Morinehtar groggily awoke from her stupor. She felt warm and comfortable lying on her back. The ceiling came into focus, revealing not a canopy of dark leaves as she expected but oaken boards and rafters. She found herself mesmerized by the grain of the wood, eyes going foggy again.
"Good. You're awake," a deep familiar voice rumbled beside her.
Turning her head lazily to her right, a strand of midnight hair glued to her sweaty forehead. "Beorn?" she breathed.
He harrumphed in reply as he folded a cold wet washcloth and laid it on her head, making her shake from the iciness, though it felt wonderful.
Taking a few labored breaths, she asked, "Why?"
"Just shut up and rest," he barked before walking out of the room without an answer.
The ceiling spun in circles as she moved her head back to the middle of the pillow, and she fell back asleep in seconds.
When she awoke this time, the room was a bit darker, but he had lit an oil lamp on his nightstand. "Your fever is getting worse," he informed her. "It was only slight this morning." He pulled the warm washcloth from her brow and wet it in the ice water again. Her skin looked even paler than he remembered it being, but she could not see the look of concern engraved on his face. She kept her eyes shut tightly to keep the room still, and she dared not move.
"It's poison," she rasped through dry lips. He said nothing, helping her sit up in the huge bed by propping her up with several pillows. She felt lightheaded but was able to drink the water that he pressed to her lips. Gulping down almost the entire cup, she said again more clearly, "It is poison."
"How?" The host sounded insulted. "I cleaned and dressed your wounds. If there were any poison in them, it would have been withdrawn when I cleaned them."
She shook her head lightly. "No," she said. "It's not your fault." She was angry at herself for letting those orcs outsmart her. "The poison hits the blood stream only a few seconds after contact."
"How do you know this?" Beorn wondered aloud.
"I know all of the plants of the forest," she answered simply. He eyed her suspiciously in the same manner that he had when she first walked into his house. "It is much the same as you and your animals," she intimated.
He growled, but asked, "So what is the cure?"
"The only cure is the plant that it came from," Morine said as she made eye contact with him.
His eyes were stony as he digested the fact, anger slowly rising again. She was in no shape to make the day long trip, and he dreaded leaving his home so soon after the close call with the orcs. Beorn mulled it over with a heavy heart and ran a large hand through his thick dark hair. After a long pause, he finally conceded. "What does it look like?"
"It is a dark purple flower with a silver stripe running down the middle of each petal," she described. "It is hard to miss, should you find it. It is easiest to find in the moonlight, as it shines off the silver stripes. It grows in vines, often climbing the trunks of beech trees." A weak smile graced her face at the mental image of the beautiful but dangerous species. "They're called moon irises."
Beorn huffed at the silly name. "That hardly sounds poisonous."
"It hardly looks poisonous either, which is the point," she snapped. "It also smells sweet. Many animals are tempted by its moonlit glare to suckle from its stamen, but that is where the poison lies. The antidote is to dry the entire flower, grind it, and consume it." She remembered when she had first seen the plant and been enamored with its dual nature and sweet irony—that the antidote and poison where one and the same. Despite the breadth of the forest's flora, it had long been one of her favorites.
Grumbling unhappily, he stood up and went to the kitchen. He came back with a hearty smelling broth. Despite his pride, he spoon fed her the broth, which warmed her entire body and renewed her strength. She was less than thrilled by feeling so vulnerable and weak around him, but she could not possibly take care of herself. It was embarrassing and uncomfortable for them both. Clearing his throat, he asked, "How long does the poison take to… affect?" He did know what the effects of the poison were.
"To kill?" she bluntly finished his question. "Three days, depending on how much gets into the bloodstream. One of the orcs I fought must have tipped his sword in the poison."
"You may get lucky then. The wound in your side was fairly shallow," he noted.
"Five days then," she said. "How long have I been asleep?"
He cursed under his breath. "Two days, plus the day it took to get back here."
She dodged his eyes at the thought of him carrying her the long way home, and the sharp pang of guilt was unmistakeable. "So we have today and tomorrow." Eying him cautiously, she asked, "Did they slash you with a sword as well?" If one was laced with poison, the rest could have been as well.
He unwrapped the bandage from his hand and lifted it to show her, revealing a black gash along the tender inside of his palm, though it was healing nicer than expected. "Should I be worried?"
"Maybe," she concluded.
