Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters, races, and creatures, as well as our beloved Middle Earth, belongs to JRR Tolkien.
It had been a surprise—and a mistake.
And Jeren watched it all unfold.
Two of the Dúnedain scouts had been observing this Orc cave for days—arriving just before dawn to see the beasts pour in and just after dusk to watch them leave—but somehow the numbers had become skewed. Jeren decided that additional Orcs had joined the original band of twenty after the rangers' last reconnaissance. That could be the only explanation for the overwhelming slew of the brutes that surged from the opening now. There had to be at least forty of them.
This had been her first and only chance to join with the rangers, show them her talent with bow and blade. A few days after she'd seen Elrohir, a small company of rangers left the settlement to hunt Orcs. Jeren followed them at a safe distance, camping when they camped, riding when they rode. Each day at dawn the rangers had broken up into scouting groups, and one pair that Jeren followed had found this cave, which they'd returned to each morning and evening. They'd watched it for three days, noting numbers of Orcs and their relative strength. When and how the extra Orcs had joined the others, even Jeren did not know.
Jeren waited in the trees and brush fringing the cave's entrance. Before she could initiate an alarm call—one she knew the twins would recognize—a young ranger's premature arrow sang through the clearing surrounding the cave mouth, and pierced the chest of one of the beasts. And now committed to battle, the rangers could do nothing but fight for their lives.
And now she paused. The odds of this not being a complete rout were out of the realm of reason. With the ranger force being only twelve, including Elladan and Elrohir, the chances they'd be successful, and live to tell about it, were laughable. They were grossly outnumbered—as Jeren had been all those years ago back at her cabin. And that same intense fear rippled through her belly.
At least Aragorn was not among them—they wouldn't lose their leader in this fiasco. But the fact that her father and Elrohir and Elladan were sent shivers of horror down her spine. This was her first real battle—other than the one she'd had alone, weaponless, back at her house all those years ago. Even though she'd skirmished with Orcs in the company of the Elves of Imladris, there were no instructors here. There weren't ten novice warrior Elves at her side, nor three instructors guiding her, correcting her should she make a misstep. She was basically alone again. She was petrified.
But the longer she looked on, the more certain she was that she could not just sit here and watch. She had told the men that this—what was happening before her now—was her aspiration in life. Did she believe it, or was she a coward?
A coward. She was no coward! But she did have sense. What good could she do? Getting herself killed would accomplish nothing. She closed her eyes and took two deep breaths, preparing herself to charge into the melee. When she opened her eyes again, she hesitated again, knowing the uselessness of throwing herself to certain death. She had to hold tight, be a scout this time, and see to the wounded—if any yet lived—when the battle was done. If the Orcs took prisoners, she would follow them at a distance, marking their location, and then return to the stronghold for help.
Jeren left her horse and checked her quiver. It was completely full. She quickly climbed into the trees and painstakingly made her way to within good range of the fight. Having Elves as teachers, especially those from the Woodland realm, certainly had its rewards. Mirkwood messengers had been frequent guests in Imladris, and Jeren had gotten to know them well. They'd been kind enough to tutor her in the use of the trees as cover in a battle. And now those lessons helped her beyond measure. But it would do no good to get too close. Orcs could climb and they would be on her in seconds once they found out where she hid if she wasn't careful. There were just too many of them.
She took her time, making each arrow count. She only shot when a ranger had a chance of survival. She didn't want to draw undue attention to herself by rapidly firing from one place. And there was a limit to her arrows. They each had to find a mark.
She cringed as she saw Anardil take a blow to the side of his head, an Orc using the hilt of his short, curved sword to lay the ranger out. She had no clear shot, so she watched in horror as that same beast plunged the blade into her father's torso.
This was incomprehensible to her. Her Papa dead? The shock was almost too much to bear. The battle seemed stopped, her eyes only on her father's prone form. She shook her head, trying to lift the stunned paralysis she found herself in. She'd not seen if he'd been dealt a fatal strike. And right now, she didn't have time to think about it. With effort she brought herself back to the present and this battle at hand.
