I love this chapter:) blood, pain, song to follow. Steel yourselves.

Chapter 9 -Elven Song-

He'd tracked his way from the glen with the Bifrost runes back to the Elven Way. He still held out some hope that the three stuck to its path. If Barton knew anything of Alfheimr, he would remember to follow the trail. But what if he had been pursued? What if they were set upon by a Southling or beast? Would they have diverted and lost their way into the all-encompassing darkness? Haladarrel could rest on conjecture alone as he hiked through the wood. He used his hearing to keep his path straight until, at long last, the rising sun bore down overhead. It had been a long, sleepless night. He had the strength to go on for another quarter moon, but he knew the archer would not. Haladarrel had to push himself, to his limits and beyond if that's what it took to save his kingdom.

He kept the little book of the healer's regime close to his chest while he ran. There would be no use in him finding the archer if he had lost the treatment with which to save him. Still, Haladarrel held out hope that another Elf had come to his aid already. That, by now, the Champion of Midgard, Brother of Asgard, and Elect of Odin had received the cure he needed to survive this horrible blow. Standing in the path of the Elven Way, his ears perked heavenward as the sounds of animalistic agony reached him. At first, he wondered whether it was a velgenath trapped in some poacher's snare, or even the dying breath of a stag. The closer he came, however, the more the truth of the matter became known. It was the sound Haladarrel had been waiting to find in these dark and lonely woodlands; a man in pain, a Midgardian in the throes of elaren with no assistance to be had.

No assistance, until now.

He stepped up his pace, running through the thick brush and over-tangled limbs of the ancient woods. Before losing his head, the Southling neglected to mention how much venom he used on the arrow's shaft. He could only speculate how long he still had to save the man. If the Midgardian had advanced this far, it was possible no healing he attempted would end well. So much remained unknown.

The sounds of the screaming cut him to his very core. He followed them like a beacon, desperate to reach him as swiftly as possible. If the venom extended this far, he was in very dire straits indeed. He found himself wandering off of the Elven Way, along a path that was nearly imperceptible unless in the light of day. He was very familiar with this area and what lay just beyond the snaking body of the Lkshia Waters. How the archer and his companions had discovered it in the dead of night, he could not understand, but it was fortuitous.

The great oak Faramir stood out before him. Limbs like the arms of giants stretched up toward the hidden sky above, while its roots pushed outward, clearing its place amongst the choking forest. Faramir was hollow inside, at least partly. An old friend to the crown once resided there years before he disappeared to Midgard, never to return. Haladarrel approached cautiously. The sounds of a tortured man emitted from behind the tiny door that led into the hollow. He also knew the archer was not the only one to have been transported to Alfheimr, others were with him. Two, to be exact. And they would defend their friend to the death if they suspected foul play. His best course was not to sneak up upon them like a thief stealing through the night. Instead, he called out to the door, with his bow and sword resting away from him but well within sight.

"Le suilon!" I greet you! Haladarrel said, loud enough to be heard over the anguished cries of the man he came to save.

The door flung inward. A man dressed in blue, white, and red completely filled the small crevice of doorway and stared out at him. His face was flushed, and both frightened and determined. Blue crystalline eyes cut across the landscape to ascertain many things at once; first the elf, then the weapons lying on the ground, and the lack of immediate reinforcements. Haladarrel could see nothing behind him as the man's mass was so great. The screams of the pained archer though, came louder than before.

"Pedil edhellen?" Do you speak elvish? Haladarrel pressed.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

Haladarrel's palms remained toward him, his body inclined forward at the waist to show he indeed meant only to help. The king told him that these men were outsiders, that they most likely would have no idea of the customs of Elves. He would have to take care not to insult their intelligence, or their own Midgardian rules of etiquette.

"I intend no harm toward you." Haladarrel said quietly, still inclining. "I am an emissary of our King Rinon and her majesty Fehreh. I have come to treat he who is of Midgard and Asgard, the elect of Odin."

