The Smoke Thickens
Crack! Snap! The great black whip streaked out, fast as lighting. It caught the elven warrior by surprise, who hadn't even noticed that there was another enemy in the area. The whip coiled around his chest, the mithril tips spinning upwards to cut three parallel lines into the flesh above the jawbone. The effect was so instantaneous that the elf had died before he could even bring his weapon up to defend himself, dead even before hitting the ground. It was why Sanul used the poison. Sometimes it took agonizing weeks to claim its victim, other times, mere seconds or less. Its unpredictability was what Sanul loved. That and its lethalness.
He had been slinking along in the shadows, striking out randomly in this fashion, searching for ideal slave bodies. He generally looked at the women who were desperately trying to keep the flames in check, but every now and then a male specimen would present itself. Sanul only took what he considered the best. His expert eye would instantly assess the value of each elf.
With a swish of his cloak he moved to a different tree, sliding along effortlessly in the shadows, radiating a darkness. Only his eyes could be seen, and they were often seen much too late. With them he spotted another warrior.
As he raised his arm to catch the fighter in the legs, the sound of distant thunder reached his ears. Confused, he turned his head upwards to stare at the sky. The smoke blotted it from view, and all Sanul received was ashes burning his eyelids. His sixth sense was warning him. Rain was not on the air, so why was there thunder? Another one of those lightning storms? Whatever it was, it worried him enough to convince him to pull back into the shadows.
And indeed, in but a few seconds later the storm was upon him. But not the storm he had been thinking of. It was not one of lighting, or rain, but rather, one of galloping horses and gleaming swords. Aragorn and his men rode by, swift as the wind, riding as easily in between the trees as they had on the plains. They were rapidly approaching the main battle lines of where what little elves remained were fighting.
Sanul bared his teeth in anger and hissed. His plans, ruined! Where had these reinforcements come from? There had been no time to call for aid certainly, and even if somehow a message was sent, how could the Gondor men be so handily nearby? Sanul realized that what had drove him into these woods must have also brought others. The fire's smoke must have been spotted and investigated, and now the men realized that much more than a fire was going on underneath the boughs of the trees.
Sanul realized that unless he took quick action his men would panic and take flight. This he did not want, it would be a disaster. An opportunity such as this would never come again in his lifetime. To have been able to attack the elves of Mirkwood, and to come very nearly to victory was something before unheard of. It was simply staggering, the amount of luck he had received. He was determined not to lose it. He moved off after the horses, calling orders to his men as he ran. Already he was thinking of a new strategy.
Aragorn rode by another man that he recognized as one of the enemy. Upon entering the woods, and upon drawing closer to the sounds of battle, they had finally come upon a fleeing elf. He had warned them about who they were facing, and then with renewed hope at their presence, had raced off ahead of them.
Now Aragorn finally had a face to put to the information. He quickly chopped it off as he rode by, the startled corsair's body still standing for a second or two before it collapsed. The head fell to the ground beside it.
Aragorn was gone already by this time. Bursting through the trees, he finally found where the remaining elves had decided to make their stand. The corsairs were closing in around them and Aragorn realized that there was much more than just one crew here invading. It looked as if the combined crews of three or four ships were attacking. He and his men doubled their speed and rode into the battle.
Their army crashed against the enemies. It was a slaughter. The men
of Gondor had the luck and advantage with them for now it seemed. The rode
through the corsairs, cutting them down in their path. Many had already
turned and fled off into the woods.
Aragorn trampled a man down with his horse, and turning, caught sight
of an elf fighting clearly with all that he had left. Corsairs had
surrounded the warrior, but the elf seemed far from giving up. As he spun
in a different direction, another figure came into view. This one was
someone who Aragorn recognized instantly. It was Gimli, bringing his axe
down onto another enemy, killing him.
Aragorn's heart leapt into his throat as he saw through the smoke an enemy rise up behind the dwarf's exposed back. Yet he needn't have worried. The other elf dispatched the enemy in a fluid motion, slicing the blade across the neck, delivering a speedy end. Aragorn turned his horse over in that direction, and he, along with two other men, rode off to his friend's aid, slicing corsair throats in the process.
Gimli turned around as Tanvir neatly dispatched another enemy. He spotted one for himself and went after it. Yet as he brought his axe to bear down upon the invader, he could only really think about whether or not Legolas had died as Tanvir's look had so cleanly communicated. He was filled with anger at himself for not being by the elf to defend him, though that was no fault of his own. If he had not left Legolas to go and warn the others, perhaps there wouldn't have been even a resistance. But this Gimli could not see.