Beorn bristled and stormed out of the room. Feeling rested and mostly coherent, Morine took the time to look around the large room. The bed was oversized and easily the most comfortable in her memory. It was a four-poster with large, round wooden posts. Looking up, she saw they nearly reached the ceiling and wondered if they indeed were mature trees. Every blanket piled on top of her were made of wool. Morine ran an unsteady hand across the grey surface of the blanket, but the room's temperature quickly set her to shivering. With a jerk she tucked herself back into the warmth and settled in.
Half an hour later, Beorn returned. "I had some things to take care of, but I'm leaving now. The moon will set in a few hours. You'll be taken care of," he said, giving her no time to say a thing.
Once outside, he morphed into a bear and broke into a run. If he made a straight line to the forest, it would only take a couple of hours, though it would mean not being on a trail. He would take that risk, knowing that they had no time to spare. Tomorrow night would be cutting it too close. The animals were taken care of for the night, and the dogs would tend to Morine's well-being in his short absence. The burning of his lungs made him feel alive as he ran with his mouth wide open, muscles straining to go faster. He doubted that his own cut was anything to worry about, but when he had cleaned her own sword wound, he had noticed it was tinged black, dirty streaks running toward her heart.
He knew there was too much at stake to let her die. Not only would Gandalf give him hell for it (the wrath of a wizard is a high price to pay), but there was only one way that he could explain what had happened: Morine had to be a shapeshifter like he was. He knew he had seen those emerald eyes before as he recalled watching her take down several orcs with ease. The possibilities of being related were slim, but he had to know more about her and how she could change her form.
Time flew as the tall trees emerged above the waving grass. Only when he was a few miles past the treeline did he begin to slow down, eyes shifting every which way for a glint of silver. Wandering around Mirkwood at night was not a wise thing to do, or even in the day, and he rushed to find the flower so he could leave as soon as was possible.
Slivers of moonlight poked through the canopy in a few places, but he searched for almost an hour before he found a grove of beech trees, the center-most ones aligned in an imperfect circle. He would think it strange if it were anywhere but Mirkwood. Moonlight poured into the grove, and silver sparkled in all directions. It was a mesmerizing sight for the man of the mountains. Investigating the nearest tree, the scent he caught from the flowers reminded him of the wild honeysuckle that grew in the meadows. The petals looked soft as velvet, the purple was nearly black, and the silver stripes looked like liquid metal in the moonlight.
It was at this moment that he wondered how he would transport it back. He had not brought a bag since running in bear-form with one would be nigh impossible or else slow him down too much to find the antidote before the moon set. Swiping at the vine and cutting it with his claws, Beorn bit the end of the vine where there were no flowers and yanked it down from the tree, determined to drag it the whole way back, though getting through the thick brush in places would prove challenging. There were plenty of flowers on the single vine to make an antidote for them both if necessary. Satisfied, he ran back towards home even faster than he came, anxious to make sure his animals were safe and to begin making the antidote.
He woke Morine around midday after drying the flowers by baking them over the fireplace. Grinding them down into a powder, he stirred them into a mug of lukewarm water. It looked and smelled less than appetizing, and he hoped he would not need to drink the nasty concoction.
Morine's fever had visibly risen even higher. She was struggling to focus her attention on him, falling in and out of consciousness. He propped her up on the pillows again, though she barely registered the movement. After wiping the sweat from her face and rubbing the icy washcloth along her hands and neck as well, he began pouring the antidote down her throat as fast as she could drink it. She choked and sputtered as it spilled in small rivulets out of her mouth. Pouring slower, he said, "I know it's nasty. Just try to drink it," he soothed in a calming voice that his horses knew well. He stopped to give her breaks, noticing she was unable to breathe and drink simultaneously. Her stomach grumbled loudly as she continued to drink without complaint. "Good."
When the mug was empty, he set it on his small bedside table. Checking her forehead, his brows knit at the furnace-like heat. He gently touched her hands to find they were cold and clammy. She looked as white as parchment, hair soaked in sweat. It would take time before she was strong enough to bathe and he could redress her wounds if necessary. He checked the arrow wound on her left shoulder to see how it was healing. The deep gash would leave a scar, but the blood had clotted well, and it was closing up. His homemade salve was aiding the process.
Beorn grabbed the woolen blanket he had been using while sleeping on his couch the last few evenings and placed it on top of Morine. It was the last of the blankets in the house, and he waited for her to sweat the fever out. He took his place in his usual chair beside her bed. Rubbing his hand over his heavy brow, he told himself that he had tried his best and had even gone farther out of his way than was necessary to help her. In the coldest hours before daybreak, he pondered why he had saved her at all. Staring at her sickly face, he wondered, "Who are you, Morine?"
