Two days and the night between them had passed since Fíli woke from his river-crossing, and in that time he and Nár had continued west along the trail with no troubles. Now, the second evening had fallen and the Forest darkness was deep; and though Fíli had been following as best he could the sound of Nár's panting and the soft rustling of the leaves under her feet, she had moved steadily ahead while Fíli slipped and stumbled behind.

"We best settle in, I think," he called out; then he listened in the pitch blackness as the wolf came back to his side. "We'll get moving again with the light tomorrow. Or what light there is tomorrow, anyway."

Fíli quickly set about making his camp, but despite the chill in the air, he tried to keep his fire small. Over the course of the last couple days he had seen the tattered remains of black webs strung here and there between the tree trunks, and he always hurried past when he noticed them; and now that the fire was giving some light, he saw more just to the side of the trail.

At least, he thought, he had yet to actually see any spiders, and he supposed that what Legolas had said about their population being thinned was true. That did not make him feel any safer about being near where they had once lived, however, and he stared warily up at the darkened treetops, half-expecting to see some nasty creature scurrying down—though he knew that if anything was out there, Nár would give him fair warning. But still he drew his axe off his belt and laid it beside his bedroll for his defense in the night; then he turned his attention to his aching stomach.

Since crossing the River, the wolf had once in a while bounded off into the midst of the trees; and she had always come back a couple minutes later, licking bits of blood off her mouth. She had yet to bring anything else for Fíli, but given how quickly she had eaten whatever she had caught, he knew that her prey must have been too small to share—rats or mice or shrews of some sort. But in any case, her hunting seemed to have filled her up enough that whenever Fíli offered her anything from his food-sack, she had refused it.

The Dwarf himself hadn't eaten anything but lembas in the past two days, and it was a welcome change from dried fruit and cram and preserved meat, all of which just made him thirsty; and even considering the fact that Legolas had refilled the water-skins while Fíli had been asleep from the River, he did not want to waste what drink he had. Still, though he had been trying to keep from eating more of the waybread than absolutely necessary, he was already down to a small chunk—and that, he knew, would not last him much longer.

"I wouldn't mind a hare for dinner," he said, looking over at Nár. "I don't suppose you smell any around here?" The wolf tilted her head and Fíli let himself smile a bit as he took nibble of the Elvish bread. "No? Not a squirrel, even?"

Nár laid her head on her paws, but as Fíli rewrapped the lembas in its leaf bundle, the animal turned suddenly and looked off into the woods north of the trail. She sniffed at the air, perked up her ears, and opened her bright eyes wide.

"What's wrong?" asked Fíli. "What is it?"

He squinted into the darkness, wondering if Nár had sensed something fit for eating, after all; then he tightened his jaw and slumped his shoulders.

"Is it Legolas again?

Nár growled low, then jumped to her feet and moved a few halting steps away from the fire. Just within the reach of the darkness, she set her paws firmly on the ground and curled her lip up into a snarl; then she moved another step closer to the trees and bristled the fur on her neck.

Fíli let his hand fall on the hilt of his sword. Alright, it isn't Legolas…

"Nár… get back to the fire…" he told her; but the words had barely left his mouth when the wolf launched herself into the shadowy woods. "Nár!"

A rush of panicked energy ran through his body as he stood and drew out his sword; and with his free hand, he pulled a long branch with a flaming end from the fire and held it out towards where the wolf had vanished. He saw nothing, but the sound of yelping and snapping came suddenly out of the darkness, and Fíli stepped off the edge of the path.

He knew he should stay on the trail, knew that it was not wise to leave the fire; but despite the warnings in his own mind, he was not willing to let Nár fight on her own. He bounded ahead, and with his movement his brand went out completely; and so he threw it back towards the fire and started feeling around the trees as he made his way forward.

His hand came to rest on a cold, bristly branch and he pulled back, then hesitantly reached out again. He ran his fingers down its side, then he tapped it softly with his knuckles. Even past the nearby growling, it sounded hollow. Jumping aside, he swung out hard, drawing his sword across what he now knew to be a spider's limb. There was a crack as the blade cut through the creature's shell, and the severed leg fell to the ground with a muted thud; but neither a screech of pain nor any retaliation followed.

Cautiously, he grabbed hold of the leg that still stuck up in front of him, then he moved his touch down to where it met the creature's body. The spider was on its back with its limbs already curled up in death. His hand slid back up to the snapped end and felt where some thick, sticky fluid was dripping from where he had severed it. A foul smell rose up—not blood, but rot. The spider had been dead already for some time.

Whatever Nár was now fighting, however, was very much alive, and a furious crashing of bodies against tree-trunks brought Fíli's attention back around. He wheeled about and made his way towards the sound, hoping that he would not run into a tree as he groped and stumbled, following the growling and snarling as best he could. When he drew nearer, a deep and resonant howl halted him; and he gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on his weapon as his heart began to race.

A Forest wolf…

The howl was answered by another, slighter and shorter one that could only have been Nár's own, then there was a sudden, fierce growl, followed by a yelp. The combatants separated and Fíli heard snarling both to the left and ahead of him, and a moment later the shadowed creatures came together again with a thud. He heard a frail whine, then something tumbled across the ground to his right.

