WARNING: Again, some unsavoury details. If squeamish, take care and read near toilet if necessary. Reading after eating not recommended.

It had been three days. Three days of shoddy doctoring. Three days of waiting. Davies shook his head, and wondered why he had hoped Ernest would heal so quickly.

The lad was fevered, now. Davies' suspicion of the red lines on Ernest's leg had been confirmed when, upon awakening the next morning, he had been met with complaints of fatigue and unabating pain in the leg. He had unwrapped the bandages, and, to the sinking of his stomach, found that the entire area around the puncture wounds was inflamed. He had seen this before, and he knew that Imladris was more than a few days' ride away. The wound was infected.

The next day, Ernest's fever had climbed higher and higher, and Davies and Himelon had been powerless; none of them had any knowledge of herbs beneficial to such a condition, and none of them knew how to alleviate it.

It must have been germs on the wolf's teeth, he had decided, or something of that sort. Even if he knew what had caused the infection, Davies could not have cured it. He would not think of it. He would not even dare to fall into that funk and admit for even a single moment that Ernest would —

No. He smoothed the young man's hair back from his forehead and tilted his head back, Himelon pouring a dram of water into his open mouth. Ernest was now barely conscious, stuck in a muddy, feverish delirium, and could not be incited to drink any other way. The two men would often stare at one another, helpless, as he choked and rejected most of the liquid that spilled down his chin in a waterfall, though they knew it worked towards his own good. It was almost as though they were torturing him.

"Ernest. Ernest. Can you hear me?" Davies dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve, patting the insensate man's cheek. "Do you understand me? Lieutenant Thornhill, sir. Can you hear me? Thonel — Ernest — sir —"

Ernest moaned, eyelashes fluttering, but did not give any other sign. The young man had begun to live half-dreaming, crying out names of people that were not there. Now, as Davies held his hand to gauge how hot he was, the back of his hand on Ernest's brow, he sighed, and, with a queer catch in his voice, mumbled, "O, mother — you needn't worry about me —"

"Himelon —"

"Yes, Béti? Does he need more water?"

"Thonel is seeing — people — again."

"Alas, is his fever so high? I ought to bring more water nevertheless. Here —" Himelon passed him the skin, in which Davies promptly soaked a rag and bathed Ernest's face. His cheeks were uncomfortably flushed, the rest of him paler than he had been after three sleepless nights in a row. "Béti, let me nurse him awhile. You look harried."

"I am not. You took the watch last night; lie down and rest awhile."

"You forget that we of the edhellen are able to rest our minds as we walk. Let me, Béti."

A small, tight string inside Davies snapped, and he felt his face burn. "I understand him better than you ever will. I speak his mothertongue. It is better for him."

"Oh, Béti." Himelon's face crumpled for a moment, and he leaned the side of his head into his hand. "You are weary of this. Here, you take the water-skin and fill it again — you know the way to the stream, and I do not."

"Thonel needs me here."

"He does not know who sits by his side. Please." With an imploring look, Himelon pressed the bottle of leather into Davies' hands, pushing him imperceptibly down the hill. "Thank you."

The trek to the stream was a confusing one, but one that had been made so often those past three days that Davies declared could have walked it in his sleep. There were no twists and turns, but there was also no path, and the featureless moor meant that every hill passed by was almost the same as the last. On the second day after the attack by the wolves, Davies had cut an impromptu path into the heather with his dagger — blunting the weapon quite severely — which helped him to remember the direction of the stream.

He was still not immune to the feeling of wild lonesomeness that pervaded him whenever he walked that path, the patches of heather extending almost forever to his right, to his left, before and after him; the sky that arched in its unchanging grey above him; and the thick silence which was unbroken save for his quiet breathing and the dull thump of his footsteps. It was then when Davies was inclined to think. And Davies did not want to think at all at this point. For if he thought, then he would sink into an illicit despair that it was inefficient to feel at this moment.

