To everyone who has posted reviews, thank you very much! It is the bread
of life for me :). Thanks to Raider for the correction on weekly vs.
weakly ;) BTW I typically post chapters on Thursday or Friday afternoons.
~Nebride
****
The horse unmade gently as its hooves touched the snow covered rocks. Alede tightened her grip on the Elf's waist as soon as her feet touched the ground, preventing him from stumbling forward. Then ducking under his arm, she took his weight on her shoulder.
His breath hissed through his teeth as his ribs came in contact with her side and she remembered seeing a horrid purple bruise on his chest.
"I'm sorry," she said, glancing up at him in concern. His eyes were closed and his face was drawn with pain and exhaustion. His skin was deathly pale beneath the gray scum of the necromancer's powder. She was aware of cold wind tossing the corners of her cloak around his bare feet. They'd flown into an early autumn snowstorm as they'd gone northward and snow was falling here at her home. "We need to get inside, before you freeze," she said, gently pulling him.
He took a few limping steps forward. Alede pushed open the heavy door of the old tower house and breathed a sigh once they had stepped into the dark interior. It was cold, but at least they were out of the wind. She kicked the door shut behind her and commanded her staff to give them a light. There were no windows on the ground floor of the tower house. Its solid stone walls rose twenty feet to the arched stone ceiling. Around the inside of the wall, a staircase circled up to a tiny trap door.
Alede paused, and felt the Elf stagger against her. In truth he was lighter than a man of the same height would have been. So she was able to bear his weight, though not easily. Squinting in the gloom she looked across at the immense oven. She always laid a fire in the vast hearth before leaving her home. But occasionally her father overnighted here and he usually forgot that necessity.
Seeing logs in the cavernous oven, she pointed her staff at it and shouted, "Conflagrea!" The wood burst into flame, providing ample light in the circular room.
She tightened her grip on the Elf more securely and headed toward the steps. "Do you think you can manage more stairs?"
His head came up and his impossibly dark eyes opened. He glanced up at the many steps and shuddered.
"If I must," he answered her. Alede was struck by the soft velvet tones of his voice. He bowed his head again and closed his eyes.
"The upper room is warmer," she explained as they slowly limped up the stairs. She pressed him as close to the wall as she could, since the stone steps had no rail. "There's a bed and a fireplace and windows. I'll need as much light as possible to tend your wounds."
He did not answer and she concentrated on getting him safely up the winding stairs. She heaved the trap door open and they came out into the upper tower room. It was brightly lit with snow falling heavily about the two windows. That fireplace was laid too and another command from her staff brought it roaring to life.
Alede deposited the Elf in a chair near the fire and then ran to the cupboard. A spell kept away the dust and damp, so the two wool blankets she pulled out still smelled sweetly of summer. Mice too, could not enter the tower house, so she knew her stores of grain, fruits and dried meat in the kitchen would still be good.
She tossed the older of the blankets over the bedcovering. Her work with the Elf's wounds would likely be messy and she still had to wash the necromancer's powder from him.
Helping him out of the chair, she gently took him over to the bed. He sank onto it with a painful sigh. As Alede tucked both her cloak and the other blanket around him, he opened his eyes again.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"My name is Alede. I am both a wizardess and a healer." She straighten up. "I live here in the winter, but no one knows of this place. You are safe and I will cause you no harm."
He nodded, "I know that. I saw it in your eyes when you leaned over me in the dungeon. You have a kind soul."
Startled, Alede hesitated, but the Elf had closed his eyes again. She turned back toward the trap door. "I must gather more wood and bring up some water. Rest and I'll be back in a moment."
Alede bolted swiftly down the steps. She went to the well in the center of the floor first and drew up two buckets of water, pouring them into iron kettles. The first she placed on the crane in the oven, the second she dragged back up the stairs and placed in the fireplace there. Dipping out a cup of water, she took it to the Elf and gently lifted his head. He drank all that she gave him.