Spurred on with new energy he distracted his enemy by bringing his axe down across the tops of the feet, and then while the corsair howled in pain and looked down, he neatly chopped off the head, performing a tidy execution. It was an old trick he had learned fighting orcs in caves long ago.
However, he knew an unfair match when he saw one, and this time the numbers favored his enemies, which they also knew. Even as another man fell, a new one stepped in to take his place. Gimli felt a blow ring off his helmet, if it had been any lower, it would have cut open his neck. Turning he ducked another blow about aimed more properly this time. He rammed his axe into the chest, winding the corsair, whole fell backwards. Now Gimli swung his axe up and then brought it down right over the heart. Another handy trick he had learned.
An arrow went whistling by his ear as Tanvir dispatched a man who had leaped down from a tree branch behind him.
Suddenly, the ranks around him were broken. A man on a horse was riding into the mass, cutting of heads and slicing throats as he rode by. And not just any man Gimli realized. It was Aragorn, which meant he had returned with reinforcements! A cheer forced its way up Gimli's throat, and now he fought on with renewed hope.
As he watched his friend fight he admitted to himself that although horses were not his first choice of transportation, they did give a nice advantage in the face of battle. While he and Tanvir had been struggling to dispatch the men around them, Aragorn seemed hardly to be taxing himself, even though Gimli knew that that was far from the truth. It took power and skill to be able to fight from a horse.
The corsairs around him retreated, fleeing back into the woods. Gimli pursued them, running and then tripping them up with his axe. Arrows flew past his head, burying themselves into the backs of fleeing corsairs. Gimli knew without looking that these came from Tanvir's bow. Aragorn rode ahead past them, catching up with the enemy and delivering to them more causalities. His sword parted the smoke as he swung it into the face of a corsair. The firelight gleamed of the blade, making it seem to burn itself.
After a while Gimli stopped. Victory was clearly his, and he was running out of breath. Let the other elves deal with the cowards, he was going to go find Legolas. Beside him Tanvir seemed to have the same thought.
Aragorn, seeing that they had stopped, trotted his horse over to them. He looked down to the dwarf, "It seems that you have been fighting more than fires under these forests. How fare you?"
But before the dwarf could answer, Tanvir spoke up, "There is no time for that. If Gimli has any injuries they are not serious and so can wait. You are the king of Gondor, Aragorn, the son of Arathorn are you not? The friend of the prince? The healer?"
Aragorn looked quickly at this elf, staring at him with a sharp, piercing gaze, "I am he, and Legolas is my friend. Yet now I realize that I have not seen him, where has he gone?"
Gimli looked over at Tanvir anxiously now, to see if his fears would be confirmed.
Tanvir spoke quietly, "I fear he has gone away to the halls of Mandos forever."
Gimli bowed his head, and he blinked his eyes hard. It was as he feared. Aragorn could not have appeared more shocked than if someone had come and told him that Sauron had returned. "He fell? In battle? Where have they lain his body? I shall see to it!"
Tanvir looked at the ground, "I carried him to the healers and they bore him away in the smoke. I could not tell where they had gone."
Aragorn wheeled his horse around, "Where is this area of healing then? I shall look for him there."
Tanvir pointed out the direction, but stayed Aragorn's horse for a moment. He looked up at the ranger, "I cannot go with you though it is something I desperately wish. I must stay to battle with our other enemy, the fire. Please send word to me of how he fares, whether it be good or ill. It should ease my heart to know for sure either way."
"I will not forget." Aragorn rode off, Gimli running quickly beside him. They entered the space between the trees and the palace wall, where the healers were doing their work. Aragorn jumped down from Brego and tied him to a tree that so far was still safe from the flames. He and Gimli turned to walk amongst the injured.
It was a heart-wrenching sight for the two mortals. To see the eldar race, injured and bleeding, pressed into their souls a feeling of grief. All around was the sight and sound of suffering. Horrible cuts and slashes were upon bodies, blood was dripping onto the ground, dying it red to reflect the burning trees. The bodies loomed up in the smoke as they were approached, and then faded away into the thick darkness. Gimli could not bear to look at any of them, yet he looked at all of them, searching for his friend. Aragorn walked beside him, doing the same.