The man did not trust him. Good. It meant he was not only of great intelligence, but also not blinded by his panic for his friend to trust the first elf that happened across them.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Haladarrel took a step backward, then to the left. Signs of submission in Elvish may have been difficult to translate to the Midgardian, so he hoped these steps furthered his position. The last time he exercised such nonsense, it was as a lad to the overwhelming authority of his mother. He truly hoped there were no other outriders waiting in the wood observing this act.

"Av'osto." He whispered. "Do not fear me. Your friend is dying. I have come to save him, for all of Alfheimr I must do this. Without my help, he will assuredly perish. But if you will allow me, perhaps I could save him. Then you will know whether I will be trusted. Your enemy will do what they must to see the archer of Midgard dead."

Someone within Faramir whispered to the blue, white, and red man, for his head turned slightly to his left to consult with him. Hal knew there must be two carrying the archer through the forest of Woodrenkell. This was his first indication of the second being within. After a brief consultation, the crystal eyes returned to Haladarrel's. He nodded briefly.

"What choice do we have?"

"I am afraid that it is very limited." Haladarrel replied. He straightened, grateful to be out of his twisted position and further gratified he did not have to resort to another step backward and left. That would almost have been too much to bear. He used the toe of his boot to push his weapons aside until they were against one of the large tree roots. He doubted they would be allowed within the small hovel, but he did not want to risk their discovery and removal either. Covering them in detritus, he was satisfied that they would not immediately be found. The Midgardian removed himself from the doorway to allow Haladarrel within. He wished he had considered bringing a roll of cotton tail moss with which to pack his ears from the screams of the archer on the floor. Within the confines of the hollow oak, the sounds seemed to have magnified exponentially. To the sensitive senses of an Elf, it was nearly overwhelming.

Sitting at the elbow of the reclining victim, was the second man Haladarrel had tracked. Or at least, it seemed to be a man. He was entirely covered in red and gold metal, forged in an intricate fire to produce such detailed design. His chest provided the only light, emitting a blue hue which bathed the sickly feature in unnatural patterns of color and radiance. Even with the poor setting, Haladarrel could plainly see the man was in dire condition. Forgetting the others for a moment, he fell to his knees beside the fellow. Slender fingers framed the man's face. It burned in fever. Barton's mouth trailed in blood that, between his agonized cries, he coughed out upon the floor. His wound was easily discovered. Its gnarled and grey edges traced the black tendrils of venom Haladarrel made himself familiar with.

"Nai," Hal whispered. This was worse than he imagined. Worse even than he thought a fellow elf was capable of doing to a man. It would have been different should one simply have wanted the death of the archer. Such could be accomplished with so many easier toxins. This was torture. This was almost personal. Nay, it must have been personal.

"Boe de nestad. Goheno nin." It is necessary to heal him. Forgive me. He shook his head, trying to force his brain to speak plain for these men. They could not help him if they did not understand him.

"Forgive me," he repeated himself in the common language. "He needs healing. An arrow dipped in elaren's venom has beset him. He will die without my aid, and to help him I need these things."

He removed from his pocket the little book the queen had given to all the riders. He flipped through the pages, searching for the one speaking of elaren envenomation. Beneath him, the screams and pants of the tortured archer continued. Finding the proper page, he handed the book to the blue and white dressed man. It was written in elvish, but the pictures could be easily translated by any man.

"Those things, I require. I have some here." He withdrew the small pouch of items he'd collected along the way. "The others can easily be found in Woodrenkell, but I need them as swiftly as you can. Could you find them?" He leaned over the archer's body as he spoke. They had already removed his shirt, hoping to bring the fever down. There was a line of tegu caps along the wall. Some were filled with spring water, others empty. These men were resourceful, and had worked well with the few things they had.

The Migardian perused some of the pictures, a look of familiarity passing his eyes when he encountered some. "I can. How far is Woodrenkell from here?"

Haladarrel's hands stayed. Slowly, his head pivoted to look into the crystal eyes again. Then he turned and scrutinized the reflective face of the thus-far silent metal man.

"You . . . you do not know where you are?" Neither offered any hope to dispel his statement. "This is Woodrenkell. You are already here."