Once down stairs again, she brought more wood in from outside, remembering at the last moment to gather her ragwort lashings and bring them in to dry on the trestle table.
After she had enough wood, she bolted the heavy bars across the massive door. No one would be disturbing them. Not even Sildair could get in, even if he could find them.
She hurried around while the water came to a boil and placed bricks in the fireplace. Once heated, she would wrap the bricks in cloth and put them into the bed with him. Opening one of the cabinets she pulled out her ointment, a cake of soap and her father's strongest whiskey. Bundling all the ingredients together she made her way back up the steps, a basket in one hand and the hot kettle in the other.
The Elf turned his head toward her as she dragged the chair to the side of the bed.
"Your friend Gimli told me your name, but I have forgotten," she said as she poured the hot water into a bowl.
"Legolas," he whispered. "Is Gimli..."
"He is well. He will wait for you at Helm's Deep. I'll take you there once you have healed."
"I was afraid for him…" His voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it still sent a thrill through her. It had been too long since she had spent time with the Elves, and none so young and appealing as this one.
"I chanced upon Gimli in Fanghorn. His only concern was finding you." Carefully wrapping up two of the bricks, she placed one at his feet and the other on the far side of his chest.
"Thank you," he said and a shiver passed through his lithe frame. "I thought never to feel warmth again."
"I'll replace them as they cool," she promised. "But now I must tend your wounds. I am most worried about the bruise on your chest. What did they do?"
"A mallet," he whispered. "I would not give Sildair the information that he wanted, so they beat me with a mallet."
Alede winched and pressed her hands to her mouth for a moment, wishing she had not asked. But she knew that hiding from the hideous truth would not help.
"What information did he want?" she asked, pushing aside the blankets on his chest. "I thought his only purpose was to turn you into…" She left it unsaid. There was something blasphemous about talking to an Elf about Orcs.
"He wanted to know about the Dark Lord's Ring."
Alede paused in her gentle probing of the bruise. Had the book contained instructions on how to forge a ring of power? Just how evil had Sildair become? "I should have killed him," she whispered furiously.
Legolas opened his eyes, surprised at her angry tone, but they soon slipped shut again. Alede returned her attention to the wound. She would ask questions later, when he was stronger.
And Sildair… she would deal with him later also.
While the bruise obviously gave Legolas great pain, it was not as serious as she had feared. The bones were cracked, but not broken through. There was no danger to his lungs.
The wounds on his legs received her attention next. Three wounds were from arrows and she guessed that they had been used to subdue their prisoner. One still had the arrow embedded in it, the shaft broken off at the skin. The head was buried deep inside his thigh. The wounds had festered but there were no signs of the blood poisoning that she often saw with such wounds. Though she tried to be as gentle as possible, Legolas was gripping the bedclothes in agony by the time she got the arrow out.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she said, nearly sobbing with guilt as she wiped the sweat from him face.
His eyes were closed tightly, but he nodded to her and his hand sought hers. She clasped it tightly and stroked his forehead until he relaxed a little.
"I need to wash your wounds," she said shakily. "And some of them need to be sewn closed. I'm sorry to cause you pain…"
He released her hand and nodded again. "Continue."
She gave him another drink of water before washing his wounds with a solution of hot water and whiskey. His fingers griped the loose fabric of her tunic as she worked, but he did not restrain her. She packed the wounds with ointment and the smell of marigold and yarrow filled the room, momentarily blocking out the unpleasant smell of necromancer's powder.
He passed out as she began to stitch the wounds on his leg closed.
His unconsciousness was almost a blessing as she moved on to the other injuries. None were as severe but there were so many and of such variety that it made her sick to think what they had done to him. She started at his face and washed the necromancer's powder from his fair features. His skin was raw and painful looking, but it would heal. She treated the burns and blisters the powder had caused around his finely shaped mouth.
Methodically, she worked her way down his body, washing his skin and treating the wounds and burns as she came to them.
