Laws and Customs by AdmirableMonster  

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Of the Peredhil

We've hit the "comfort" part of the "hurt/comfort".

Elros takes Pengolodh back to a Marchwarden outpost and bathes and feeds him. 

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He woke to torchlight and a hand touching his shoulder, and he jerked away in terror.  As he went, the rough Orc’s cloak fell from his bare legs.

The torch lifted high, and Pengolodh halted in his instinctive flight as he recognized the face.  “Elrond?”

No—it wasn’t Elrond, he realized after a moment.  The faint shadow of a beard across the chin and cheeks told him that.  A blessing in disguise, maybe; he didn’t know the twin well enough to dislike. Horror blossomed on Elros’s face before he schooled it to neutrality.  “Pengolodh?”

Pengolodh’s knees buckled.  He shouldn’t have tried to stand.  

“By the Valar, sit down.”  Thank the gods he was speaking clearly, even if that tiny Fëanorian lisp made Pengolodh flinch.  He took a breath, and another, then sat, pressing his face briefly into his hands.  Elros knelt beside him, signing awkwardly, “Drink some water.”

It was easier just to obey.  The cool water soothed a throat he hadn’t realized was parched, and he drank long and deeply, then rinsed his mouth and spat the water to the earth, trying to rid himself of the last dregs of the Fëanorian’s taste.

“Are these yours?” Elros was holding his trousers, his tabard.  Pengolodh felt his cheeks burn.  He nodded.  “All right.”  Elros spat something Pengolodh couldn’t quite follow in his numb, exhausted state, but which looked like a Mannish obscenity.  Then, “Um, do you need me to help you get them back on?”

He looked like Elrond, and he spoke like his foster fathers, but there was a frank openness in his face Pengolodh had to trust.  Besides, he could trust Elrond, even if he didn’t like him.  Ergo, he could trust Elros.  Surely.  “Yes.”

“All right.  Okay.  Uh.  Let me help you over to this log.”

His hands were callused but not ungentle.  He did not have Elrond’s healer’s precision, but he was better at remembering to look at Pengolodh when he spoke to him.  In a little time, he had Pengolodh’s leggings back on, his shirt fixed, and his tabard smoothed down.  Pengolodh was drooping anyway, with a lethargic weariness mixed with despair.

“Here.” He pushed his notes at Elros.  “Please.  Keep these safe.”

Elros looked down at them, looked up at Pengolodh, and seemed to see something in his face.  He nodded, taking the notes and settling them carefully into his pack, before swinging it onto his back again.  “What are they?”

“My king’s—Turgon’s—the one interview I had with him in Gondolin.”

“Oh.”  Elros nodded seriously.  “I’ll be very careful.  Now come on, my folk and I are holed up in an old Marchwarden fortification. It will be safe there.  You can get some food and bathe.”

Wearily, Pengolodh shook his head.  He wasn’t hungry; there was only a dull, persistent ache in his abdomen.  “I don’t need food.”

“You do.  You’ll feel better once you’ve had it, no matter how—how terrible the things that have befallen you are.”

“No.”  Pengolodh shook his head.  “I shouldn’t eat.”  He could not have stopped himself from drinking, but could he stop himself from eating, at least?

Elros rose from the log beside him, pacing back and forth in the torchlight.  Then he turned.  “I’m not going to leave you here,” he said, slow and clear.  “I would never do such a thing.  And I’m not going to drag you, either.  So either you come back with me, or we wait here together until someone else finds us, and I defend you to the death.  Do you understand?”

Pengolodh stared at him, aghast, riddled with guilt.  “I don’t think you understand.  I was—they—in exchange for the notes, I let them—and I did not die, so, so, you see, I’m—look at me.”  He gestured to himself, to the stains on his clothes, his uncovered hair hanging in limp, greasy tangles around his face.  “It wasn’t, it wasn’t—” Maeglin. “It cannot have been unwilling.”

Elros closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.  For a few moments, his lips half-moved as if he were speaking to someone in a low voice.  Then he came and knelt in front of Pengolodh again and looked up at him, driving the base of the torch down into the muddy earth so that his hands were free.  “No,” he said, with his hands.  “No.  Pengolodh, look at me.”

Unwillingly, Pengolodh moved his eyes up to Elros’s face.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Elros told him clearly, with both his lips and his hands.  “Whatever—specific things they did to you, whatever promises or agreements they extracted from you, it was rape.  It was the deepest kind of violation.  I can’t see your fëa, like Elrond could, but I know you’ve taken harm to it.  I know that.”