The soldier tucked the book into a pocket at his waist. Without further instruction, he headed out into the dawn, pulling the oak door closed behind him as he left.

Across from Haladarrel, the metal man did something truly unique. With a pop, whirl, and hiss, his face was removed like that of a helmet, and the person hidden beneath was revealed. He was a Midgardian as well, shorter and less toned than the other. He had black cropped hair that was longer on the top and kept short along the sides, and facial hair in a design Hal had never observed.

"You hurt him, and I won't hesitate burying you." the metal man warned him.

"What I am to do is not easy. None of what must now be undertaken is. He will be pained by it, but, if fortunate, survive."

"Can you help him?" He spoke for the first time in a tone that matched the man who'd gone. It was obvious both men held a deep concern for their friend.

"I am not sure." Haladarrel replied honestly. "I do not believe I need to tell you this is very grave. Very grave indeed."

"He was mad at us for not coming sooner." He went on, more to himself than for the benefit of the elven man. "I yelled at him, screamed at him. He was in the middle of giving it all back to me when he got hit. I was the reason why he was distracted."

Haladarrel allowed the man to speak the fears he no doubt had been carrying for a good while in his mind. He could see the despair, like its own sickness creeping across the features of his face. He was helpless, hopeless, and he believed, wholly believed, he was the sole cause of this tragedy. There was little Haladarrel could do to ease his fears. He was not a comforter of the spirits of men. He was a hunter, a tracker, and held just enough knowledge of the healing arts to make himself useful. With the help of the metal man, he lifted the archer's chest up and placed himself against the fevered back of the Midgardian. The man could hardly breathe beyond the blood filling his lungs. If he did not get it out soon, he would drown within himself, and this entire mission would be for naught. For him to begin to breathe, he must relax. For him to relax, Haladarrel must command him to. That meant he would grasp on to whatever consciousness remained in the dying man and bring it forward. Haladarrel must control the archer.

"When your friend returns, grind the herbs he brings." Haladarrel explained. He crossed his arms over the archer's chest and eased Clint's back against him.

"Add to it what I have brought. When you are ready, place your hand on my arm and I will tell you what to do next."

Haladarrel's eyes slid closed as he held the archer. He spoke to the metal man no longer. His words were for one alone, and they were meant to coax the life back from death. He began in elvish, spinning words in an arc of seeming gibberish meant to soothe their way into the Brother of Asgard's mind. They flowed like a melody of a song, or the rhyme of a verse whose translation was long forgotten to time.

"El ai sila re e-vanua te

Emre te neca mey leh're

Gi siune fara ni'ca ama fe

Beren fae,

Arhe-heren fae

Meta'e he-re`

He-re"

"My words they reach the archer's ear

They ease the soul to lean, to hear

To bend thy bow and arrow fly

Never a word toward goodbye

The end of thy very life I hold

Take this breath and be consoled

Be consoled"

The elf, his arms wrapped carefully around the drowning archer, inhaled. In the same moment, the Midgardian did also. It was a shaky, pained inhalation, but he followed the direction. Again, Haladarrel whispered the fast little words, drawing out the conscious man trapped behind the walls of terror and agony of the venom's fire in his veins. At the end of the verse, a breath was taken, long and deep. The archer paused his scream, inhaled a sick and shallow breath as deeply as he could muster, and exhaled in time with Haladarrel's own.

"Good." The elf whispered. "We must breathe. To live we must. We will do this together."

The elf breathed. The archer, through his daze, ceased all movement and focused for those brief moments on nothing but his own inhalation and exhalation. They continued this circle until Haladarrel was certain the archer understood what was happening around him. Then, it was time to change their focus.

"Ecanre mea fel'reta tairna

Maceru Eneru, istoni ni edhellen

Gwest van a mie gin

Nathalam pres'ali

Cerig en ali

Van agarel me`evadehal

Me'evadehal"

"The pain of treacheries fleeting passed

The arrows shaft where the venom lasts

Flowing from the heart of stone

Agony of betrayal cut to bone

Away and heal the shattered heart

Away the grief that rends apart

That rends apart"

A breath taken inward was managed by both. As the archer exhaled, the tense wrought of his muscles seemed to ease. He collapsed more fully against the support that Haladarrel offered him. At the next shared breath, Clint's did not end in a scream. His body sunk more deeply into the embrace, and he began to still. The metal man watched, mesmerized, as the elf eased the agonized screams of his friend. Soon, there was nothing but the silent gasping of the archer with each inhalation, and the whispered elvish rhymes.