She had just gently rolled him onto his side when she discovered the long wheals of a whip on his back. Gasping, her eyes followed the trial of blood and torn skin. His back was well shaped and strongly muscled and to see it ravaged so brought tears to her eyes. The thrashing would have been done to break his spirit. Humiliation was as much a part of their torment as the pain was. And to humiliate someone of such a proud race…
Resolutely, she set her jaw and bathed and tended the wounds while tears leaked down her cheeks. Burning had been too good for those Orks. She should have buried them alive. And as for Saldair…
By the time Alede had pulled heavy woolen socks onto his feet, buttoned him into one of her father's long nightshirts and tucked him into the bed, she was exhausted and sick. The stench of the necromancer's powder had been worse as she'd washed it off. But mostly she was sick from the cruelty he had endured.
Stiffly, she gathered up her bowl of water and walked to the opposite side of the room. A narrow door fit snuggly in the wall. She opened the heavy door into the old-fashioned guard robe. The tiny chamber was extremely cold, but a high window lit it well enough. Wind whistled beneath the lid of the wooden seat. She lifted it and poured the bowl into the hole, watching absently as it fell far down the cliff face. Shivering, she left and pushed the heavy door shut again. It was too cold to get sick in there. She'd have to fight off her nausea.
She made a strong cup of tea and trickled some of it between Legolas' lips. The rest she drank herself. Then she cleaned up the blood soaked rags and built up the fires again. She replaced the warming bricks and rummaged for fruit in the cupboard. Settling once again in the chair beside the bed, she chewed the sweet dried apples and watched over the still form of the Elf.
By midnight Legolas had gone into a fever. Alede was not surprised considering the extent of his wounds but its intensity frightened her. She gave him draught after draught of willow bark, but nothing would bring the fever down. Occasionally he thrashed the bed and even tore one of his wounds open again. Then he would lie so ridged she had to press her head to his chest just to see if his heart still beat.
When dawn finally shown in through the eastern window, Alede was shaking with exhaustion. Her hands were raw from wringing out the cold cloths she'd applied to his face and her eyes ached from hours of squinting in the smoky lantern light. She straightened up slowly from the chair. Hauling firewood up the stairs repeatedly had not done her back any good, but she had used up her jar of ointment during the night.
Stumbling down the steps, she added more wood to the oven fire and pulled the tiny caldron that she'd set to boil out of the flames. The dried meat had produced a passable broth which she poured into a cup, gathered up another jar of ointment and dragged her weary feet back up the stairs.
Setting her things down beside the bed, she felt Legolas's forehead automatically. It was a moment before she realized that it was cool.
Too cool. After the burning fever of the night before, this was alarming.
"Legolas?" She felt his chest and then laid her head on it. He still breathed, but his skin was cold to the touch. Hastily she brought bricks from the fire and placed them beside him and then carefully trickled the hot broth between his lips.
For two days and two nights he did not move and his skin was cold as frost. Alede did not sleep for fear he would die if she closed her eyes. Several times as she gazed at his pale face she thought he had died. But then she'd press her ear to his chest and hear the faint beating of his heart. She kept the fire roaring and chaffed his limbs, piling as many blankets on the bed as she could, but he still remained cold and unmoving.
Finally, in the darkest part of the night, Alede knew she could do no more. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she held Legolas' hand in hers.
"I don't know what else to do," she sobbed. Fatigue had robbed her of all hope. Over and over thoughts of the black book had entered her mind. If she'd only kept it, there might have been a cure for what ever ailed him. Though in truth she did not know if he was afflicted with a spell or merely some evil sickness caused by Sildair.
Her fingertips touched his brow, slipped down the side of his face and traced the outline of his mouth. The burns had healed. Even the awful wounds on his legs were beginning to heal. But his eyes remained shut and his face was still as stone. He looked more like a statue than a living being.
"I'm so sorry. I've failed you after all," she whispered, tears trickling down her face. He was so beautiful; her heart would break if he died. Knowing that she was completely spent, Alede tossed her outer garments to the floor and crawled into the bed beside him. Wrapping her arms and legs over his cold body she fell into an exhausted sleep.
