The elf woman watched as the old man led her horse away, then turned and followed the old woman inside.
The interior of the small hut was a tad cramped, but much cozier than anything she was used to. The hearth glowed warmly and she was compelled to approach the crackling flames and thaw out the chill in her long slender hands. She watched as the old woman gently placed the child on a bed located in the corner closest to the fire. She observed how the old woman gathered the blanket over his small shoulders and tucked it under him like a protective cocoon. She then leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead.
"Wait a moment, and I'll get your medicine," The elderly woman said. She turned and walked over to the hearth and drew a ladle of broth from the bubbling pot of stew hanging over the fire. She poured it into a small wooden bowl and proceeded to a nearby table where a pouch of herbs lay. She gathered a pinch of the strong-smelling leaves, crumpled them up, and stirred them into the broth. She then went back to the bed. Grima sat up and took the bowl as the old woman handed it to him and began to sip the hot liquid, the old woman helping him to steady the bowl, as his hands were shaking.
Not for one moment did the elf's eyes leave the boy. She saw him wince at the strong taste of the herbs. She saw him sputter and cough, tears streaming from his eyes at the pain in his chest. Needless to say, she was moved with pity. His coughing fit became more and more intense, and the old woman patted his back, hoping to help him end it.
"He needs water," she said, starting to rise.
"I will get it," the elf said, turning towards the water bucket on the table next to the herbs. She drew out the drinking gourd, and poured out the water inside. Making sure to be discreet, she withdrew a small vial from the pouch on her belt and poured out the crystal water inside into the gourd.
'This should help...' she thought to herself, handing the gourd to the old woman.
"Thank you, dear," the old woman said, and slowly put the gourd up to the boy's lips. He drank in between coughs; the water tasted sweet and felt unusually soothing as it slid down his aching throat. By the time the gourd was empty, the coughs had come to a stop, much to the relief of all in the house.
The old man came back in, quietly closing the door behind him. "That's one impressive steed you have, my lady," he said. "Can't say I've ever seen one like her. I gave her some fresh hay and a clean trough of water. She seemed quite thirsty."
"We had been traveling for quite some time," the elf replied. "I can't say that I blame her."
"Well, some good food and rest should do her good," the old man said, and took a seat by the fire.
The elf looked back to the old woman and the boy; Grìma had sunk back under the blanket and was beginning to dose off. The old woman stroked the side of his face with her hand and stood back up, leaving him to sleep. The elf stared at him for a few moments, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath, a ragged gurgle coming from his throat.
"What...is wrong with him?" she asked, even though she already knew.
The old woman sighed. "Consumption," she replied. "We don't know how he got it...he never played with other children much..."
The elf nodded. "It's...so tragic for one so young to be stricken with such an awful ailment."
"He's been through so much," the old man said. "It's not fair that this should happen to him."
The elf turned her head slightly to the side in question.
"He's not our real child," the old woman explained. "We took him in after his father died. Awful man he was. Treated the poor dear like manure. Always going off, drinking, and coming home and throwing Grìma about like an unwanted rag doll. Sometimes the boy would be screaming so loud that the neighbors would come banging on the door, wanting to know what was going on. His right eye, the cloudy one? His father did that to him. Threw hot ash in his face, nearly burned his eye out. He's lucky that he can still see out of it."
"Most of us thought that 'ol Galmod would end up killing him someday," the old mad added. "'Till one night the bastard went and drunk himself to death. Poor Grìma didn't have any other family...his mother died givin' birth to him, and there was no one else who would take him in. So we did." He sighed. "Boy's never been quite right...always scared, always stayin' off by himself. Won't play with the other kids; they pick on him anyway. Always likes to go off in some dark corner and read." He gestured to the book at the foot of the bed. "That one's his favorite. It's about the legends of Middle Earth. Whenever we catch him reading it, he's always on that one about the Flame Rider. You know that one, don't you?"
The elf nodded. "Yes...I do very well."
The old man chuckled. "When he reads it, his face just lights up like a candle." He laughed. "Once, I remember him saying that he was gonna marry the Flame Rider when he grew up."
The elf let out an amused chuckle. "Well, I can certainly tell that he is very intelligent. His eyes seem to burn with curiosity and thought."
"Aye, they do," the old man said. "He's sharp as a nail; he can usually tell what someone is thinking, or what they plan to do. Never seen a child quite so gifted."
The old woman ladled out stew into three bowls. "Yes, he's something. Now have something to eat, dear. You can sleep here tonight."
"I thank you, but it really isn't..."
"Oh nonsense!" she said, handing her a bowl. "It's no trouble at all, and we're in your debt. Now eat."