----- "Eternity's" POV.
She watched as the young one crumpled to the ground. By her estimate, he
had been bleeding on this battle ground for many hours and was much
weakened. He was younger than she had thought, little more than a century
old. Yet a boy, by the standards of this place. Handing her bow to the
younger woman at her side, the healer knelt beside the boy, passing a hand
over his body, turning her senses inwards and looking for injury. Apart
from the obvious cut on his beautiful, young face, she could feel the
bleeding from his head and numerous other scrapes, probably the result of a
fall. She used her skills, honed over the centuries, to stop the immediate
bleeding with meticulous care. Finally, she sat back on her heels to rest.
"We need a stretcher." Her voice was soft and somewhat tired. Passing a
hand over her weary face, she watched as her daughter gestured for two
warriors to bring the needed stretcher. Looking up, the woman spoke softly
to her new aides, speaking with an authority that demanded immediate
action. "It's too far to take him to the hospital. Take the boy to my
manor. He needs quiet, rest and healing and I can best provide it there."
The one standing furthest from the healer bowed slightly, but the other
just nodded before speaking. "Milady Blackstone, Captain BenShanniir has
said that you should rest. He is fresh and tending to the wounded at the
other end of the battleground, as are his children. You should return with
us."
Sighing, Lady Blackstone cast a glance around the battlefield. A sudden
wave of sadness broke her introspection and concentration, a sure sign of
fatigue. She nodded. "Aye, I see him. Very well, I'll return with ye." She
watched as they carefully loaded the unknown archer on the stretcher. She
knelt and reverently retrieved the bow and quiver he had carried. The
quiver was damaged, the leather straps were torn and dangling from the
bottom. That she could repair without magic. She smiled softly as her slim
fingers touched the bow, appreciating it's beauty and it's strength in the
way that only a fellow archer could. Standing, she carried with her all
that he could not, following the stretcher bearers to her manor.
---
Sitting beside the small fireplace in the bedroom of her guest, she sewed
new leather on the quiver that the young archer had been carrying. She
hummed a soft lullaby while she kept the young man company, waiting for him
to awaken. His face had been cleaned and the cheek wound healed so that
not even a light scar marred the smooth skin. His hair, long and soft as
silk, was brushed and fanned out behind his head. It looked like he slept,
the smooth skin burnished to a light golden hue by the light of the fire
flickering at her side. She had called him across time to help in the war
effort, but had no idea that it was going to be such a youngster on whom
the fate of the Silver Forest would lay.
She had sat with him through the fever of bloodloss, had calmed the raging
fires that burned his veins. She had listened as he had spoken feverish
murmers in the ancient tongue. She quieted his fears with her gentle
touch. During these long days she discovered that his name was Legolas and
that he had been fleeing Orcs. All else would have to be explained by him
when he awakened, because his accent was strange. It was odd that she
should find this one youngling who spoke the ancient tongue, when she had
sought after a skilled and legendary warrior to help defend the Forest
against the Christians who had invaided their home.
As she worked, the sound of the thick thread being drawn through the
toughened leather and the hiss and crackle of the fire burning in the grate
accompanied her humming in a trio of haunting sounds. So quiet was the
manor that she flinched when she heard the sharp clang of the door bell.
Sighing, she set aside the sewing and stood, leaving the nearly repaired
quiver on the chair.
Pulling open the door, the burst of sunlight briefly obscured her visitors.
"Aunt Sharra?" Lady Blackstone smiled as she recognised the voice of their
new Shanniir, Therria. Stepping aside, she watched as the young leader
slipped inside the manor, flanked by her ever-present bodyguards. Sharra
was quickly engulfed in the young queen's embrace, which took her by
surprise.
"Therria?" Sharra queried softly, noticing the tears in the young elf's
eyes. She could sense the impending tingle of grief, the touch from the
younger woman breaking through Sharra's mental barriers. Someone had
passed... someone near and dear to her. Gently touching Therria's cheek,
her eyes asked the only question that was left unanswered.
"Aunt Sharra, it's Myrrah... Even Keilan couldn't save her. She... She
passed beyond the veil an hour ago." Sharra gasped softly, feeling her
immediate grief augmented by Therria's own through their touch. Tears
trembled in her violet eyes and she looked down at the blue depths of her
neice. It felt like a knife was twisted in her stomach and the pain was so
very real that she stepped away, trying to control her own grief to the
point where she could speak.
"What happened?" Her voice sounded thin, hoarse in her own ears. Sharra
could hardly believe that this had happened. Her oldest niece lay dead,
killed in the latest attacks by the Christians. But as she listened to
Therria explain what had happened, it seemed that the world itself seemed
to pull further away from her, becoming more distant.
"Myrrah was brought to the hospital when Keilan found her. Our brother did
all that he could to try and save her, but an arrow had pierced her
stomach. The wound was so deep that he couldn't stop the bleeding." Therria
Carra, Shanniir of the Silver Forest, spoke around gasping sobs, unable to
believe that her half sister was truly dead.
A small noise drew the attention of the bodyguards and both elven
women. They turned to see the lithe form of Legolas standing in the
archway. In his hands a dagger glinted, light from the lamps casting a
glamour of stars across the faces of the women in his presence. He spoke,
the soft Quenyan hanging in the air. As he looked at each of the faces,
however, he realised that no one understood Quenyan in this household. The
blade of the dagger wavered as he pondered what to do, but Therria moved
with the speed of a gazelle, knocking the blade from his hand while pinning
him to the floor with her body. Her deep blue eyes locked with his and time
seemed to freeze for them both.