~Nebride
****
The horse unmade gently as its hooves touched the snow covered rocks. Alede tightened her grip on the Elf's waist as soon as her feet touched the ground, preventing him from stumbling forward. Then ducking under his arm, she took his weight on her shoulder.
His breath hissed through his teeth as his ribs came in contact with her side and she remembered seeing a horrid purple bruise on his chest.
"I'm sorry," she said, glancing up at him in concern. His eyes were closed and his face was drawn with pain and exhaustion. His skin was deathly pale beneath the gray scum of the necromancer's powder. She was aware of cold wind tossing the corners of her cloak around his bare feet. They'd flown into an early autumn snowstorm as they'd gone northward and snow was falling here at her home. "We need to get inside, before you freeze," she said, gently pulling him.
He took a few limping steps forward. Alede pushed open the heavy door of the old tower house and breathed a sigh once they had stepped into the dark interior. It was cold, but at least they were out of the wind. She kicked the door shut behind her and commanded her staff to give them a light. There were no windows on the ground floor of the tower house. Its solid stone walls rose twenty feet to the arched stone ceiling. Around the inside of the wall, a staircase circled up to a tiny trap door.
Alede paused, and felt the Elf stagger against her. In truth he was lighter than a man of the same height would have been. So she was able to bear his weight, though not easily. Squinting in the gloom she looked across at the immense oven. She always laid a fire in the vast hearth before leaving her home. But occasionally her father overnighted here and he usually forgot that necessity.
Seeing logs in the cavernous oven, she pointed her staff at it and shouted, "Conflagrea!" The wood burst into flame, providing ample light in the circular room.
She tightened her grip on the Elf more securely and headed toward the steps. "Do you think you can manage more stairs?"
His head came up and his impossibly dark eyes opened. He glanced up at the many steps and shuddered.
"If I must," he answered her. Alede was struck by the soft velvet tones of his voice. He bowed his head again and closed his eyes.
"The upper room is warmer," she explained as they slowly limped up the stairs. She pressed him as close to the wall as she could, since the stone steps had no rail. "There's a bed and a fireplace and windows. I'll need as much light as possible to tend your wounds."
He did not answer and she concentrated on getting him safely up the winding stairs. She heaved the trap door open and they came out into the upper tower room. It was brightly lit with snow falling heavily about the two windows. That fireplace was laid too and another command from her staff brought it roaring to life.
Alede deposited the Elf in a chair near the fire and then ran to the cupboard. A spell kept away the dust and damp, so the two wool blankets she pulled out still smelled sweetly of summer. Mice too, could not enter the tower house, so she knew her stores of grain, fruits and dried meat in the kitchen would still be good.
She tossed the older of the blankets over the bedcovering. Her work with the Elf's wounds would likely be messy and she still had to wash the necromancer's powder from him.
Helping him out of the chair, she gently took him over to the bed. He sank onto it with a painful sigh. As Alede tucked both her cloak and the other blanket around him, he opened his eyes again.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"My name is Alede. I am both a wizardess and a healer." She straighten up. "I live here in the winter, but no one knows of this place. You are safe and I will cause you no harm."
He nodded, "I know that. I saw it in your eyes when you leaned over me in the dungeon. You have a kind soul."
Startled, Alede hesitated, but the Elf had closed his eyes again. She turned back toward the trap door. "I must gather more wood and bring up some water. Rest and I'll be back in a moment."
Alede bolted swiftly down the steps. She went to the well in the center of the floor first and drew up two buckets of water, pouring them into iron kettles. The first she placed on the crane in the oven, the second she dragged back up the stairs and placed in the fireplace there. Dipping out a cup of water, she took it to the Elf and gently lifted his head. He drank all that she gave him.
Once down stairs again, she brought more wood in from outside, remembering at the last moment to gather her ragwort lashings and bring them in to dry on the trestle table.
