As Jaron bent over he stretched a hand toward the waistband of the elf's' dress. He hesitated for a moment and then plunged his hand into the almost invisible pocket by Fiorwen's left leg. At first it seemed to Jaron that there was nothing in the pocket, but as his fingers probed the depths the tip of his finger met cold metal and he withdrew hid hand from the pocket in surprise. Licking his lips he quickly put his hand back into the pocket and grasped the metal object. Jaron withdrew it and held it, studying it for a minute. It was a very small, delicate looking key, just the right size for the silver box, but it looked to be too delicate to separate air, never mind turn 'bolts'. Jaron turned from Fiorwen and walked back to the box, which was lying, on the ground. He stooped and picked it up, turning it so the lock faced his chest. He fitted the little key into the lock and turned it gently, hardly daring to breathe. The lock fell open and he lifted the lid of the box. The sight that met his eyes was one to take your breath away. Inside the box were rows and rows of glass and crystal jars which contained herbs and plants. The box was not big on the outside but on the inside it seemed to be as big as a travelers chest. Surprisingly, it did not weigh more than a pound. "Elvin magic," whispered Jaron to himself wonderingly. He scratched his neck as he tried to remember which herbs were for healing open wounds. After a moment he selected two jars, closed the lid of the box and relocked it. Jaron then slipped the small key into his own pocket. Crossing over to the motionless form, Jaron knelt by he injured arm and gingerly untied the handkerchief, trying to keep his fingers out of the worst of the blood. He opened one of the bottles and dipped his finger into its contents. Grimacing, Jaron withdrew his finger, now covered in a brown pus-like substance, he reached down and smeared the substance directly into the wound. A small whimper escaped the lips of Fiorwen, and when Jaron looked up, her face was drawn in pain. One corner of Jaron's mouth rose into half of a malicious smile. He eagerly dipped his finger into the bottle, and smeared more of the pain-causing substance into Fiorwen's wound. When once again the substance made contact with her open wound Fiorwen whimpered, louder this time. Jaron, who was intently watching her face, could not keep his thin lips from curling into a demonic smirk. Suddenly he blinked and shook his head, his face relaxed into it's normal, non-smiling state. He quickly opened the other bottle and looked inside it. With a sigh of relief, he began to shake some of the orange powder, that was inside the jar, into his hand. Suddenly Fiorwen moaned aloud and seemed to stop breathing. "Puka," Jaron swore, and placing the bottle on the ground, he put a handover the elf's mouth to check for the movement of air. He quickly sat back and grabbed the bottle when he felt a slight trickle of air coming from Fiorwen's nose. He quickly poured some of the powder into his hand and then closed his hand into a loose fist, he placed his hand over her wound and let the powder trickle out slowly. He moved his hand back and forth so the powder would cover all of the wound. When he had finished he closed his eyes and whispered, "Come back to the light, Fiorwen, daughter of Elured. It is not your time to cross to the Halls of Mandos. By the Three Rings granted to elfin kings I call you back from the Darkness of Death into the Light of Life," When he had completed the ceremony he opened his eyes and looked at Fiorwen. Her color was a little better, but she still did not move. He sighed and decided to leave her there while he put away the herbs and took down his bedroll. They would have to stay here tonight; he resigned himself to the fact sighing grumpily.
Jaron unlocked the silver box, and placed the bottles back into their spots. He then relocked the box and returned it to the saddlebag on the horse. He once again placed the key in his own pocket. He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a rolled up thick cloth. He walked slowly back to Fiorwen while unrolling it. He began to fling it over Fiorwen's prostrate body when suddenly he hesitated, and a look of evil hatred came over his face. He turned purposely from the elf and placed the cloth on the ground. He threw himself on it, rolled himself in it, and then sat up. He sat that way for several minutes glaring at the elf. Suddenly he shook his head, as if to clear it, and the evil look faded from his face slowly. He furrowed his brow and then lay back, closing his eyes. Soon he was asleep even though the sun was still shining down.