Time crawled slowly by as they waited the return of the soldier. How much time was unknown, as the forest did little to offer such considerations. When the proper objects had been gathered at last, the door was pressed open by the bulk of the white and blue dressed man. Without waiting, the metal man instructed what must be done to the herbs and roots. Together, they set to it.

A hand fixed on the elf's arm. He broke his mind from its concentration briefly to indicate the tegu caps along the wall.

"Separate some of the dry amalgam. Add water to the rest, make a paste."

The soldier did so. He took a large metal shield that once stood beside the door, and flipped it upside down. In the dish, he placed the dry ingredients, and the rest he placed into one of the empty acorn caps. Slowly, he added water to it, using his hands to mix, mix, mix, until it was blended into something with the consistency of a sticky sauce. The odor was pleasant at least, unlike most medicines he surely experienced in life.

"Well done." Haladarrel whispered. To the archer, he said. "Our challenge has arrived. This venom will be drawn from you. You will live."

Clint took a gasping breath to match the deep one of Haladarrel. Haladarrel nodded to the soldier.

"Place it in his wound. Coat it thickly."

The man did not hesitate. He took a scoop of it in his hand and smeared it into the necrotic wound. At the touch, the archer screamed. He bucked in Haladarrel's hands, but the metal man leaned against him to keep him still. The soldier did not feign his duty. He packed the wound, despite the protests and cries of pure torment.

"Áva sorya." Do not dread. Haladarrel told him. "Cerig en ali." Breathe with me.

The poultice was in place. The soldier sat back on his knees, waiting to be of use again or to see what may happen next. Was this some instant cure to their friend's lamentation? It was impossible to know without instruction from the preoccupied elf.

After slowly easing the archer back into the trance he developed for him, Haladarrel at last looked up at the two again. "His breath is shallow. He will not survive without removing the blood in his lungs. It is a dangerous process. He may lose too much and his heart may fail to beat again."

"What do you need me to do?" the metal man asked without hesitation.

"We must burn what remains. It is a powerful smoke. He may not be strong enough, but we have no choice."

The metal man held out a gauntlet toward the shield. "Give it to me." He commanded the soldier.

The entire shield was passed between them. In a shock of blinding flash, the hollow erupted with the high pitched whirr of an energy blast. The mixture of herbs erupted in blue hued light. When the light was gone, only the crackling of a golden fire remained in the center of the shield. With the gauntlet hand, the man held up the smoking herbs.

Haladarrel had to admit he was impressed with the two men. "Feed the smoke. Blow into his face and allow him to take it in. Prepare yourselves. This will not be easy."

The metal hands came together, and the man's lips blew into the smoldering medicine. The smoke rose between his fingers and drifted into his friend's face. Haladarrel continued his elven whispers, keeping the archer's mind in the present, and working as hard to his own recover as the men around him. As he inhaled, the swirling tendrils of grey clouds entered his bluish lips. He breathed out. A small cough; the first indication of a change. The metal man continued to feed the smoke, and the archer sucked it in deeper and deeper. His cough worsened. He struggled to inhale. Hal leaned him forward and, like a torrent, the blood began to feed from between his lips.

He choked, coughed, would scream if he could, but the feeling of drowning overcame and panicked his mind. The smell of burning weeds encompassed the hollow of Faramir as, throughout the day and into the dark of night, the men worked tireless hours to drag their friend from the claws of the agents of death.

a few readers wanted to hear the sounds/tune of the elvish songs i wrote, so i actually sang them and posted the sounds on my author facebook page.

Poor Clint. I do love to ruin him.

my editor mentioned that i have officially "hotbox-ed" Clint. didn't know what that was till i looked it up. oh my.

Next time: Not Your Typical Midgardians