After she had enough wood, she bolted the heavy bars across the massive door. No one would be disturbing them. Not even Sildair could get in, even if he could find them.
She hurried around while the water came to a boil and placed bricks in the fireplace. Once heated, she would wrap the bricks in cloth and put them into the bed with him. Opening one of the cabinets she pulled out her ointment, a cake of soap and her father's strongest whiskey. Bundling all the ingredients together she made her way back up the steps, a basket in one hand and the hot kettle in the other.
The Elf turned his head toward her as she dragged the chair to the side of the bed.
"Your friend Gimli told me your name, but I have forgotten," she said as she poured the hot water into a bowl.
"Legolas," he whispered. "Is Gimli..."
"He is well. He will wait for you at Helm's Deep. I'll take you there once you have healed."
"I was afraid for him…" His voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it still sent a thrill through her. It had been too long since she had spent time with the Elves, and none so young and appealing as this one.
"I chanced upon Gimli in Fanghorn. His only concern was finding you." Carefully wrapping up two of the bricks, she placed one at his feet and the other on the far side of his chest.
"Thank you," he said and a shiver passed through his lithe frame. "I thought never to feel warmth again."
"I'll replace them as they cool," she promised. "But now I must tend your wounds. I am most worried about the bruise on your chest. What did they do?"
"A mallet," he whispered. "I would not give Sildair the information that he wanted, so they beat me with a mallet."
Alede winched and pressed her hands to her mouth for a moment, wishing she had not asked. But she knew that hiding from the hideous truth would not help.
"What information did he want?" she asked, pushing aside the blankets on his chest. "I thought his only purpose was to turn you into…" She left it unsaid. There was something blasphemous about talking to an Elf about Orcs.
"He wanted to know about the Dark Lord's Ring."
Alede paused in her gentle probing of the bruise. Had the book contained instructions on how to forge a ring of power? Just how evil had Sildair become? "I should have killed him," she whispered furiously.
Legolas opened his eyes, surprised at her angry tone, but they soon slipped shut again. Alede returned her attention to the wound. She would ask questions later, when he was stronger.
And Sildair… she would deal with him later also.
While the bruise obviously gave Legolas great pain, it was not as serious as she had feared. The bones were cracked, but not broken through. There was no danger to his lungs.
The wounds on his legs received her attention next. Three wounds were from arrows and she guessed that they had been used to subdue their prisoner. One still had the arrow embedded in it, the shaft broken off at the skin. The head was buried deep inside his thigh. The wounds had festered but there were no signs of the blood poisoning that she often saw with such wounds. Though she tried to be as gentle as possible, Legolas was gripping the bedclothes in agony by the time she got the arrow out.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she said, nearly sobbing with guilt as she wiped the sweat from him face.
His eyes were closed tightly, but he nodded to her and his hand sought hers. She clasped it tightly and stroked his forehead until he relaxed a little.
"I need to wash your wounds," she said shakily. "And some of them need to be sewn closed. I'm sorry to cause you pain…"
He released her hand and nodded again. "Continue."
She gave him another drink of water before washing his wounds with a solution of hot water and whiskey. His fingers griped the loose fabric of her tunic as she worked, but he did not restrain her. She packed the wounds with ointment and the smell of marigold and yarrow filled the room, momentarily blocking out the unpleasant smell of necromancer's powder.
He passed out as she began to stitch the wounds on his leg closed.
His unconsciousness was almost a blessing as she moved on to the other injuries. None were as severe but there were so many and of such variety that it made her sick to think what they had done to him. She started at his face and washed the necromancer's powder from his fair features. His skin was raw and painful looking, but it would heal. She treated the burns and blisters the powder had caused around his finely shaped mouth.
Methodically, she worked her way down his body, washing his skin and treating the wounds and burns as she came to them.
