WARNING Some graphic description of injury in this chapter. Those of you who are squeamish may want to read with discretion.

"It's a long, long way —" Thornhill enunciated the words as carefully as he could, jolting about in an easy trot.

"Eets ah lahng, lahng wai—"

"Close enough." The men were making their way across the moor in a roughly westward fashion, keeping themselves warm by teaching Himelon the lyrics to 'It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary'. At least — the chorus. It was quite difficult to get the ellon to absorb the words without having to explain the meaning of each and every one. Nevertheless, they got on admirably, even if Himelon's pronunciation was questionable and the stress strange at best.

"—to Tipperary—"

"To — what?"

"Tipperary. It was a — a village — no —" Thornhill wracked his brains for the word for town, but found himself blank. Unlike Davies, who was near-fluent after roughly six months of life in Imladris, he had no head for languages, and Edhellen was no exception.

"Caras."

"Thanks, Bertie. It was a town in my old world. I do not know why it is in this song, but it is."

"It is so difficult to pronounce," lamented Himelon, trying gamely but bungling the word every time. "Tee — pair — airr — ee."

So they went in this fashion, ambling along (for the horses had been slowed to a walk to ease difficulties in enunciation) the wide, grassy hills, going through the chorus line by line. It seemed to Thornhill that Himelon's mind was marvellously flexible, and remembered everything easily, though he knew nothing of what it meant. Soon, he thought gloomily, he'll be begging for a translation. Oh well — he brightened as it came into his head — at least Bertie can do it for me. Next, after the words, came the tune. Again, line by line, they sang it, until Himelon could repeat the chorus all at once in his fine tenor. It was strange to hear him sing in English; such voices Thornhill had begun to associate with the haunting fantasies of the Hall of Fire, rather than simple marching songs from Blighty.

Thornhill got bored of the proceedings eventually, and suggested a race. "It'll liven us up a bit," he argued. "And besides, Bertie — we've gotten so boring — let's have a bit of fun, shall we?"

"All right," conceded Bertie. "Himelon — we are going to race. Last one to reach that hill there must sing the song in full."

"I shall gird my loins and spur my horse on, then." The ellon's face split into a broad grin, and the three of them were off, galloping with all their might towards the hill. Predictably, Thornhill and Himelon were neck and neck, with Bertie trailing behind. The poor man still held his dislike of riding, despite the fact it was all he had been doing for the past weeks.

So the laughing youths waited as he pulled up with a wry twist of the mouth. "I suppose I must sing, then."

"The whole song."

"Well — so I must. Up to mighty London…" Davies began to sing — embarrassedly, at first, but gaining momentum as the music caught him.

Himelon and Thornhill listened appreciatively for a while, before the former cut him off. They ought to be moving on, he said, and while gaiety was welcome, they were wasting their time now. There were places to go. Their journey had a purpose.

"What sort of a purpose?" asked Thornhill.

"Why, you have said so yourself. To find your homeland. Do you not wish to return whence you came?"

"I — had forgotten. That we wanted to find — it — this journey seems to be —"

"Let us go now, and remind ourselves of it, then. I fear we are growing unwary and frivolous. Come." He nudged his steed into a trot, urged the men to do the same, and off they went.

Thornhill held his mount back, urging Himelon that he could go ahead if he wanted. In truth, he was irritated that the ellon insisted on 'business as usual', and complained bitterly to Bertie. Thank God that ellon still doesn't know English. "So much for fun. We just start loosening up instead of looking around us every which way, and there he goes — remind yourself of your purpose. Bloody hell, it's not like we're going to get attacked! What'll we get attacked by? The hawks up there?" He snorted.

"He's not being unreasonable, Ernest."

"Oh, so you're at it too."

"You're being very childish, Ernest. Have you really forgotten the War already? Imagine what would happen if we all got rid of the sentries the moment Jerry stopped shooting — we'd all be blown to —"

"Enough already!" Thornhill jerked his horse to a stop, ignoring its indignant snort. Some sort of a hysteria was hovering at the edge of his mind, and he would not — would not — let it take him over. "Enough about the war, and what if, and remember your past. I've had enough of it! I get my first peaceful night's sleep in — oh, two weeks? And you go on about the War like we're still part of it. We're not! And we'll never be again!"

"I doubt a single mention of our old life in the trenches would bring on another nightmare. Your nerves have been getting out of hand lately."

"Bertie, you don't understand — even in the day, I'd — I'd just —"

"There's no need to panic, boy. Calm yourself down and stop this silliness."