So here he was, kneeling by the rill on mud that stained the knees of his hose, letting the current flow into the brown waterskin, the leather strap nearly carried away by the water that flowed faster than its size seemed to allow. Perhaps we ought to bathe, thought Davies. But we can't leave him alone. And I can't defend myself naked. Corking the bottle, he made his way back, whistling to fill the silence. It was 'Nellie Dean'; the man could not muster up anything remotely cheerful at this moment in time.

Slowly, it began to rain, beginning as the odd droplet on Davies' head. The drizzle swiftly evolved into something resembling a mild downpour, until he was obliged to pull up the hood of his cloak. If Davies were to be honest, the storm had been too long in the coming, for the weather had been inordinately kind to them as of late.

He found Himelon sitting with his knees drawn up and hugged in his arms, his head resting upon them in an uncharacteristically childish pose. He was singing softly to himself a song which Davies did not know. His silver hair had been let loose, and fanned about his head, tangled, damp and disorderly; the ellon did not notice Davies as he approached. "I — I filled the water-skin, Himelon," murmured the man, unwilling to disturb what seemed to him a somehow private moment. Although he had not been under any sort of strict military protocol for a good many months now, times such as this continued to pervade him with discomfiture.

Himelon's head jerked up, and when he spoke, his voice was similarly soft. "Have you? Thank you, Béti. Yes, you may sit with Thonel now. I was just thinking —"

"What were you thinking?"

"I have forgotten now," sighed Himelon, and arranged himself into a more dignified position. "They were melancholy thoughts. I doubt you would have wanted to hear them — you are plagued with similar reflections yourself."

"How did you guess." Davies laughed humourlessly.

"I know."

Ernest's voice came thin into the air, keening in some sort of discomfort. Davies shot to his side, lifting up his head and attempting to pour a few drops of water down his throat. At least those drops slid down as easily as they could possibly slide — perhaps, if he took enough water, he would be able to relieve himself. Davies noted, with a grimace, that he hadn't urinated, or expressed the urge to, since the night before. It must have been how little water he had taken.

For good measure, he poured another splash down Ernest's throat. This he coughed up, closing his eyes and breathing fast, shallow breaths in between each hacking convulsion. "No — no more water," he managed, before plunging back into confusion.

"He is very ill, Himelon."

"You think I do not know? While you were gone, he was having chills. It is not so cold, is it, Béti?"

"Yes — but — chills often accompany fever — perhaps he is only —"

"We must change his bandages. They are becoming putrid." Himelon began to unknot the swathes of linen around Ernest's thigh, wet through with blood-streaked pus. The leg was grossly swollen, red and inflamed, the wounds knitting but not fully healed. The puncture wounds leaked a semi-clear liquid, which gave off a sickly sweet odour that choked Davies' throat — he saw that Himelon's face blanched almost pale green, and the ellon swallowed visibly against rising gorge. "I beg you — take these —" he shook the bandages "— to the stream and wash them. Thoroughly."

Davies could not help but agree. He made another trip to the stream, the rain soaking through his hood and his hose, dampening his cloak, and threatening to wet the putrid bandages which he had kept sequestered under his cloak to shield them from such a danger. The smell of them would infuse the wool of his tunic, staying there until there was a possibility of washing it.

Thankfully, the bandages remained dry — as dry as they could be, soaked in pus and blood — and Davies knelt down at the water once again to strip them of their cruor. It proved remarkably stubborn, as did the smell; he gagged once or twice, hoping that his hands were not cut. The bandages were a sorry, frayed tangle of linen once he was finished with them: grayish strings that, once wrung dry, seemed as though they were no longer fit for their occupation. What would Davies have given for the solid pack of field dressing sewn into his old Army tunic!

He did not return immediately this time. Let the rain drown me, he thought in a fit of petulance. I'm done with this bloody affair. Allowing himself a moment of self-indulgence, he sat with his head in his hands, hearing nothing but the rain and the pounding of his heart and his breathing, willing himself away from what seemed impossible to dig himself out of. The child in him almost wanted to weep: Ernest was dying, it was raining — he and Himelon were alone in this wilderness, beyond help —

But Davies was not a child, and he raised his head — wearily — got to his feet, and wound his way back, clutching the dripping bandages in his right hand. His hood was already more than damp, his beard already catching the water dripping from its rim. Clearly, the rain would not be stopping for a while. Just like England. Just like France. Damn it all, why?