As he ran Sanul called some of the men to him. Dispersing them along the line, he gave them orders to help feed the fire. He had them throw up underbrush straight into the path of the wind, and thus the path of the flames. Yet he knew that causing the fires to burn greater was not a winning strategy. It would not return to him the advantage that he needed. He tried to think of another strategy, yet the perfect one eluded him.
He forced himself to concentrate.
His mind wandered over to many of the other raids he had fought in before, this was not the first time they had come up against horses so why did they flee like children? What had they done before in such a situation?
The memory came to him, his reserve men, hiding behind houses in the village, cutting at the legs as the horses went by, who were chasing the other men who were still running as a distraction. The horses had reeled and fell, many of the men being crushed by their very beasts in the process. Yes, perhaps that would work here. They had enough of a head start. He called to one of his crew as he ran by.
"I want you to spread the word for each man to form an accurate line as possible, hiding behind trees. When the horses ride by, cut at their legs, stab their sides, do whatever it takes to bring those men down from their steeds. Do as we did against the inland village, where we brought their horses down. Then the odds shall even out again and we shall be able to attack."
"Yes captain!" The corsair ran off to carry out the orders. Passing from man to man he told them to keep running, making as much noise as possible, or he told them to hide behind the trees, and to wait for the horses to gallop pass. When they did, they would know what to do. The crew sneered with glee. To turn the Gondor men's' own horses upon them would be good sport. Within ten minutes the crew had heard of the commands, and had formed a line, stretching across a patch of trees. The hid themselves as quickly and as best they could, hearing the hoof taps of horses approaching.
The rest of the crew stomped on ahead, yelling and cursing loudly to give a sense of direction to the riders.
Sanul grinned, waiting in the shadows.
The men of Gondor rode forward, unaware of the awaiting trap.
They found him. Legolas hadn't even been moved since Thranduil had last seen him. Perhaps the healers already thought he was dead. He certainly looked like it. Blood coated his side, and spread out under him from his back wounds. His face was a sickly gray, and when you add all this to the fact that his body was covered in sweat and ashes, soot and dirt, one could easily imagine the elf as having been departed from the world for quite sometime.
It had been Gimli who had spotted him. He was glancing around, trying to peer through the smoke, which was a little less thin here because there were fewer trees. He saw a shadowy figure.
He had expected it to be another injured elf, and indeed it was. Just that it was finally the injured elf they were looking for. Gimli had, like Thranduil, done a double take, and then he pointed the elf out to Aragorn.
The ranger was furious. He loudly called for a healer, and when one came, he seethed at him, asking why their prince had not been given care. The healer looked at Legolas and blinked, twice. He hurried off and in moments the whole space around the elf was filled with healers. This again frustrated Aragorn. He pulled the head healer aside. The elf was much like Tanvir, tall with dark hair.
"What is wrong with you? You are of the eldar, where is your sense of order and wisdom? You are behaving as foolish men do."
The elf had the decency to look embarrassed, "I apologize on the behalf of the Mirkwood folk, but little experience do we have of dealing with injuries such as these. Our kind does not grow sick and what little scrapes we receive are quickly cured without any assistance. When our folk fall into conflict with the spiders, rarely are they even injured. At the worst they are killed and so a healer's presence is not necessary. I have actually come upon a new experience, one that I am ill prepared for."
Then Aragorn spoke to him, telling him that if he wanted to see his prince to live, then he would clear the area out of all unnecessary elves. He and Aragorn himself, as well as Gimli would remain to tend to the elf. The others were not needed. Aragorn explained that he had much experience with battle wounds of any kind, and with field surgery.
The head healer turned and did as Aragorn requested. Now Aragorn turned to finally examine his friend. He and the healer pulled Legolas over onto his chest, it was bad for the elf's breathing, but they had to get at his back. The ranger leaned forward, despite the stench of blood, and began to look over the wound.
To his disgust, the blade was still in it. It had snapped in half, and remained embedded in the skin so that Tanvir had not seen, nor felt it. Little natural healing had been done because of this. Aragorn shuddered to think how long his friend had lain here on his back, with the sword pushing into it.
He took off his gloves and armguards, and washed his hands as best he could in a small basin of water held by the healer. Then carefully he probed the elf's back to see the extent. The only reaction from Legolas was a small twitch.
Checking the inside of the mouth for blood, and finding none, Aragorn decided that the sword had not entered into the elf's lungs. By lucky chance a rib must have deflected it. In this case that meant that the wound was not as serious as it first seemed. Oh yes, untreated it was deadly, but Aragorn now believed there was hope.