"Don't call me that!"

"I shall if you stop acting like one."

Thornhill swore loudly, wheeled his horse about, and cantered in Himelon's direction. If Bertie wouldn't stop acting like his father, then he would remove himself from his presence. So much for complaining — if nobody would listen to his troubles, then so be it. He was done with them.

The next part of the ride was awkward at best. Bertie rode along morosely, a pensive look on his face. Thornhill carried on with a cheap imitation of his former cheer, chatting inanely with Himelon over any topic that he felt was within his linguistic capabilities. The silver-haired ellon nodded, smiled, and attempted to pick up the threads of a swiftly failing conversation. Inwardly, Thornhill cringed, knowing he had unjustly railed both of his companions, but he would not let that show. He would keep everybody cheerful — keep up morale, as he once had to do in days so long past that they seemed like a past life.

"You may stop now." Bertie spoke — finally. "I was wondering — when do we stop for the midday meal?"

"Soon. The sun is high in the sky," replied Himelon.

"Good." And so another inconsequential, empty conversation ended.

It was Himelon who saw them first. He cursed himself for having missed them; his eyes were the keenest of the three, and just like him, he would be looking in another direction. He watched as they prowled down from the North, rooted to the spot. Later, Himelon would regret that he hadn't warned his companions earlier. Now, however, he was paralysed, his mouth dry, his heart hammering against his ribs. There was no hiding — not in this place — curse the Ettenmoors! Of course there would have been something there, just waiting —

He watched as, spotting the three, they broke into a smooth run, coursing across the moors, almost slavering with what he assumed was hunger. Obviously! It had been a long winter, and there would have been nothing to eat, so —

But what were they doing here, in the empty moorlands of Eriador? Were they —

The wolves were almost upon them when Himelon was able to shake off his stupor and alert the men, who — foreseeably — had their backs turned, and were conversing in their Ínglis, paying no mind to the beasts hurtling towards them at a pace they could not outrun. "Droeg!" he cried, wresting them from their mounts just as the first wolf leaped, its coat thin and bedraggled with malnutrition. Béti threw himself onto the ground. It missed.

Himelon bent his bow at the third and fourth, who had lagged behind. One arrow was let loose — and missed. The second arrow whistled through one of the wolves' ears, and tore it off. A minor injury — and an injury that set it bounding towards him, teeth bared. Perhaps Glindir, his father, would have been able to slay a creature moving at this pace, but not Himelon. Emptying his mind of nothing but rash, thoughtless bravery, he sprinted at the wolf, and, with his hunting knife, managed to slice its belly open. Its teeth grabbed at the sleeve of his tunic, desperate for a taste of flesh.

But the wolf's bite was weak, for its bowels were spilling from it, trailing on the ground. It collapsed with a whimper, dying, but not dead. Himelon turned his attention to the fourth wolf, which Béti was cutting at with his dagger. The attempts at injury were ineffectual; the beast snarled, and snapped at the man's legs, nearly sinking its teeth into his ankle. A swiftly loosed arrow felled that one, neatly impaled in the throat. Adar would have been proud of that shot, reflected Himelon ruefully.

A yell of pain interrupted the ellon's thoughts. It cut through the air, raw. He turned in time to see Thonel's thigh grasped in the jaws of one of the remaining beasts, the other padding towards them at the smell of blood. His head spun. He found himself helpless, his feet dragged down, down into the ground, and he would only watch as the young adan — so young — was mauled, with another ravenous attacker eagerly awaiting its share in the meal. For one long, terrible moment, Himelon thought that his companion — his friend, he realised, reeling — would be slain.

And yet, inexplicably, Thonel's arm reached for the strange object hanging from his neck. His shaking arm took it and pointed it at the creature almost hanging from his leg — a second's pause — and then a sound echoed across the moor and rung in Himelon's ears — Thonel's hand jerked back — and the wolf went slack, dead. Its companion, sensing something awful in the previously innocuous object in the man's hand, took to the north again, crazed with fear.