Sudden silence fell, and Fíli's eyes darted back and forth as he listened anxiously. Past the rushing of his own blood in his ears, he heard ragged breathing to his side; and ahead of him, rough and fast panting. He shifted his feet on the leaf-covered ground, then took one step sideways, towards where he was certain Nár lay. But before he could make it to her side, something hit him in the chest and he was sent flying. He landed hard, and his back arched over a great root jutting out of the ground; and at once, the base of his spine began to burn.

He grunted and strained, doing his best to ignore the pain as he tried to draw himself away from the root; but the animal stepped onto his chest, digging its claws into his skin and forcing the air out of his lungs with its weight. He struggled for breath, and when he at last managed to take one in, it was hot and smelled horrid—like the creature was leaning close to his face. Something warm and wet fell onto his cheek, but whether it was blood or the beast's mouth watering in hungry anticipation, he could not tell.

Although he had managed to keep a hold on his sword as he fell, his instinct now was to push the creature's face away from his own; and so he fought to reach his left hand up to its throat. There he felt rough fur and he shoved against it with all the strength he could manage, though his arm was weak and his elbow burned. The animal pushed back down against him and its teeth snapped together inches from his ear.

Fíli tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword and he swung it up, and the steel vibrated as the broad side of the weapon struck the beast's skull.

…A warg…

He had fought enough of them in the past to know what they sounded like, what they smelled like, what it felt like when a weapon came into contact with one—and he now knew that he was in a far worse position that he had at first believed. But he did not have the time to mull over why he had not sooner realized what the beast really was, and he swung his weapon up again, being sure this time to angle the tip of the blade towards where he knew the creature's neck must be.

The sword glanced off the warg, and he drew back once more, but his next swing was stalled when the weight on his chest eased unexpectedly. The sound of the two animals clashing came again from off to his side, and he rolled to his knees, gasping for breath; then he rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled towards the fray with his sword held at the ready.

Nár and the warg were thrashing and clawing and snapping too much for him to get near, and even if he managed to get into the fight, Fíli knew he would have a terrible time trying to tell the two of them apart—but the decision of whether or not to join in was made for him when the combatants lurched together in his direction. Something struck him on the head and he saw a flash of light as he spun onto the leaf-covered dirt, his sword tumbling from his grip. The animals stomped and growled, fell to the ground, and rolled against Fíli where he lay trying to get his bearings; and without stopping to think, he reached out and grabbed a handful of fur with his stronger hand.

The fur was rough and long, and the immense muscles underneath it tensed firmly. The beast roared and stomped and dragged him across the ground, and still Fíli held tight to its shaggy coat; and after a few tense seconds he was able to tell that it was the creature's foreleg that he had in his grip. The warg pulled back on him, then its teeth snapped close to his face again. Fíli drew out his boot-knife with his free hand, and when he felt the warg's hot breath near his face once more, he thrust the blade deep through the fur and flesh of its throat.

The warg began to pitch and gurgle, and in the midst of its struggling it wrenched the knife out of Fíli's grip and tossed him off to the side. It stepped down hard on his left arm, then stumbled over him; and he pressed his now-burning elbow to his side and curled himself up, trying to protect the rest of his body from the warg's throes. Once it had gotten far enough away that he felt he would be safe in moving, he climbed to his knees and began feeling frantically around the Forest floor for his dropped sword.

He found it some few feet away, and with it once more in-hand, he drew himself up and made his way to where the warg now writhed and gasped. It shifted and kicked, and from what Fíli could tell, it was lying on its side. Stepping wide around behind the beast, he reached out blindly and grabbed onto a length of fur, then felt around until he found the base of the creature's neck. He drew his sword up high, then swung it down with all the strength he could manage at the creature's head.

The blade failed to cut through the hard skull, and the warg kicked harder, then rolled to its feet as it hacked past the knife in its throat. Fíli shoved it over onto its side again, and though its claws were now scraping the ground alarmingly close to him, he pulled his sword back then thrust it forward, this time stabbing at the beast's softer underside. The blade went through with much more ease and the warg let out a long whine, and he pushed the sword deeper still and twisted.

A gush of warmth coated Fíli's hand, and the beast shuddered, then lay still; and he pulled the sword out of its body and slid it back into the sheath, then he stepped back and tried to calm his shaking hands. He knew that he was not in good shape, as his back ached, his left elbow burned, and his head was swimming—but it was not for himself that he was now most concerned.

"Nár!" he called out, not bothering to worry if anything else was out there listening. "Where are you?"

There was complete silence now all around him, save the pounding of his own heart in his ears and the hissing of his breaths through clenched teeth. He stepped past the dead beast and started feeling almost desperately around the trees. He would not let himself consider the possibility that Nár had died in the fight, or that she had run off. No, she was there somewhere, maybe hurt. Definitely hurt. He had heard her yelping when the warg had been tossing her about.

He held his breath and listened again, but still he heard nothing; though some distance away, he could see his firelight flickering on the trail. And so he made for his camp in the hopes that a torch might help him to seek out his companion—but before he took more than a few steps, he did at last hear something. Soft whining, he supposed. Whimpering, the rustling of leaves.