He moved on to the next step, how to remove the remaining blade. He and the healer conferred on this, while Gimli sat near by and watched. The dwarf couldn't help noticing how shallow his friend's breathing was becoming. He knew that time was running out, and said as much to Aragorn.
At last, Aragorn came to his decision. The wound was too small to simply reach down and pull out the blade. It would have to be enlarged. Aragorn dipped his hunting knife in the basin, cleaning it as best he could, and then he cut away at the wound, wincing as the flesh shuddered under him. More blood spurted up, but the head healer wiped that away.
The wound was now almost two inches wide. This was plenty of space for Aragorn to work with. Without hesitation he slid his fingers down along the side of the injury, until he felt that he could get a grip against the sword. With his fingers he began to slide it upwards. As a piece of it finally passed above the flesh Aragorn grabbed it with his other hand and pulled it out. Slowly and carefully, all the while keeping his one hand still, Aragorn slid the blade out from the insides of his friend. It was covered with blood, a bit had dried on the steel. But this wasn't what was worrying the ranger about the sword.
He stared at the blade in disbelief. The tip was broken off. It must have snapped when it hit the rib. That meant that it was still inside Legolas's body, delivering to the elf more pain. The small piece was causing excessive bleeding from some organ, and the blood was covering the location. Aragorn knew that if much more blood were lost then Legolas would soon die. Already the skin was turning gray. But he could not see where the tip was, he would have to search for it with his fingers. That could take hours, hours that Legolas did not have.
But it was that, or to let his friend pass away into shadows forever. Grimly, his face set, Aragorn slid his fingers down along the inside wall of cold flesh, the blood feeling sticky against them. The healer watching turned away, but Gimli held onto his friend's shoulders, holding them steady as the body twitched and jerked from the agony Aragorn was sure that he was creating.
It seemed that he would have to cause even more. The wound was still too narrow. The blade tip was down farther than his fingers could feel. Regretting his actions, yet knowing that he'd do it again in a second if he thought it would help, Aragorn again widened the cut with his knife. His hands were covered in the elf's blood, as well as his knife, which the healer set back into the basin. The water had taken the appearance of wine.
At this point, when Aragorn was desperately trying not to cause too much pain to stop the heart, the advisors came crowding around. Someone had informed them that their prince was still alive, and so they ran to be by the royal name. Immediately they began making suggestions to Aragorn on how to doctor to their prince. They also informed the dwarf to get his grubby hands off of the eldar race.
Aragorn felt his concentration starting to slip, which would be a fatal mistake. He didn't want to waste time to stop and tell the advisors to leave, yet if he did not, he wouldn't be able to properly heal his friend.
Gimli fortunately, was not performing emergency surgery. Angry at being called grubby, and fed up with these foolish elves he stood up and turned to face them.
"You see here," he roared, "If you ever want to see your prince alive again then you'll do what you're told and sit down and shut your mouths! Or else I'll be feeding your tongues to the spiders! Aragorn needs quiet! Can't you see that he's doing the best he can? What do you know of healing anyways? There is no need for your presence here, go help fight the flames like the others."
The advisors gaped at the dwarf, clearly shocked at his tone. One of them drew forward and said stiffly, "It is you who should leave. By what right does a dwarf have to administer to an elf? We shall remain here, at our Prince's side until he wakes up. We only obey orders from the royal family."
Aragorn gritted his teeth in frustration, and turned for a split second, holding his hand in place, "Legolas might never wake up!" he snapped at them, "Don't you see that? Now leave me to work in peace!" He was trying furiously to keep his mind focused, but the advisors were ripping his concentration away.
Again the advisors looked startled, but they were not quite finished. Another went to open his mouth, but this time the head healer cut him off. He moved forward and raised his hand slightly.
"Leave."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I told you to get out. I am the eldar in charge here, and I am saying that you are causing harm to my patient. The dwarf is right, none of you have been trained in the healing arts. You have other things to go and take care of. I am officially banning you from this area. Go back to the forest and coordinate the efforts against the flames, and pray that your foolishness has not cost our prince his life."
The advisors started forward, "Now you see here--"
Again they were cut off, "No, you see here! You have no authority to order me around when it concerns the injured. I am in charge, you shall do as I say, and leave this area, or I shall send for some guards to escort you out."