She had just gently rolled him onto his side when she discovered the long wheals of a whip on his back. Gasping, her eyes followed the trial of blood and torn skin. His back was well shaped and strongly muscled and to see it ravaged so brought tears to her eyes. The thrashing would have been done to break his spirit. Humiliation was as much a part of their torment as the pain was. And to humiliate someone of such a proud race…
Resolutely, she set her jaw and bathed and tended the wounds while tears leaked down her cheeks. Burning had been too good for those Orks. She should have buried them alive. And as for Saldair…
By the time Alede had pulled heavy woolen socks onto his feet, buttoned him into one of her father's long nightshirts and tucked him into the bed, she was exhausted and sick. The stench of the necromancer's powder had been worse as she'd washed it off. But mostly she was sick from the cruelty he had endured.
Stiffly, she gathered up her bowl of water and walked to the opposite side of the room. A narrow door fit snuggly in the wall. She opened the heavy door into the old-fashioned guard robe. The tiny chamber was extremely cold, but a high window lit it well enough. Wind whistled beneath the lid of the wooden seat. She lifted it and poured the bowl into the hole, watching absently as it fell far down the cliff face. Shivering, she left and pushed the heavy door shut again. It was too cold to get sick in there. She'd have to fight off her nausea.
She made a strong cup of tea and trickled some of it between Legolas' lips. The rest she drank herself. Then she cleaned up the blood soaked rags and built up the fires again. She replaced the warming bricks and rummaged for fruit in the cupboard. Settling once again in the chair beside the bed, she chewed the sweet dried apples and watched over the still form of the Elf.
By midnight Legolas had gone into a fever. Alede was not surprised considering the extent of his wounds but its intensity frightened her. She gave him draught after draught of willow bark, but nothing would bring the fever down. Occasionally he thrashed the bed and even tore one of his wounds open again. Then he would lie so ridged she had to press her head to his chest just to see if his heart still beat.
When dawn finally shown in through the eastern window, Alede was shaking with exhaustion. Her hands were raw from wringing out the cold cloths she'd applied to his face and her eyes ached from hours of squinting in the smoky lantern light. She straightened up slowly from the chair. Hauling firewood up the stairs repeatedly had not done her back any good, but she had used up her jar of ointment during the night.
Stumbling down the steps, she added more wood to the oven fire and pulled the tiny caldron that she'd set to boil out of the flames. The dried meat had produced a passable broth which she poured into a cup, gathered up another jar of ointment and dragged her weary feet back up the stairs.
Setting her things down beside the bed, she felt Legolas's forehead automatically. It was a moment before she realized that it was cool.
Too cool. After the burning fever of the night before, this was alarming.
"Legolas?" She felt his chest and then laid her head on it. He still breathed, but his skin was cold to the touch. Hastily she brought bricks from the fire and placed them beside him and then carefully trickled the hot broth between his lips.
For two days and two nights he did not move and his skin was cold as frost. Alede did not sleep for fear he would die if she closed her eyes. Several times as she gazed at his pale face she thought he had died. But then she'd press her ear to his chest and hear the faint beating of his heart. She kept the fire roaring and chaffed his limbs, piling as many blankets on the bed as she could, but he still remained cold and unmoving.
Finally, in the darkest part of the night, Alede knew she could do no more. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she held Legolas' hand in hers.
"I don't know what else to do," she sobbed. Fatigue had robbed her of all hope. Over and over thoughts of the black book had entered her mind. If she'd only kept it, there might have been a cure for what ever ailed him. Though in truth she did not know if he was afflicted with a spell or merely some evil sickness caused by Sildair.
Her fingertips touched his brow, slipped down the side of his face and traced the outline of his mouth. The burns had healed. Even the awful wounds on his legs were beginning to heal. But his eyes remained shut and his face was still as stone. He looked more like a statue than a living being.
"I'm so sorry. I've failed you after all," she whispered, tears trickling down her face. He was so beautiful; her heart would break if he died. Knowing that she was completely spent, Alede tossed her outer garments to the floor and crawled into the bed beside him. Wrapping her arms and legs over his cold body she fell into an exhausted sleep.