"Come here, Nar…" he said, holding out a shaking hand. "Come here… come to me."

Rustling rose up again, and panting breaths came near; then the wolf rubbed her head under Fíli's palm. He lowered himself to his knees beside her and began running his hands over her fur. He felt stickiness on her neck—blood, but too thick to be Nár's own. She had likely been in the middle of the fight when Fíli had stabbed the warg in the throat, and the beast's black blood had coated her fur just the same as his own hand.

"Don't ever run off like that again," he scolded gently, wiping his fingers on his trouser leg. She whimpered once more, and Fíli sighed and stood. "Come on," he said, keeping a palm on the animal's head as he led the way toward the campfire. "Let's get cleaned up."

At the fireside, Fíli sat down hard on the ground and looked to Nár, who laid down beside him. He had been right that the stickiness he had felt on Nár's neck was not from any wound of the wolf's own, as it was thick and black as pitch. Fíli rubbed the top of her head softly, then reached over with his left hand to better help him search through her fur for wounds, though when he did so his elbow began to burn even more.

He turned up his left sleeve, examining his arm as best he could in the dim light. The joint did not seem to be dislocated, at least, and though it ached mightily, he was sure it wasn't broken. Most likely he would be fine after resting it for a while, though he felt that the sling Sigrid had given to him would again be finding use. He shoved his sleeve further up onto his shoulder so to better see his upper arm, but when he twisted his torso to look at it, he felt pain in the skin of his chest and his back throbbed.

Lifting his tunic, he looked to where the warg had dug its claws into him. The area was red and welted, and he was sure bruises would be raising there later, but his skin was not broken and his ribs did not feel cracked. He let out a relieved, though painful breath, then lowered his shirt and pressed his pained left arm to his body as he turned his attention to the wolf, who was still panting heavily by his side.

"Let's take a look at you now," he said, scratching her head once more. "Does anything hurt?"

His words slurred slightly and he shook his head; and Nár shifted off to the side, then pulled her paw out from underneath her and began licking it. For a few seconds, Fíli could not quite figure out why that should be significant; then he took a few deep breaths, and his thoughts cleared a touch. He lifted and examined the wolf's paw and found that it was swollen, but did not appear to be broken; so he drew a length of bandage out from his pack, and soon he had wrapped Nár's paw and lower leg as tightly as he was able.

"Is that better?" he asked.

A sudden ache pressed in on his temples and a flashing light played at the edge of his vision, and he winced and doubled his fists. These sensations meant no good, he knew, and he began feeling around his own head. There was a bit of haze in his thoughts, and he could not quite recall the whole of the fight he had just had with the warg—but he remembered something had hit him, and he had seen a flash of light. But there was no wound on his scalp, as far as he could tell, and slowly his lightheadedness lifted a bit.

He allowed himself a few quiet moments of staring into the fire before drawing more bandages out of his pack, then he turned again to Nár. The warg-blood on her neck was mostly in one spot, but it was so thick and sticky that all he managed to do was spread it around and blacken the cloth when he tried to clean it away.

Nár lowered her head and let out a small whine, and Fíli drew his eyebrows together in concern.

"What's wrong?" he asked, feeling gently around her neck. "Did I hurt you?"

His unsteady fingers came to a gash under the blood and he pulled his touch away, but not quickly enough to avoid paining the wolf and making her shrink back. She lifted her head again, then rested it on Fíli's lap and turned it to the side; and the new position made it easier for the Dwarf to see the wound. It was fairly deep, though thankfully not too long, and it appeared that the vile black blood had seeped into it.

Drawing one of his water-skins near, he fumbled with the cork. "This will probably sting," he told her; then he gave his scarred elbow a quick glance. "But trust me when I say that leaving warg-blood under your skin is a bad thing."

Fíli allowed some of the water to flow over her wound, then he patted at it gently with one of the bandages; and when he was fairly certain the blood had been cleaned away enough, he brought out his small sachet of kingsfoil. Nár sniffed at it, then let out a quick breath and shrunk back, as if she had smelled something rotten.

He smiled faintly at her, then his eyes lost focus for a moment and he tilted off to the side. He straightened his back and blinked a few times to clear his vision; then he again lifted his hand to his own head. The scar at the base of his skull seemed soft to him, and when he pressed his fingertip harder against it, small shocks of pain like the tingling of a sleeping limb radiated outward from it and around the sides of his head.

…No… not now…

Whatever else he did, he knew that he had to at least finish treating Nár's wound before he could go senseless; he had to be certain that she would be well enough to watch over him if he fell into a sudden sleep. And so, he lifted his weakened left hand and held open the wolf's wound to allow the kingsfoil better entry. More black blood came trickling out, and Fíli picked up a clean bandage and again patted the gash, then he pressed the fabric into the cut itself to soak up all he could.

When he withdrew the bandage, however, it stuck to her raw flesh and opened the wound a bit more. Nár whimpered, and Fíli cringed, hoping that he had not hurt her too badly; but as he leaned close to see what damage he had done, the trickle became a flow—then the black blood began to pulse out with each beat of the animal's heart.