Finally, Himelon was able to move. He stumbled over, panting with the sudden exertion of the fight, to find Thonel's face drained of all colour. A violently shaking hand put his weapon back into the leather holder around his neck. Suddenly, the man grabbed Himelon's arm, his eyes fighting against their urge to roll back into his head. The ellon steadied Thonel afore he could swoon away, collapsing onto the leg which was bleeding freely now, rivulets of red soaking his strange breeches and trickling to the ground. The wolf had ripped the cloth open. "Onto your horse, now," he said, fuzzily aware of the fact that his voice was hard and had taken on an unusually commanding tone. "Béti — help me carry him up. He will swoon if he endures any more pain —"

Once safely mounted again, they set off at a gallop southwest, far, far from the north. This was no race, now, save a race from the wolves that might have mauled Thonel to death. "Noro lim," murmured Himelon, in the way he had been taught. "Run swiftly."

They galloped, each horse at as fast a speed as they could muster, even as the sweat foamed from them, until Himelon noticed that Thonel was beginning to slip off his seat. They slowed to a stop, and Béti managed to catch the young man ere he collapsed upon the ground, insensate from the pain and loss of blood. Himelon put the horses to graze. Together, the conscious members of the small band peeled the ripped, blood-soaked cloth from Thonel's thigh and doused the wound with the remaining water in one of the skins they had brought.

All the while, the man groaned, for even in the swoon, he felt the effect of the wolf's maw. Beads of sweat formed on the face that was now a pale grey, and his eyes were half-closed.

"We ought to bind him tightly, if we have anything to bind him with."

"Did we bring bandages?"

"I doubt it; I was a numbskull not to. He may have my shirt." Himelon proceeded to shuck his tunic and the aforementioned article of clothing, and, the skin of his bare chest rising into gooseflesh, tore the linen into strips with an unpractised hand.

It was madness — sheer madness — the fact that he ought to inspect the man's wound and make judgment of it. He was no student of the arts physic, let alone a healer with a decent measure of skill. Yet Béti, as the Edain often did, saw him as Elven-wise, and left the healing in his hands. "I am not Elrond Halfelven," he warned his companion. "I have no knowledge of healing herbs. I know not more than the art of tying a bandage. You will not see miraculous results from me."

And frankly, the ellon quivered inside at the thought of managing such an injury. He could see the puncture marks from each of the wolf's canines, and the chunk of flesh that had been torn away as the attacker had fallen down dead; this would have been a challenge for one under Osgar's tutelage, let alone a blacksmith like Himelon.

Blood continued to ooze its way out of the puncture marks, and the exposed flesh sorely needed stitching. That, he knew. Yet he had no needle, and no thread, and could much less sew together raw flesh than he could darn hose, so that was hopeless.

How he managed to get the wound clean and bandaged he never knew. Béti's help had to be enlisted in order to lift the man's leg, in order to wind the thigh with linen. The result was satisfactory, and appeared as though someone with some measure of a physician's skill had dealt with it. Himelon could sit back upon his heels, pull on his tunic, and breathe a sigh of relief. Thonel had awoken from his fainting fit, and lay pale and sick, jaw clenched to suppress whimpers of pain.

"I suppose he ought not to move, and to drink much water, to replenish the blood in him."

"I shall fetch another skin for him."

So began the small ordeal of making the young man drink. The first few sips went down easily, but then he blanched, and claimed nausea. Then Himelon explained the need for much water, in order to replenish the blood, and Thonel forced down another five sips, before pushing the skin away again. They did not attempt anything after that.

Leaving Thonel to sleep, Béti and Himelon set about building a fire and setting up camp. Heather made decent dry fuel, for, being left untended, it was wont to grow woody stems which burned faster than wood, but slower than dry grass. In ten minutes, Béti had a sizeable blaze going that would last them for a few hours yet. The man's use of flint and steel had improved lately, and he caught a spark the first time more often than not.

The scent of heather, mildly distorted by burning, rose up Himelon's nostrils as he sat himself cross-legged before the fire. Béti did likewise. For a while, they were silent, for there was nothing to say — both were reeling yet from the sudden attack, and words could not find their way to their mouths.

"Forgive me." It slipped out before Himelon could check himself.

"For what?"

"I could have warned you before. We could have gotten away."

"They were running too fast, and there was no cover. I do not think you were at fault."

"Yet I could have warned you, and we could have gotten away. Forgive me. I fear I have cost you your friend."

"Nonsense!" Béti shifted uneasily. "He is young; he will heal yet."

"The wound needed stitches."

"If I am correct, you cannot sew."

"I ought to have brought a needle and thread, at least. I was such a fool," spat Himelon bitterly. "A complete and utter fool."

Béti's response was to rummage in his pack and produce a handful of nuts. "Let us have our midday meal. You will be less given to self-flagellation with food in your stomach."