Gimli hefted his axe, "There's no need for that, I would happy to be the enforcer of the ban." He faced the advisors, "You will leave here under your own free will, with what little dignity you have left, or I shall chase you out. It is up to you."
Looking from the stern head healer, to the small bristling dwarf, the advisors gave up. They turned and left, finally discovering that they had no real power. Perhaps they actually went to go help fight the flames, and to help the Mirkwood people. But the fact is that after this tale has been told and done, it should be noted that the advisors were not seen again inside the realm of Mirkwood. Whether or not if they died, fighting for their folk, or ran off as cowards is an unknown fact. Alas that some of the eldar are as foolish as men.
The real point is that from Gimli's and the healer's view, the advisors turned and vanished into the smoke, leaving Aragorn the quiet he needed to work with. Quiet being used in a relative term, as all around them were the moans of pain, and the roar of the burning woods.
The ranger continued the primitive surgery. His fingers were feeling the flesh, trying to find the jagged edge were the blade would be at. He couldn't find it. He bit his lip in concentration, drawing blood from himself now. Aragorn knew that precious time had been lost since the advisors had interrupted him, he would have to hurry. Gimli was watching worriedly over his friend's shoulders, holding them still again. The healer had set down the water basin, and was wringing his hands nervously. Still Aragorn could not find it and Legolas's breathing became worse and worse as the time dragged by.
Trees loomed up at him out of the smoke. At one point he had almost walked into a lower hanging branch that he hadn't seen until the last minute. He was sweating horribly, and his clothes were torn scrambling through the forest, dragging that accursed elf with him.
Urgsha paused for a moment, setting the king down on the ground. The hands had been bound tightly, but he didn't have enough rope to tie anything else. He wiped blood off from a scratch on his arm and stared as best he could around him. He had no idea where he was.
He had headed off from the palace grounds with a general sense of what direction the ships lay in, but he had quickly become disoriented in the smoke. Now he was panicking. His sense of time had been thrown off, and he had had no idea of how long he had been running. He worried constantly that he would be too late returning and then Sanul would kill him. A very distinct possibility.
He realized he was panicking and sat down. He needed to reorient
himself. Glancing at the king he determined that the elf was still out
cold, and so he turned to the nearest tree. Perhaps from a higher
perspective he would be able to rediscover his earlier path.
He grabbed the first branch and pulled himself up, and then reached
for the second. The bark was rough and scratched at his hands. At about
the fifth branch up he looked down and was surprised to see how high up he
already was. He was also surprised to see that the king was gone.
Over reacting he let go of the branch he was holding and tried to foolishly jump from the tree. He landed hard on his side, the wind knocked out of him. But he was too scared of losing his prize to lie still for long. Brushing away the twigs and leaves, and wiping more blood off of the new scratches he went to see what had happened to his prisoner.
Thranduil had been existing in a world of blackness, pierced only by occasions of pain. When conscious had finally returned to him he found that he was lying apparently in the middle of the forest, alone. Whoever had attacked him did not seem to be around. When he tried to move he discovered that his hands were tied.
He blinked, his head was pounding, making it hard for him to think. He tried to stand and found that he could hardly even sit up. The fact that he couldn't really use his hands to balance didn't help. He settled for a simple crawl away from where he had been previously. But he had only moved a few lengths when nausea overcame him. He retched, then vomited by some tree roots. After dry heaving for a few minutes he crawled a few feet farther, and then, using the support of a tree, managed to pull himself to his feet.
Leaning against the trunk, he looked around to see where he was exactly. He staggered from tree to tree, memories returning to him. The fires, the attack, and his son. At this thought tears welled in his eyes, and he closed them for a second, bringing the side of his arm up to wipe them. A sickening feeling of grief washed over him.
When he looked up again, Urgsha was standing right in front of him, his sword pointed directly at his face. The corsair had been able to track him relatively without any problems. Once he had come upon tracks that the king left on the ground, he had simply followed them to their source. Thranduil stared, not moving. This was obviously his captor.
"Sit down!" Urgsha snarled at him.
The king sat down slowly. Urgsha, impatient, shoved him down faster. Then the corsair crouched down in front of him. "So, I have I front of me the king of Mirkwood. I suppose I should be impressed."
Thranduil simply glared.
Urgsha thought for a moment, he couldn't let this king know of his disadvantage, that he was lost. Yet surely the king knew the ways of this forest perfectly and would be able to show the correct road out. He pushed Thranduil up against the tree trunk, "Listen to me carefully eldar, I am taking you to my ship, you will come along quietly as you are now, and you will not resist. Understand?"