Himelon barely greeted him upon return. The ellon seemed too busy fussing over Ernest to even notice Davies, standing there with his sad, limp handful of linen. "Ai Himelon! I am here —"

"Give me the bandages."

"I fear they will not be of much use anymore."

"It matters not. I cannot have his — his foulness dripping onto the grass."

"Foulness?"

"Yes, Béti, it is foul! The wound drips with it; redness has spread up his leg — and I —" He stopped, and sighed. "I am being unjust. Forgive me."

"I understand. It is hard to care for a wound when you know nothing of it."

Himelon wound the bandages about Ernest's thigh, taking great care not to touch even a particle of his skin with his hands. In response, the young man's eyes fluttered open, and he became briefly aware. "B — Bertie —?" Ernest coughed, licked his lips, and tried again. His voice was terribly hoarse. "Where — where —" a painful swallow "Where am I?"

"I don't know myself."

"And — what's wrong — with —" The effort was too much, and Ernest fainted — or fell back asleep.

Davies heaved a sigh, and looked about him. "There's life left in him yet, Himelon. For that I am glad. Perhaps — perhaps he may even heal."

"That I hope too, Béti."

"But he will not heal. I know that. I have seen many men in the same predicament die, and die swiftly at that."

"No, no. Do not say it. He will heal, Béti — against all odds."

"You do not fool me with your —" Davies, unable to express it, turned to English. "— with your bloody optimism."

Now, it was Himelon's turn to sigh. "It expends my strength to hope such a thing. Mayhap Glorfindel or Demmedir would be able to muster cheer in my stead."

"Who was Demmedir again?"

"My master — do you not recall? He tasked me always with the making of daggers and hunting-knives, trusting me not to begin forging swords, or to try my hand at finer metalwork. Ever cheerful, but little faith in me. Gracious, that seems a time ago! It is strange, is it not? how times like this appear so far removed from times of merry-making and gaiety!"

"You were wont to grumble to me about Demmedir."

"Was I?"

"Yes. It grew quite insufferable at times, I must say."

"I thought I knew more than I did. I was impatient. Just as I was, coming here with you. I am not good enough, Béti, forgive me — you ought to have asked another to accompany you, somebody more skilled than I — more humble than I —" Himelon stared at his hands, twisting them and fiddling with his nails. "I do not deserve you. You have been too good to me, Béti."

"Stop this nonsense at once. I do not want you believing this."

"Can you not see, how useless I am? I have served no purpose — none at all — and have not since we departed. I had no reason for this journey, not as you and Thonel have — what am I doing here? Why do you let me stay? I'm — I'm — I —"

"What you are saying is nonsense." Davies averted his eyes, for Himelon's voice had climbed an octave throughout the self-admonishment, and he was quite sure that the ellon had burst into tears. "You ought not to say this. You are tired, and Thonel's illness upsets you. Your mind is telling you tales."

"I am sorry. It — it was selfish of me. Why do you not tell me to leave?"

"I shall in a moment, if you do not stop your sniveling." He regretted the words as soon as they escaped his mouth. The sharp reprimand had, however, pulled Himelon back into good sense: he raised his head, and — against all odds — smiled. Davies noted with grim satisfaction that the ellon's face was wet.

"Thank you." Himelon exhaled heavily and made to get up, though Davies did not know why — Ernest was sleeping, and there was nothing left to do. He supposed that it was time for a meal. Yet he did not want one: though he felt as if his stomach had eaten a hole in his insides (he hadn't eaten in a long while), and though the world had begun to fade out a little every time he raised his head, Davies found that his appetite had completely disappeared. But why this was he couldn't fathom; had he not endured much worse than this in terms of seeing others' injury?

However, when Davies got up also, black spots popped before his eyes and the man was obliged to sit down again, his heart pounding. It was only then when pragmatism ruled, and he crawled over to a pack to ingest a handful of nuts. The ensuing nausea would die down after a while.

