Helpful Context Notes: this story is set early in the Third Age of Middle Earth, around 900. At this time, the northern human kingdom of Arnor has broken into Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur, and kings still reign in Gondor in the south. Elrond's wife Celebrian is still alive and well at Imladris, the Istari (wizards) have not yet come to Middle Earth, and hobbits have not yet ventured into Eriador.
He only stopped because of the screams.
"Slow, Lomecano." The grey horse pulled up from its gallop. The world came into sharp focus around Toron Leohiston. Trees clustered together in thick clumps, their leaves filtering the sun into green shades. Underneath, the horse's footfalls were softened by layers of underbrush and ferns.
Chetwood, just to the east of the village of Archet. Near Bree. The elf man glanced around, trying to locate the source of the screaming. But now, the forest was silent, except for the sound of wind and the farther off noise of the villagers.
Toron dismounted and crept through the trees, motioning for his horse to remain still. Ahead was a clearing. As he drew closer, he saw the remains of a crude camp strewn about the grass. A few abandoned packs, the embers of a fire pit still drifting smoke, an abandoned animal carcass.
And the corpses of three men and two women. He walked closer to their prone forms. Fresh kills, by the smell of blood. He took a second whiff of the air. Another scent lingered as well, something strange and sickly.
A shape flickered in the corner of his vision. Toron whirled around, dark cloak flung back and sword in his hand. A tall figure staggered out of the clearing, shrouded in a dark brown cloak. The killer? From the way it favored its right side, he doubted it was unscathed from the fight.
The elf man stalked noiselessly across the clearing. Suddenly, the shrouded figure turned around, peering out through the deep cowl concealing its face. Toron froze, wishing he were closer to the forest. Not a mortal then. None but an elf could have heard him. The figure stared at him for a moment, then took a step forward.
The step turned into a stumble, then the strange elf twisted sharply on one foot and fell to the ground.
Toron paused, waiting lest the figure rose once more. After a few moments, he jogged over to where the body lay. Kneeling, he carefully drew back the heavy hood. Within its shadowy depths was an elf maiden, her fair face bleached with pain, and her brown hair matted with dried blood. Toron frowned. He couldn't tell if it was her own blood, or that of the dead humans in the clearing.
He unclasped her cloak, revealing a rough green tunic, trousers, cracked boots. Peasant's clothes. But the long dagger she clutched in her left hand was definitely of fine elvish make, as was the rapier that hung by a simple hip belt. Finer make than his own weapons, truth be told. In her other hand was a plain leather pouch, held close with equal fierceness. Toron pried it out of her grip, and opened the latch. Strange, cloying odors assaulted his nose, emanating from a variety of tiny leather pouches, flasks, and a few glass bottles. His frown deepened and he snapped the pouch shut.
"Who are you?" he whispered, pressing a hand to her cool forehead.
A faint moan trickled through her pale lips and her free hand reached down to grasp her left side. More blood stained her tunic beneath—and the dark stain was spreading rapidly. The elf man felt his stomach clench, and knew his course. For any elf, he would find aid, but for this maiden, he felt an odd, deeper conviction that she could not, she must not die!
Toron gave a sharp, commanding whistle to Lomecano, then threw the pouch over his shoulder, and gently lifted the maiden into his arms. Another soft sound of pain escaped her lips and his heart raced. There wasn't much time. Turning, he placed her on the horse's back, then leaped on behind her, hold her close with one arm, and placing his other hand on the horse. Lomecano would sense his urgency. There was only one place close enough to heal the strange elf's injuries.
"To Imladris!"