All Urgsha received was a piercing gaze, as if Tranduil had looked into his heart and seen its yellow hue. The corsair became nervous under the king's gaze, and slapped Thranduil across the face. He shouted at the king, "Answer me!"
Finally the king spoke, "You will find it difficult to so quickly remove me from my kingdom. I am afraid that if you wish to take me to your ship, it will have to be without any help from my part."
Urgsha stood up, clutching his hair in frustration. "You eldar! You think you are so powerful! Well look at you, who is the one tied, and who is not? Huh? You are my slave! Nothing more. Your reign has passed onto your son now, you are no longer king here!"
Thranduil's eyes flashed at the mention of Legolas. Reacting quickly he whipped his legs out, kicking Urgsha's own legs out from under him. The corsair landed hard, and rolled over, confused for a moment, panicking.
This was all Thranduil needed. He moved forward and shoved his knee into the corsairs back. With one of his arms, he leaned forward and pressed Urgsha's face into the dirt.
Urgsha wasn't finished though. He had the advantage of his free hands. Managing to pull one out from under him, he reached out and grabbed his sword that he had dropped. Twisting slightly he stabbed it into the flesh of Thranduil's leg.
The king gasped in pain, and released his position reflexively. Urgsha now rolled up, sword in hand, ready to teach this king a lesson in manners.
It was at this point, when the two were squaring off against each other, that a group of spiders, who had been following them quietly, drawn by the smell of blood, dropped down.
Tanvir was frustrated. No matter how hard the elves whipped at the flames, they only seemed to grow. The elf had a suspicion why. Through the smoke he had caught glimpses of dark figures moving behind the flame, helping it by feeding it small underbrush and broken branches. Not all the corsairs he guessed were defeated.
He sighed, angry at the fact that he was limited on what he could do. He knew that the Gondor men could take care of the corsairs, but the men had rode off in pursuit of the retreating enemies. These ones here, were for now, not under attack, free to hinder the elves.
But Tanvir could not abandon the flames, and let more trees die. He turned back to the fire. From time to time though, he would lift his bow and shoot one of the dark figures. At one point he saw a black shadow, standing against the trunk of a tree, almost invisible against it. Two narrowed eyes were staring at him. The elf blinked and the shadow was gone. He took his bow and shot an arrow into the direction, it connected with nothing.
More corsairs were coming, egging the fire on. The battles had cost the elves dearly, the fire was now practically out of control. During the fighting over a forth of the forest had been burned away.
The horses rode forward. The Gondor men were confident. Through the trees they caught glimpses of their retreating foes. They urged their horses faster, anticipating sweet victory.
Unfortunately, they never were aware of the trap.
As they rode past the line of corsairs, simultaneously enemy blades whipped out, chopping at the poor horses. Many of them reared up, overbalancing on their hind legs, and then fell backwards and sideways. Other simply crumpled headfirst, sending the riders flying forward. A few men were able to pull their horses back before injury was inflicted, but only a precious few. Dust and smoke was in the air. By the time the trap was sprung almost all of the men had been thrown from their steeds or crushed under them. The playing field was definitely level again.
The corsairs laughed gleefully. What a beautiful sight to them to see the horses collapse, legs broken and stomachs slashed open. To see their enemies lying, bleeding under their own steeds, easily killed with a single stroke across their throats.
The remaining riders, who had managed to avoid the ambush, and those who had been able to recover quickly from their horses' attack, hefted their swords and charged into the corsairs, yelling furiously. Metal clashed upon metal, and the battle became renewed. Each side fighting with all they had, delivering deadly blows around and over the bodies of the horses. Those mighty creatures, reduced to stumbling trots at best, as those still alive ran panicked around the soldiers in the battle.
By now, the elven warriors who had run behind the horsemen caught up. They had heard distinctly the sounds of the fight, and came prepared, with their swords drawn. Men, corsairs and elves clashed under the trees of the burning kingdom.
His hands were growing slick with blood, making it almost impossible for him to feel, much less grip anything inside the wound. Blood trickled down in rivets along the back of the elf, the skin was deathly gray. The lips were slowly fading to blue, black soon to follow. The breaths were coming incredibly shallow, almost so that it seemed that Legolas wasn't breathing at all. Death was stroking at the elf's soul.
It was obvious to the ranger that too much blood had been lost. If he did not find and remove this piece of blade within the next few minutes, Legolas would be beyond even what aid he could provide.