"Béti." Davies felt himself being shaken from the doze he had unwittingly fallen into. Shame on me, sleeping on the job like that.

"Yes?"

"Thonel is worse."

"What?" Struggling to his feet, Davies came over to Himelon's perch by Ernest's prone form. True to the ellon's statement, the young man was indeed worse off: he was breathing very fast — struggling for breath — and Davies noted with dismay that the leg was blackening. Ernest was no longer conscious — no longer crying out — and he lay limp, face shiny with sweat. "Himelon. Is there anything else we can do."

"I hate to say no."

A cold chill froze Davies as he knelt. "Then there is nothing. Nothing at all."

"We must wait then, until he finally —"

"I cannot say it." Davies turned away with a ferocity that surprised himself, eyes burning. "Oh, God."

But evening came instead of tears, and what was left of the old sergeant in him kept him upright, wiping Ernest's brow and watching him as he failed. Stubbornly, the two of them continued to minister to the unconscious man — though he seemed more of a boy, in this state — despite knowing that none of it was any use. It became too much for Davies after a while, and, weary, he trudged to the stream and stared with heavy head at the greenish water.

He did not know how long he sat there, the sun setting and leaving things cool and grey. The sudden drop in temperature made him shiver. At that moment, the man felt as though he could have sat there for years; he was too tired to get up, and too agitated to sleep. A less perturbed state would have given rise to self-chastisement — after all, he was leaving Himelon to manage Ernest alone. Nevertheless, no sensible reason would coerce him from his seat by the water: as much as he hated to admit it, all Davies wanted to do was to forget.

And he did — almost.

The man, bowed and silent, felt the weight of a hand upon his shoulder. Instinct caused him to startle, and he threw it off, making to crawl across the stream, or hide in the gorse. But the hand stopped him, grasping his and squeezing it, forcing Davies to look up. It was Himelon. A thought flashed through him, quickly arrested by reason though it was. Ernest's—

Of course. He had been gone for a long, long while. Himelon would have come to look for him — to make sure he was safe —

After all, it would not do to have two men down.

"You must come back now," said the ellon's voice, its musicality comforting Davies, its sorrow bringing a dread that was all too suddenly familiar.

"Forgive me. For my weakness. I ought not to have —"

"Did you not lecture me on self-flagellation just a few hours prior?" Himelon's voice had no trace of amusement within it.

"Yes. Yes, I did. I am sorry. Is there any change —?"

"—in Thonel?"

Davies nodded. The dread continued to loom until the words would not have been able to find their way to his mouth in English, let alone in Edhellen.

"That — that is why I came —" He swallowed audibly, and stifled a jerking breath. "At last. He —"

"You cannot say it, can you?" The question came sharply, like an accusation. Davies clamped his mouth shut and gave himself an inward slap.

"No, I cannot. But we may move on, at last. We — are no longer hampered —"

"I will come back with you."

"It is so selfish — I am ashamed of myself —"

"It is the truth." He exhaled at last, and wondered why he did not cry. "Do we have the tools necessary to bury him?"

"I doubt it. I am sure our knives will manage; the ground is yet soft with rain."

"Good. Good, good." Why do we speak so carelessly about burying Ernest?

It was properly night now, and the clouds had cleared for a starry night. Each little pinpoint of light twinkled in its proper place so decorously that Davies almost wished that the sky would crumble, destroying the earth and everything in it. Have some bloody respect. Ernest's—

As they grew nearer to the hill, Davies realised that he would want some privacy. Who knew what he would do when he saw the body? Friend though Himelon was, he did not want the man to witness some embarrassing outburst, or anything like that. He walked faster, wrapping his cloak about him as tightly as it would go. The first time he was going to see it? He would do it alone. Alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Himelon noticed as Béti sped up, and made no move to follow. Yes, he would see Thonel alone.

Author's Note:

Yes, it's been a long while. Sorry. Unfortunately, life's been getting very busy. So busy, in fact, that It's a Long, Long Way will be henceforth on hiatus until the summer, once all the academic drudgery is done and over with. So, until next time —

Cheero.

A.B.C.