“Then why,” Pengolodh burst out with shaking hands, his voice reverberating with echoing pain in his chest, “why didn’t Varda let me die?”

“Because you’re strong, or because you’re unlucky, or because you’re needed to protect the notes.  I don’t know.  I can’t know the gods’ minds.  But I can tell you what I do know, and that’s that none of this was your fault.”

“They died for me,” Pengolodh stumbled out with shaking hands, gesturing at the bodies of Dínferedis and her folk.  “They died for me, and I—”

“You are still alive, they kept you alive, and that mattered to them, Pengolodh, it mattered to them, and it matters to me, and I know it will matter to Gil-galad.”

And perhaps it would have mattered to Idril.

And there is still no one else.

“All right,” Pengolodh said, giving up in the face of Elros’s immovable obstinacy.  “But I don’t think I can walk far.”

Elros blew out his breath, sagging a little.  He nodded.  “It’s not too far, and I can help you, or I can carry you a little way, if I have to.  If you’ll allow me.”

It was a true question.  Pengolodh could read it in his eyes.  He would let Pengolodh stagger the whole way until he actually fainted, if Pengolodh needed him to.  Pengolodh’s legs felt like jelly, and he trusted Elros.  “Yes, I don’t think I can do it alone.”

“All right.  Good.  I’ve got you.  I’m going to put an arm underneath your back, and we’re going to get you to safety.”

As Elros had promised, the trip was not long; half a mile down the river, perhaps, where Elros set him down, handed him the torch, and put both fingers to his mouth to blow a piercing whistle.  To Pengolodh’s shock, he felt it faintly in his fëa.

The trees on the other side of the river stirred and then sent their branches creeping across, twining into the shape of an elegant woven bridge.  Elros saw Pengolodh’s startled look and explained, “Some of Melian’s magic yet remains here.  This is where the Girdle stood.  And, uh, it listens to me.”

One of the branches patted his head, and he blushed and swatted at it.  Pengolodh stared at it, then at Elros.  Somehow, perhaps because he very much did not get along with Elrond, he had not realized how strongly the Maiar blood ran in the twins.

Elros ushered him across, into the dark and silent forest.  They passed through a grim, darkened archway between the trees, and suddenly, there was light and warmth.  A small ring of stone cottages with thatched roofs stood around a round, central stone slab.  Between them, clothes hung drying, hanging from thin ropes.  There were candles in the windows, and little furtive fireflies glimmering on and off in the treetops.

“Food first, then bath,” Elros told him firmly.  “And I’ll get you some privacy.”  He ushered Pengolodh to one of the huts, knocked, stuck his head in.  After a few minutes, an Elf and a human woman came out, gave him a quick smile, and fled.  “Here.”

Inside the cottage, there were two beds covered in soft green quilts, one along each wall.  Pengolodh sank gratefully down on the left one, hissing when he pulled at the injury in his back.

“You’re hurt,” Elros said.  “I mean—I knew you were hurt, I just—”

“It’s nothing.”  Pengolodh shook his head.  “It’s really nothing serious, I mean—just a bruise, maybe a cut.  They—they had me on a rock, and I—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Elros cut him off.  “If you want, I can take a look.  If you don’t, I won’t.”

 All of a sudden, the injuries he had sustained over the course of the day made themselves unavoidably known—the swelling nose, the bruise in his back, the ugly soreness in his stomach and between his legs that he had not wanted to think about. It didn’t matter, he told himself, willing them away again.  Elros was probably right that he should eat, and the messy tumult of his brain could not think beyond that. “Food first,” he said, moving his hands with careful deliberation.  “Then, if you wouldn’t mind, if you’d check the injuries while I’m bathing, I’d be grateful.”

“All right.”

Elros’s head turned as if there had been a noise—a knock on the door or voices outside, Pengolodh inferred.  “One moment, that’s probably your dinner.  Convenient.”

He came back with a bowl cupped between his hands and gave it over to Pengolodh with a smile.  It smelled faintly of fresh, growing things, but it was cool to the touch, refreshing in the rather warm summer evening.  Slowly, he realized it was iced tea poured over soft grain, topped with sliced vegetables and a little cooked fish.  Elros put a spoon in his hand and waited.

Diffidently, clumsily, Pengolodh spooned himself a bite.  The taste was mild and refreshing.  He took another, and another.  His stomach rumbled, and the ache in his abdomen revealed itself to be simple hunger.  He refused to eat too quickly, but he shut his eyes to savor the cold, salty vegetables, the soft hearty fish, and the spoonfuls of tea-enriched rice.  When he set the spoon down with a sigh, he opened his eyes to see Elros giving him an encouraging smile.