Elladan and Elrohir fought back to back. They had to be tiring. They were Elves, but even Elves had limits.
"No, no, no…" Jeren said under her breath as she gazed at the carnage. Coldness gathered in the pit of her belly as she realized there were no more rangers standing. The remaining Orcs were concentrated around the Elves. She started firing arrows more quickly, hoping no Orc would seek her out in the trees.
And in the end, it made no difference. The hatred that Orcs bear Elves became apparent. The beasts hardly noticed their numbers decreasing; one or two chanced a glance in Jeren's direction when they saw a comrade fall. Mostly all their attention was on their Elven prey.
And then the incomprehensible happened again. One of the Elves—Jeren was too far away, she couldn't tell them apart—went down; an Orc blade plunged into his chest. Some of the Orcs descended on the Elf, hitting him with fists, kicking him repeatedly. The rest of the Orcs took advantage of the other Elf's distraction and swamped him, taking him down, too.
Terrified, Jeren reached into her quiver to continue firing, in hopes that she could save at least one of the Elves. But her fingers grasped at air—she was all out of arrows.
Jeren watched on in utter despair, as the Orcs brought one of the Elves to his feet. He thrashed and fought until the beasts got tired of trying to restrain him. One Orc bashed a rock into the side the Elf's head, which sent him crashing to the ground. A couple of the Orcs tied the Elf's hands and feet, and then one of the larger ones slung the Elf over his shoulder. By unspoken agreement, the body of Orcs turned and headed off to the south.
Jeren barely had the presence of mind to count them as they passed beneath her. Twelve. Out of the forty some odd Orcs that had poured out of the cave's mouth not twenty minutes ago, only a dozen remained.
All that remained of the rangers and Elves lay dead or dying on the bloody ground.
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Stunned, Jeren slid down the tree to the dirt. With her back against the trunk, she closed her eyes, hoping that it had all been a bad dream. But opening them did not alter what she saw.
Carnage surrounded her. It had been a bloodbath. It would be the faces she would always remember. Expressions etched as if flesh were granite—fear—despair—horror—would forever be seared into her memory.
She drew a deep breath. Moaning came from someone, but no discernible movement caught her eye. She wandered among the torn bodies—of men and Orcs—directing herself toward the sound, collecting her arrows from dead Orcs as she passed.
She knelt when she came to a man whose eyes opened at her approach. She did not know him, but she had seen him in the hall—one of those men who'd protested so loudly that she not be allowed to join with the rangers. He'd been gutted, his entrails spilled out of him onto the ground like bloody rope. His breathing was ragged and panting, and as she drew closer to him, he grabbed at her sleeve. "Finish it, girl!" he wheezed. "For the Valar's sake, do me this one last service."
Kill a man? He'd asked her to kill him! Could she do it? He was obviously beyond help and if she did not do as he asked, who knew how long he would suffer? She could not permit that. Jeren took his dagger from his belt and without allowing herself to think about it a second longer, she plunged the blade into his heart. He convulsed and then went limp, his eyes staring vacant. She pulled the dagger free, wiped it on what was left of his tunic and replaced it into his belt. One more fleshly statue amidst so many others.
She fought back intense nausea, then she got up from her crouch and began to search for any living thing. An Orc grabbed at her ankle as she passed him, but she did not hesitate dispatching him from life with her blade.
She felt like crying. So much death and blood surrounded her. Jeren continued on her trek from man to man, being careful of Orcs as she passed.
But the rangers were all still. All of them gone. Ten men and one Elf would be no more.
She finally reached Anardil. Jeren dropped to her knees, hoping against all hope that he lived. He was still as death. As her fingers grazed the side of his neck, his eyes opened, and one of his hands grabbed her arm so tightly she thought he would break it. His other hand contained his dagger and it was up at her throat before she could whisper his name.
