no desire to confront right now."

Glorfindel sighed deeply, arms crossed over his chest, a rare look of defeat flittering across his face. "Then, what? Send him back to the Shire, send him... where? The West? He refuses that path now."

A few helpless movements with his hands was all the answer Erestor gave. "The rune-keepers were right. He should have... this should have ended sooner."

"Oh, come on, Erestor. At least blame it on something that matters. I picked up my first sword at forty-two -- you know that."

Erestor groaned and shook his head. "The soldiers I sent came back last week. Not a sign anywhere -- no word of him, or even a vague possibility, not even an unaccountable broken harp string."

"No sign is better than a corpse."

"Unless something did happen, in which case closure would be far better for him. He is so young, he cannot tell the difference between deep grief and fading. For all we know," hissed Erestor in a loud whisper as he pointed back towards the door, "his soul is trying to desperately to flee and we are forcing him to stay."

They both looked away from each other, contemplating further discourse. Glorfindel ran a hand through his golden mane and scratched the back of his neck. "He is stronger than that. Rune-keepers usually are." He spoke quickly as the person they had been waiting for approached, evening robes on and dragging down the hallway. Despite the summer, some places in the house were still cool, such as the basement apothecary from which Elrond had just come. "My apologies for awaking you at this hour, m'lord, but my skills in the healing arts are not so deft, and I feared I might do more harm in poisoning him if I tried. I might have bothered Elladan instead, were he here."

Elrond nodded and motioned for Erestor to step aside. "No bother. Is not the safety of all those in Imladris my charge?" He opened the door, and followed the sound of sobbing punctuated by deep, horrible coughs that had caused Erestor to initially call for Glorfindel in alarm. "What is his name?" he asked of Erestor as the advisor stepped up beside him in the doorway.

"Bainith," he whispered, and the figure in the bed lifted his head slightly, sniffled, and curled up again as another coughing fit occurred. Erestor moved into the room and pulled the chair from the bedside to make room for Elrond, then lit a few extra candles. Glorfindel closed the door behind them and stood guard at it, just in case someone might decide to walk in unannounced.

The healer knelt down at the side of the bed, setting a small chest he had with him on the floor. "Erestor, do have fresh water?" There was a brief nod before Erestor left to fetch some, and Elrond drew down the sheet and placed his hand along the side of Bainith's neck, throat, and upper chest, leaving it there until another cough was issued. Elrond frowned and moved his hand around to Bainith's back, repeating his tests as Bainith coughed and gasped for air. "Some fluid in the lungs." He repositioned himself and pressed an ear to Bainith's chest, nodding after the next fit. "Certainly an infection." He set a hand on Bainith's shoulder to gain his patient's attention. "You do know, while you cannot die from an illness, you can certainly still catch them if you allow it. Not enough sleep, too much travel, not enough food, and above all, depression."

Bainith gave a disheartened shrug.

"This is likely going to sound ridiculous, but you need to have some fun. Laugh. Do things that make you happy--"

"Nothing makes me happy anymore."

Elrond looked over his shoulder as Erestor approached him with the pitcher. The peredhel waited for confirmation from Erestor, who said, "He stopped eating three days ago." There was a flash of anger in Elrond's eyes that someone had not come to him sooner, which Erestor answered with, "We thought we could handle this. You are always so busy..."

"Surely something must bring you joy," argued Elrond gently as he turned back to Bainith. He opened the chest and drew out a small bowl and began to crush various herbs. While he did so, he tried to recall where he had seen this elf before, and suddenly remembered. "What of that cheerful little hobbit who seems to bounce around after you? Surely spending time with her would be beneficial."

"Yucca." The name was uttered almost like a curse. "I have managed to put up a good show, but seeing her makes me bitter and jealous. Her husband is well, and whereabouts known, and she goes every which place but home to him. She has no concept of how good her life is, of what she could possibly lose -- yes, she lost her parents, and that is tragic, and it saddens me as well -- but should not one have the same love, nay, greater love for one's beloved?" Not once in all this did he stop crying, his pillow damp, matting the hair to the side of his face. He stared off, eyes dull, lit only from the light that glinted off his tears.

Elrond paused in his work, bowing his head solemnly, distracted for a moment by his own thoughts. "Aye," he agreed. He continued his task, quicker now, mixing water into the powder his had made. "More than anything now, you need sleep. In the morning, we will speak again." He coaxed Bainith to sit up. The bowl of medicine was held up to him, though Elrond kept one hand upon it and the other on the back of his patient's head so that when Bainith pulled instinctively away from the foul taste, Elrond was able to administer the rest. "Just relax. Drink it all... very good." He set the empty bowl aside and gently pushed Bainith back down. The rune-keeper's eyes were already drooping before Elrond drew the covers back up, but when they did not close completely, Elrond softly scolded him. "Stop fighting it, little one, you will only make yourself worse."

When he was certain that Bainith was sleeping, Elrond gathered his things and stood, shaking his head. "How grievous it is, for us to send our sons and daughters off to war." He looked down, another shake of his head as he looked over the discolorations on Bainith's arms where burned skin had healed, and the faint scars that never quite seemed to heal. "It is too bad he did not see a healer about that; athelas might have prevented some of those marks." He sighed. "Hardly matters, I suppose. Cuts and bruises can be tended to, but neither I nor any healer, save one from what you have told me, Erestor, know how to mend a broken heart."
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