“Bath?” he asked.  “And, if you need me to shut my eyes or look away at any point, just let me know.”

It was difficult, but he managed to smile back and nodded.  “Thank you.”

The bath was outside, in a quiet, slow-moving loop of the river that had been partially blocked off by another span of woven trees.  Privacy was ensured by long sprays of vines covered in glossy dark green leaves, which formed a curtain between the rest of the encampment and the bathing area.  Jeweled lanterns cast a soft pink glow across the moss-covered bank, and their reflections glittered in the water, made ten times manifold by the gentle motions of the sluggish current.

Disrobing was less difficult than he’d feared.  The touch of the befouled clothes on his skin was unpleasant, and stripping them off was a relief.  Normally, he’d have folded them neatly, but he couldn’t find the heart to do so, and he just dropped them on the moss.

 Elros sat on the bank, reassuringly non-threatening. “All right, let me see.”  He beckoned Pengolodh over to him.  “What do you want me to look at first?”

It was really his face that was hurting the most—nose and lip aching and swollen.  And that was easy.  Pengolodh gestured ruefully to his countenance, and Elros gave a sympathetic wince.  He patted the spot beside him, and Pengolodh gingerly took a seat.  Elros gently looked him over, taking his chin and very very carefully turning it first one way, then the other.  Then he shook his head.  “The nose is broken,” he said bluntly.  “Not much I can do about that.  It will probably heal crooked, I’m afraid.  I don’t think we can get you to a real healer in time to fix that, unless you want to have it re-broken.”

The re-breaking, at least, presumably wouldn’t be time-sensitive.  Pengolodh shrugged.  At least his eyes and fingers were unharmed, and they were far more important.  

“The lip isn’t bleeding anymore, but I should probably clean out that cut and get you something for the pain.  Would that be all right?”

Pengolodh nodded.  “Maybe after I’ve washed in the river,” he suggested.  Perversely, he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the pain just yet, a reminder that he’d struggled, that he’d been hurt.

“Good idea, you’re full Elf, so I don’t think that’s a risk for you.”  Right.  Men and their vulnerability to sickness.  “Can I see your hands?”

Startled, Pengolodh lifted them, and then noticed what Elros already had.  His wrists were ringed with swollen bruises in the shapes of eager fingers.  He stared at them, shuddered, looked away.

“I’ll get you a bruise balm,” Elros told him, when he was ready to look again.  “They’ll heal.  Quickly, even.  With long sleeves, you won’t have to look at them while they do.”  His eyes flickered downward.  “Oh—yes, a bruise balm,” he said, momentarily distracted by something.  “Let me see your back?”

Pengolodh turned. A gentle hand was laid between his shoulder-blades, careful and reassuring. He shut his eyes and covered a sob with a hand before taking a deep breath and managing to settle it. Elros studied him for a little while, then tapped his spine, and he turned back around.

“It’s mostly bruised too, but there is a cut—if you want me to help you, it might be just as easy to wash it out in the river and dress it when you get out.  Or you can do it.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I can’t reach it well.”  There wasn’t much point in trying when it was in such an awkward location, a little too low and a little too central.  “Just don’t drag it out.”

Besides, he was realizing how desperately he wanted to be clean.  He stank, a ripe, unpleasant smell like rot, and he could feel the crusting of fluids on his inner thighs and the hair between his legs. 

“I need to get clean,” he said.  “I need—”  Then he realized he didn’t need anyone’s permission, and he waded out into the river.

Although it must be late by now—he could see the stars shining dimly through the branches far above—the water was warm, maybe a consequence of Melian’s residual enchantment.  Pengolodh breathed out a sigh of relief at its gentle touch, then submerged himself, letting the river’s embrace take hold.  The world slipped away for a few blissful moments.

When he resurfaced, Elros was waiting for him with a washcloth and a bar of soap that smelled sharp and clean, a mountain breeze laden with the scent of pines.  Patiently, he lathered it up and then beckoned to Pengolodh to turn around again.  He had rolled his trousers up as high as possible, but they were still clearly getting soaked.  Pengolodh felt a sob catch in his throat at the fact that Elros hadn’t even asked whether he could disrobe, he had simply waded in fully-clothed to help.