"Papa, tis me!"
They both relaxed by degrees, Anardil allowing the hand with the knife to fall away. His grip on her lessened gradually. He blinked his eyes, as if he couldn't believe what they saw.
"Jeren?" Anardil's voice was scratchy, like he hadn't spoken for days. But the more he gazed at her, the more relieved he looked. He smiled and then chuckled. "What a sight for sore eyes you are, girl."
Sore eyes, indeed, Jeren thought. His left eye, swelling more by the minute, was bruising, the skin turning a dark purple. He had a gash in his temple where the Orc had hit him with the hilt of his blade, and blood was drying in a trail that disappeared into his hair just above his ear. That reminded her that she'd seen the Orc plunge his blade into her father. Her trembling hands made their way down the front of his bloodied tunic, searching for the wound.
"Help me up," he told her as he struggled to rise. "We need to see to the others."
"There are no others," Jeren told him flatly as she pressed her hands against his chest in an attempt to keep him from rising.
"You're sure of that, are you? Think you mayhap some of them might be lying here—as I have been—too hurt to flee but mindful that someone—or something—walked amongst us?"
"Lie still—you've been wounded." Jeren was no healer and knew not what she would do when she discovered the gaping hole that must be in her father. When she found what she sought, she almost cried with relief. While it was an awful cut, and probably very painful, it seemed to be just a flesh wound in the side. Thank the Valar!
"I'll keep," Anardil told her impatiently. "Help me up and that's an order, girl."
Jeren knew that tone and those words. They brooked no argument. Her relief at finding him alive overshadowed the anger she felt toward him for his betrayal at the settlement; so she would not ignore this command. She eased him into a sitting position and he swayed where he sat. The blow to the head had been severe enough to knock him out. It probably caused him dizziness now. He grimaced at the pain.
They were both startled, reaching for weapons, when one of the rangers Jeren had thought dead sat up. He was a young man with black hair and rich silver eyes.
Anardil swore and said, "Scare what's left of the life right out of me, Rhyse, why don't ya?"
Jeren could tell the man—Rhyse—wanted to shake his head to clear it, but could see him consciously decide against it. Dizziness obviously assailed him as well. She watched him glance around at all the bodies—both ranger and Orc—and saw his face fall in full remembrance of what had just occurred.
"Rhyse, are ye hale?" Anardil asked. "We needs be up seeing to survivors."
"I'm hale enough, sir," was the reply. "It seems the only hurt I've got is this bump on the head." Rhyse gained his feet unsteadily, began moving around to check on those prone around him.
Anardil knew he'd not be on his feet for long were he to stand. The dizzy nausea that came with this headache, not to mention loss of blood from his side, would have him out again were he to try it. So he directed Rhyse and Jeren from where he sat, telling them to touch every man.
"Over here," Rhyse called after a few moments. "I've found Elladan—I think. And he's alive."
Taking one last look at Anardil, Jeren hurried over to the Elf. She knelt again, placing her hand against his neck, feeling a pulse. The slightest rise and fall of his chest confirmed for her that there was life yet in his body.
He was beaten so badly, she hesitated in naming this Elf as Elladan, but the longer she looked at his features, the more convinced she was of it. While they were almost identical, there were subtle differences in the twins she'd learned to recognize over the years. Elladan's face was just a fraction thinner; Elrohir's jaw a tad squarer. Elrohir's nose had been broken before, so Elladan's used to be bit straighter—until it had been injured in this battle. Elladan had Elrond's brow—identical. Elrohir's brows must have showed his mother's influence—they were not quite as arched. Yes, this was decidedly Elladan.
His entire face was bloody. His nose was broken and his eyes blackened. She bent over him, examining the wound that had brought him down. She'd believed it had been in his chest, but it was too high. It was only a shoulder wound. But the beating and kicking he'd received was so vicious, certainly he had other injuries inside his body.