He pulled his hands out of the injury, wiped them off as best he could, and then re-entered, determined. The healer had left to go get bandages and medicinal herbs in case the ranger should be successful. Only Gimli was with him now, though Legolas had slipped into shock long ago and technically the dwarf wasn't needed to keep the body still anymore. The dwarf was still holding onto his friend though, pulling hair back from the face.
Carefully Aragorn slid his hand along the inside gap. He had long ago found the rib that had deflected the blade, and had searched outward from there. He felt all places in the flesh, moving carefully, but as quickly as he could.
At last, at last! He found it! Running his hand along he sliced it on the sharpened edge of the white metal. He moved his fingers around and grasped it. Then carefully he started to pull up. His fingers slipped off, he found to his dismay that he couldn't manage a grip.
He moved again, grasping it as hard as he could. It was no use, his fingers were too slick with the blood of his friend. Aragorn felt like he wanted to cry. If only the healers had tended to the prince sooner! He gritted his teeth and again reached for the piece of metal. Again, he could not move it.
Keeping one hand in to mark the spot where the blade bit was, Aragorn pulled the other hand out. He turned to the dwarf, "I can't grip it."
Gimli's eyes were narrow with worry, "You must!"
"Surely there is something around here we can use to extract it, surely?"
The dwarf glanced round quickly, went over to his friend's pack and dug through it, "I can find nothing. Try again Aragorn!"
The healer returned, and sensing the tension around him thicker than before he turned to Aragorn, "What is it? Has he passed on?"
"No, I cannot remove the blade."
"You have not been able to find it then?"
"No, you misunderstand me. I have found it, but my hands, they can't grip it. They are too slick with blood."
The healer set down what he had been carrying, "Guide my hands then. They are dry."
Aragorn glanced sharply at him, a look of gratitude showing in his eyes, and then beckoned him over. The healer quickly rubbed his hands of a small towel and then placed one into the wound, alongside Aragorn's one. The king steered his hand down to where the blade sat. The healer put his fingers around it, and closing them, cut himself. Hastily he let go of the blade.
"Do not rush yourself. This is our last chance to remove it."
The healer nodded. Taking a breath, his once again grasped at the blade. He pulled.
Blood oozed out from under it, and it slid upward, moving slowly but surely. Carefully, once it was removed from the flesh inside, the healer lifted it out of the wound, and dropped it into the basin. Fresh blood was flowing from its old spot.
The three of them breathed a sigh of relief. Aragorn felt like laughing for joy and crying at the same time. Now there was truly a slim chance of hope.
Gimli handed him his thread, and reaching in one last time he carefully sewed shut the damaged organ. He tied the thread off and felt to make sure the hole was completely shut, which it was.
Now he carefully washed and cleansed the wound. Wiping off what blood he could, and applying the proper herbs the healer had brought him, he managed to get it fairly clean. Then he threaded his needle again, and carefully sewed the injury shut. Over this he put more healing herbs and a crushed athelas leaf to help give strength. He pulled out the bandages, and wrapped them tightly around. He worked steadily, not pausing, carefully applying what was needed to heal his friend as wholesomely as possible.
He turned his attention to the small side scratch Legolas had received in the combat. For indeed, a scratch it was compared to the other injury. However, untreated it would still be crippling. Aragorn cleansed this wound and wrapped it as well.
Suddenly the ranger realized that there was nothing left for him to
do. All that he could have done was done. Whether or not the Legolas
lived or died now would be up to the elf. But Aragorn had a feeling that
the odds favored him living. The elf he knew was much too stubborn to give
away his life that easily. And the elven healing factor was already doing
its work. Color was returning to the skin.
He rose and turned to Gimli and the healer. Both were grinning.
Aragorn directed his gaze to meet the healer's, "At first I had thought you a fool, but I can see by your conduct that I was mistaken. Although initially through your actions Legolas was placed in great danger, you worked hard to make up for it, and succeeded. I should be proud to make your acquaintance..."
"Arjillian, that is my name sir, and the honor of acquaintance is mine."
The two reached out a shook hands. The grip was firm.
Gimli spoke up, "If you could keep an eye on him, Aragorn and I should go and let Tanvir know how he fares. I am sure the elf would want to come see him."
Arjillian nodded, so the dwarf and man walked off together in search of the warrior.