Elros’s hands moved gently across his back, and Pengolodh pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth to muffle another sob.  The throbbing in his wrists was especially bad, recalling him forcefully to the feeling of many hands holding him down.  His chest hurt as well; when he looked down, he finally realized what Elros had noticed earlier when he was talking about bruise balm.  There was another long mark trailing over the top of his left breast and diffusing into an ugly yellow-black bloom.  He shuddered, pulling away from Elros, and crossed his arms over himself, trying to will away the feeling that those hands were still there, careless, pinching, and painful.  His skin crawled. He was as safe as he could be outside of Gil-galad’s stronghold.  He knew it, logically, but the understanding did nothing to abate the sudden rush of nausea.  He doubled over at the side of the river, retching and dry-heaving, a long-delayed response finally forcing itself out. 

He did not actually throw up, only coughed and spasmed for a long minute, his body going through the motions of something he’d suppressed almost violently earlier in the day.  When it was over, his trembling muscles relaxed, and he slid down the bank, half-collapsing into the water.  When he was finally able to look up, Elros was waiting.

“I can leave it,” he said.  “It will probably be fine.”

“No,” Pengolodh signed in return.  “I’m not there.  I’m not there.  Just do it.”

“All right.”  He went back to work, a little more quickly this time, a little less gentle.  Pengolodh clenched his hands tight until it was over.

Then Elros offered him the washcloth, and he took it and the soap, cleaning himself all over with his own hands—neck, face, shoulder-blades—his arms, one after the other, digging his fingers perversely into the bruises on his wrists, to prove he could, to prove he had fought, even if he’d been overmatched—

He washed his breasts quickly, then his stomach, and then he came to the thighs and all the rest, and began to scrub.  This, he quickly discovered, was awful.  His cunt was sore and swollen, his cock only sore, but a gentle touch made him want to start retching again.  He couldn’t have Elros do it—that would be worse—so he had to force himself, over and over again, until he was weeping silently and breathing so hard he was starting to see black dots flickering in front of his vision.  He must be clean by now.  He must.

He flung the washcloth down on the shore, pressing his hands to his head and squeezing his eyes shut.  The river lapped at his thighs and waist.  Once again, he felt torn in two: here and there, now and then.  The phantom sensations echoed through him again and again, and he could not stop trembling.

This had been going on for seemingly a very long time when a soft melody intruded on his heart, thin and a little hesitant, but so very unusual that it pulled him right back to the present.  The sensation of the water grew sharper and more real, the clean smell of earth and growing things presented itself insistently to his nose.  The beat of his heart slowed, and he was able, at last, to open his eyes.

Elros sat on the bank, leaning forward, his lips pinched into a tiny o.  He was whistling again.  

“Any better?” he asked as Pengolodh’s wavering vision settled.  He seemed realer, somehow, than anything around him.  The light clung to his curls, the deep restful shadows collecting under his sleeves and chin.  Starlight was reflected in his eyes, a softer, more distant gleam than Treelight.  The same distant white glitters lay on the water where Elentári had flung them, a gesture, perhaps, of safety.

It was better.  Everything outside this place seemed distant, dream-like even.  Pengolodh nodded shakily.  Out here, like this, Elros seemed almost like a tree himself, or perhaps an Ent.  Wholly in harmony with this place and holding everything in his presence in harmony as well.  “Thank you.”

A nod.  “Of course.  Do you want me to dress your injuries and then we’ll get you to bed?  You look exhausted.”

He was exhausted.  He had been exhausted for hours, but now part of an injury he hadn’t realized he was carrying had turned from pain into sheer, healthy weariness, like fluid released from a festering boil.  “Yes,” he said.  Even his hands felt heavy.  “Could you do that again afterwards?”

“I’ll sing you a lullaby if you want.”

“Stars, please.”

Slowly, he pulled himself out of the river.  Elros hopped out ahead of him and wrapped a towel around his shoulders, letting Pengolodh rub himself down.  He did so, then followed Elros exhaustedly back to the little cottage, where he sat and shivered on the bed while Elros cleaned his nose and lip and bandaged his back and rubbed balm into his bruises.  Someone had found a clean linen nightshirt that smelled of old wood.  Pengolodh put it on and crawled into one of the beds, soft as a cloud beneath him.  Elros’s sweet high whistle serenaded him into sleep, and he dreamed of walking among the stars with a cloak of light about his shoulders.

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Chapter End Notes

Zomburai did some amazing artwork for this chapter, which can be found in the next installation of the multimedia version of this fanwork.  Please check it out!

Chapter warnings:

• Rape aftermath, including fairly minor wound care, washing
• Buckets and buckets of shame
• Suicidal ideation
• Rape survivor claims it wasn't rape because they survived it
• Non-graphic flashbacks to the rape
• Issues with eating (resolved)
• Emetophobia (though really it's just dry-heaving)