In a quiet voice, Anardil said, "We needs find some type of shelter, away from here. Who knows if those villains will yet return to this cave? Dark is falling. Jeren, which way did the Orcs go? Did they take anyone with them?"
"They took—Elrohir, I suppose, since this is indeed Elladan. Heading south. There were only twelve left, Papa. I should go after them."
"Tis growing dark. None of us needs be about after sunfall. We'll see to a proper sending off for our lads come morn, if the brutes do not return to this forsaken hole. For now, our first priority is finding a sheltered place and paying some attention to the Elf."
"And what about you, Papa?" Jeren asked with genuine concern. "You've been cut by an Orc blade. You need to be seen to."
"I will be. But first you do as I say. Have you checked all our lads lain out here?"
At Jeren's nod, he continued, "Good. Where've you been hiding, girl? You'll need to take us there, if there's room enough for four. I'll not rest in the hole those beasts just came from; the stench alone would finish me off. First, you must make a litter for our Elven friend. Hurry now, it's getting' on to full dark. "
Jeren and Rhyse found two stout saplings and cut them to a manageable length with the hatchet Jeren kept in her gear. She also retrieved her blanket from the bedroll behind her saddle, and with Rhyse's help, made cuts into its sides. Then they were able to tie it to the two poles they'd cut.
Elladan was lightweight considering his height, and Rhyse and Jeren placed him on the blanket without much strain. With a length of rope Jeren always carried, they tied the litter to her horse's saddle to drag it.
It was growing quite dark by the time they started off for the place Jeren had been camping the few days before. The land was hilly hereabouts. While not mountainous, the valley they were in had been shadowed enough, before the battle, for the Orcs to feel safe to emerge from their cavern. A little more than half an hour had elapsed since the disastrous encounter between the Orcs and the rangers, and the sun was well and truly setting now.
Since Anardil could barely stand, much less walk, Jeren helped her father onto her horse. Together with Rhyse, Jeren led Two through the brush, ever mindful of listening for the Orcs' return. Rhyse stumbled twice and Jeren finally convinced him to allow her to help him. He placed one of his arms across her shoulders, and they continued their trek to cover.
She'd been camping beneath a rocky outcropping about half a league from where the battle had been fought. It had been fairly overgrown when she first chose it, but she'd hacked at some of the smaller trees and brush that grew up next to the rocks, clearing a small place for herself. Now before she took the others inside, she first chopped out a larger area to hold them all.
Jeren busied herself making a small fire. It was a risk, but she needed light and hot water to tend to the wounds of those depending on her.
As concerned as Jeren was for her father and Elladan, her heart worried after Elrohir—taken captive by the beasts he'd been fighting. She had personal knowledge of their treachery, and she shuddered to think of anyone—especially one of the twins—in their clutches. He'd be tortured, used and then killed. And since he was Elfkind, the Orcs would make great sport of him. She thought about the long night stretched out before her—and before Elrohir. A long, torturous night for them both. Her only hope was that they'd keep him alive to play with him. Long enough that she could find and rescue him. But even as frantic as she was to get started tracking after the Orc band, even she was not foolhardy enough to go out after darkness had fallen.
And she felt as if the waiting just might kill her.
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"You want me to what?" Jeren asked in disbelief. While she had known that she'd be called upon to tend to the wounds, it had not occurred to her that Anardil would order her to stitch him up. Rhyse was here, and probably much more experienced than she at this endeavor. But when she voiced that opinion, Anardil asked her in a quiet voice, "Have you gotten so smart that you question my orders?" At her quick downward glance and slight shake of her head, he added, "Rhyse, like me, is probably still seein' double from that conk on the head he took. I'd just as soon my arm not be stitched to my side, thank you very much." She didn't see him smile at her unease.