"Self-flagellation. You speak my tongue well, Béti, to be able to accuse me of such a thing." But he took the handful of nuts anyway, and began to shell them one by one. Popping one of them into his mouth, he found the hazelnut stale and almost flavourless. Swallowing was almost painful. To add insult to injury, the fire was slowly burning out, and Himelon found that there was little water left in the skins they had brought from Imladris.

"I am sorry, Béti. You must have thought I knew what I was doing."

"Why do you apologise so?"

"I feel you owe an apology. You," Himelon said, twisting around to see if Thonel had awoken, "and Thonel. Both of you. I came along in a fit of hubris, believing I had something to offer. Some superior knowledge to impart. Of the lands around — of travelling in the wild — yes, of travelling, because my father so frequently joined the sons of Elrond and the Dúnedain in their endeavours. You must have thought I was Elven-wise, because I was an Elf; you must have trusted me because I have twice as many years as you —"

"Nonsense. I was glad to have you along for comradeship."

"Of course you were — but did you not expect me to know something?"

"A little, I must admit. I do not fault you for today, however. None of us foresaw the attack."

Himelon finished his nuts, little mollified by Béti's empty words. There was something gnawing at him that told him there was something wrong. Something he ought to have done better. He remembered his father, no doubt in the Wild again, slaying orcs and other foul creatures almost effortlessly. To him, they were no doubt a hindrance rather than something to dread. And here — hampered by wolves — Himelon felt as though he were a child again, brought back to earth after attempting something clearly beyond his ken.

"Are you thinking, Himelon?"

"Yes, Béti. Your words do little to comfort me."

"Then it is my turn to apologise." The man laughed gently. "I was never gifted with the ability to comfort others."

"We ought to do something of use, to while away the time, then. Will you search for water? There is little left."

"Certainly." Béti got to his feet, collected the water-skins, shouldered all three and left, whistling, to find a source of fresh water. Scanning the highlands with his keen eyes, Himelon could not see much in the way of streams or ponds.

His breath caught in his chest with a chill. If they found no water — if there was nothing — Glindir had told him that one could only survive without water for a week, at most. And that was for the Edhellim. Men were less hardy. Yet Béti would doubtlessly find some water, Himelon reassured himself, moving further from the fire to sit by Thonel. He would try and convince the young man to eat, Béti would return with water, and they would be able to move on within three days.

"Water. Please." Thonel had awoken, and was now thirsty. Little surprise, for he had lost much blood. The ellon upbraided himself for such neglect of his needs, remembering that Béti had gone with the waterskins.

Himelon assumed his brightest demeanour. "There is no water at present; Béti will return with it shortly. You must eat, however."

"My mouth is — dry. No eating." His voice was husky and grating, and his lips were cracked. Oh, when would Béti come back?

"Eating will help you regain your strength."

"I will eat — when there is water." Thonel closed his eyes and breathed deeply into his nostrils. A hard knot of muscle appeared in his jaw: he was biting back a whine of pain.

"There will be water soon." It seemed as though hours were passing while Béti was gone. Perhaps the man had gotten lost on his way. Perhaps another band of wolves had appeared and mauled him to death. And he had not watched to see where the man was headed. Himelon buried his head in his hands, revelling in the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears, which drowned out Thonel's ill-disguised groans. Béti would never come back. And it was only he and Thonel, waiting for the latter to die.

Himelon's morose reflections were interrupted by the sound of a hunting-call behind him. To his relief, he spied a figure of small stature wandering about, yelling the awful refrain. "I am here!" he cried, waving his arms in a most undignified manner. "Did you find water?"

The figure jogged towards the camp, three water-skins in hand. "There was a rill over to the south. The water was slow-moving, but it was clean."

"Good! I suppose we ought to clean Thonel's wound a little."

First, however, Thonel was given as much as he wished to drink. Having coerced him to choke down a few hazelnuts, with plenty of insistence about recovering his strength, Himelon set to untying the blood-choked strips of linen about Thonel's thigh. Thankfully, most of the blood was dry, and the wound oozed less. Béti, looking on, pointed out a few red lines emanating from the puncture marks (which had stopped bleeding), which Himelon dismissed. He was sure that most puncture wounds appeared so; the wolf's canines had not been kind.

After all — Himelon knew nothing. He was no healer.

Author's Note:

Osgar - Amputator

droeg - wolves

I have quite surprised myself with this deluge of words. Well, folks, have another chapter early! Merry (late) Christmas!

Cheero,
A.B.C.