She watched as the young one crumpled to the ground. By her estimate, he
had been bleeding on this battle ground for many hours and was much
weakened. He was younger than she had thought, little more than a century
old. Yet a boy, by the standards of this place. Handing her bow to the
younger woman at her side, the healer knelt beside the boy, passing a hand
over his body, turning her senses inwards and looking for injury. Apart
from the obvious cut on his beautiful, young face, she could feel the
bleeding from his head and numerous other scrapes, probably the result of a
fall. She used her skills, honed over the centuries, to stop the immediate
bleeding with meticulous care. Finally, she sat back on her heels to rest.
"We need a stretcher." Her voice was soft and somewhat tired. Passing a
hand over her weary face, she watched as her daughter gestured for two
warriors to bring the needed stretcher. Looking up, the woman spoke softly
to her new aides, speaking with an authority that demanded immediate
action. "It's too far to take him to the hospital. Take the boy to my
manor. He needs quiet, rest and healing and I can best provide it there."
The one standing furthest from the healer bowed slightly, but the other
just nodded before speaking. "Milady Blackstone, Captain BenShanniir has
said that you should rest. He is fresh and tending to the wounded at the
other end of the battleground, as are his children. You should return with
us."
Sighing, Lady Blackstone cast a glance around the battlefield. A sudden
wave of sadness broke her introspection and concentration, a sure sign of
fatigue. She nodded. "Aye, I see him. Very well, I'll return with ye." She
watched as they carefully loaded the unknown archer on the stretcher. She
knelt and reverently retrieved the bow and quiver he had carried. The
quiver was damaged, the leather straps were torn and dangling from the
bottom. That she could repair without magic. She smiled softly as her slim
fingers touched the bow, appreciating it's beauty and it's strength in the
way that only a fellow archer could. Standing, she carried with her all
that he could not, following the stretcher bearers to her manor.
---
Sitting beside the small fireplace in the bedroom of her guest, she sewed
new leather on the quiver that the young archer had been carrying. She
hummed a soft lullaby while she kept the young man company, waiting for him
to awaken. His face had been cleaned and the cheek wound healed so that
not even a light scar marred the smooth skin. His hair, long and soft as
silk, was brushed and fanned out behind his head. It looked like he slept,
the smooth skin burnished to a light golden hue by the light of the fire
flickering at her side. She had called him across time to help in the war
effort, but had no idea that it was going to be such a youngster on whom
the fate of the Silver Forest would lay.
She had sat with him through the fever of bloodloss, had calmed the raging
fires that burned his veins. She had listened as he had spoken feverish
murmers in the ancient tongue. She quieted his fears with her gentle
touch. During these long days she discovered that his name was Legolas and
that he had been fleeing Orcs. All else would have to be explained by him
when he awakened, because his accent was strange. It was odd that she
should find this one youngling who spoke the ancient tongue, when she had
sought after a skilled and legendary warrior to help defend the Forest
against the Christians who had invaided their home.
As she worked, the sound of the thick thread being drawn through the
toughened leather and the hiss and crackle of the fire burning in the grate
accompanied her humming in a trio of haunting sounds. So quiet was the
manor that she flinched when she heard the sharp clang of the door bell.
Sighing, she set aside the sewing and stood, leaving the nearly repaired
quiver on the chair.
Pulling open the door, the burst of sunlight briefly obscured her visitors.
"Aunt Sharra?" Lady Blackstone smiled as she recognised the voice of their
new Shanniir, Therria. Stepping aside, she watched as the young leader
slipped inside the manor, flanked by her ever-present bodyguards. Sharra
was quickly engulfed in the young queen's embrace, which took her by
surprise.
"Therria?" Sharra queried softly, noticing the tears in the young elf's
eyes. She could sense the impending tingle of grief, the touch from the
younger woman breaking through Sharra's mental barriers. Someone had
passed... someone near and dear to her. Gently touching Therria's cheek,
her eyes asked the only question that was left unanswered.
"Aunt Sharra, it's Myrrah... Even Keilan couldn't save her. She... She
passed beyond the veil an hour ago." Sharra gasped softly, feeling her
immediate grief augmented by Therria's own through their touch. Tears
trembled in her violet eyes and she looked down at the blue depths of her
neice. It felt like a knife was twisted in her stomach and the pain was so
very real that she stepped away, trying to control her own grief to the
point where she could speak.
"What happened?" Her voice sounded thin, hoarse in her own ears. Sharra
could hardly believe that this had happened. Her oldest niece lay dead,
killed in the latest attacks by the Christians. But as she listened to
Therria explain what had happened, it seemed that the world itself seemed
to pull further away from her, becoming more distant.
"Myrrah was brought to the hospital when Keilan found her. Our brother did
all that he could to try and save her, but an arrow had pierced her
stomach. The wound was so deep that he couldn't stop the bleeding." Therria
Carra, Shanniir of the Silver Forest, spoke around gasping sobs, unable to
believe that her half sister was truly dead.
A small noise drew the attention of the bodyguards and both elven
women. They turned to see the lithe form of Legolas standing in the
archway. In his hands a dagger glinted, light from the lamps casting a
glamour of stars across the faces of the women in his presence. He spoke,
the soft Quenyan hanging in the air. As he looked at each of the faces,
however, he realised that no one understood Quenyan in this household. The
blade of the dagger wavered as he pondered what to do, but Therria moved
with the speed of a gazelle, knocking the blade from his hand while pinning
him to the floor with her body. Her deep blue eyes locked with his and time
seemed to freeze for them both.