The healer turned back to look over the prince. Breathing was improving, and more color had returned. His lips were no longer blue, but a more healthy reddish, flesh colored. It seemed as if he would live to fight another day.
Their red and yellow eyes gleamed from the branches. These elves and men were fighting each other, not paying attention to what was going on above their heads. Almost all the nets were woven, only a few more were needed. Their stingers were ready.
Tanvir looked up as Aragorn and Gimli approached him. His heart was beating widely, now he would finally know.
Aragorn saw the look of worry on his face, "It is all right, I believe he shall live."
"Then Mirkwood shall forever be in your debt. You have done us a great service. I had feared the worst when he was stabbed, I am relived for once to be wrong."
The ranger nodded, "He is recovering now. I do not know when it will be when he wakes, but I am sure that since you are his friend he would like to speak with you."
"Yes, there is much he shall need to know. And there is also something I must tell you. As I stood here, not ten minutes ago, towards my right I saw a shadow move from tree to tree. A pair of yellow eyes gleamed at me from this darkness, and then moved on. I fear that a great evil has entered these woods with the corsairs. That darkness would explain many of the deaths of fallen comrades, who were found only with small scratches upon their flesh. I believe the corsairs take orders from it."
Aragorn stared at the forest floor, lost in thought at this revelation. "We should be more keenly aware for him them, do not pass up a chance to capture or kill this shadow. These are troubling tidings you have. What could kill an elf only by scratching it? That makes no sense."
Gimli looked up at this, "Well let's go find him and get answers. Standing here won't bring in the enemy."
Tanvir grinned, "You speak truly and well Master Dwarf. But first I should like to look over my friend."
"He lies this way, come." Aragorn and Gimli, now accompanied by
Tanvir moved back off to where Arjillian was tending patients.
Unfortunately, they never made it quite that far. They had only gone
a few steps were suddenly, spiders dropped from trees all around them. The
fangs were dripping, and one of them threw over a sticky web, hindering the
three. The spiders moved in closer for the stinging to begin.
All over, spiders were dropping, landing down on enemies, stinging them and dropping their nets. In the main battlefield the occupants soon found themselves having to fend off the giant creatures and their other enemies.
Eight legs made for the spiders to scuttle around quickly, whipping their stingers through the air, connecting them with the flesh of men and elves. They cared little for which side of the battle they attacked. The spiders were for the spiders, and no one else. All they wanted was to feast upon fresh blood that night. That future seemed very likely as elves and men fell under their stingers.
As Arjillian was leaning over, tending to a patient, he felt something heavy suddenly land on him. Hot breath was on the back of his neck, and he felt hot liquid roll down his skin. There was a stinging pain in his side, and in his shoulder. The areas began to burn, and his vision started to swim.
Dimly he realized that a spider must have jumped him, but as another sting went through his heart he thought no more. His soul passed away into blackness as the spider rolled his body over and began to wrap it for eating later.
So much poison had entered the blood, and the heart had been pierced through. Ribs had been broken when the spider had landed on him, and they pierced through his insides. Blood trickled out of the mouth, spilling down the chin. Arjillian drew one last shallow breath, and then his heart gave out, his chest went still. The hairy legs of the arachnid crawled over his body, spinning it up tightly, but it needn't have bothered. This elf didn't need any more subduing, the eldar had died.
He was not the only one. The spiders had discovered the healing area and were joyfully jumping down into it, stinging those who were awake, and dragging them off into the dark woods. Those who were unconscious they simply started to wrap up with their webs, their eyes gleaming with greed and hunger.
He felt strange. Sounds were coming to him from a distance, they were disjointed and hard to make out. Blackness was caressing at his mind, calling him back. Pain racked his body, his breath suddenly came very short. Such pain he felt!
Dimly he realized that there was a heavy weight lying across his
legs. With this came the realization that he couldn't move them.
His eyes fluttered, and then he blinked many times, trying to regain
clear vision. All he could see was this shadow in front of him. His
vision finally cleared.
Legolas found that he was staring at one of the largest spiders he had ever seen, and its yellow eyes were staring right back at him. His legs were already halfway bound in its sticky rope, and as he watched, it raised its stinger, aiming right for his chest.
To give credit where credit is due here: The line, "the spiders were for the spiders" I paraphrased from C.S. Lewis. I had this disclaimer woven into the story before, but a kind reviewer showed me my error on how it jumps the readers out of the story. So thank-you C.S. Lewis for writing the books on Narnia and letting me paraphrase your wonderful writing.