Jeren had occupied herself getting water to boiling over their fire, in a small metal bowl Lord Elrond had once given her to use during survival drills. She'd torn one of her shirts up for bandages. Rhyse had set about looking after Elladan. Jeren had tried to get Rhyse to rest, but he would not. By Rhyse's own admission, he was not good for much at the moment, but he could tend to Elladan even with his head in such a knot, as it were. They were all keeping ears attuned to their surroundings. That was an innate trait of a warrior in the wild.
The twins' horses had come up to the campsite fairly soon after Jeren had hidden the rangers and Elladan there. The beasts had come in on smooth and silent hooves. So much so that they'd hardly even startled any of them. One minute they weren't there, and the next they were. Anardil said that the horses had instinctively known that one of the Elves was within the small clearing. Jeren was simply relieved, because the twins always included medicaments in their saddlebags, as well as needles and small knives. She had a chance of doing some good, if Elladan ever woke up to direct her in the use of some of the herbs that he carried.
"You should have been seen to well before now." Jeren knew she pushed her luck, admonishing Anardil in this way. She was first cleansing the wound before she would stitch it. "The Orc's blade could have been poisoned or fouled, you know."
He looked up at her sideways and quirked a brow. "Aye. The blade could have been poisoned—whereas I'd be well on my way toward death's door by now. And it most assuredly was fouled. Orcs never clean their blades; they just hone all the gore off when the sword is too dull to cut cleanly any more. 'Twill be more the miracle if the wound does not take infection, than if it does. I'm sure the twins' things will yield some herb that will fight it."
"Do you know which herbs to use, Papa?" Jeren looked at him hopefully.
"Sadly, that is something I have not paid close attention to. I've always left the healing to them, and been glad for it."
As if knowing he was being spoken of, Elladan groaned and shifted in his discomfort. Rhyse had been bathing the blood off Elladan's face, evidently using more force than the Elf could stand on his broken nose.
Suddenly Elladan started—calling out Elrohir's name in a strangled voice. He would have jumped to his feet if Rhyse had not been there to hold him down. As it was the Elf made it to his elbows, frantically looking around for his twin. He then grasped the front of Rhyse's tunic with both hands and asked, "Where is Elrohir? Where is my brother?"
Rhyse gripped Elladan's fists and removed them from his clothing, then tried to ease the Elf back down. But Elladan would have none of it. "Where is he? They took him, didn't they?"
Jeren was impressed with the way Rhyse handled this crisis. As Jeren spent time with Rhyse, she began to study him. He was young—mayhap her own age. And given that he was a ranger of the Dúnedain, he'd likely been in the company of the twins before. Yet with the Elves' exalted status of being the sons of Elrond, she might have expected Rhyse to treat them with awe, not familiarity. So instead of imploring help from her father, as she had half expected, Rhyse told Elladan, "Lie back down and I will tell you where your brother is. But I will not speak until you have done so."
Jeren would not have been surprised had Elladan simply shoved Rhyse aside and rose. In fact she was disappointed that he did not do so. He eased himself back down with a grimace of pain. That he had complied with Rhyse's request at all proved just how injured he was.
"Where is he?" Elladan asked again, his voice ragged.
Rhyse did not know Jeren's history with the twins, but Anardil did, and her father motioned her over to Elladan's side. This was a blow best delivered by someone Elladan loved and trusted, not a relative stranger to him.
Jeren leaned over Elladan, someone she loved more than just about anyone else in the world. He looked into her eyes, read the story there and closed his for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, "He still lives—I can sense his presence." Jeren saw sadness, despair—even fear—in Elladan's eyes. She almost couldn't bear it.
"I will leave at dawn and I will find him, Elladan," she said. "I swear to you I will not fail." He nodded that he'd heard. "Now, my friend," she continued, "I am going to fetch your saddlebags and you will tell me which medicines I will find in them to guard against the taint of Orc-blade. Both you and my father have been cut by them and you need tending to." She rose to retrieve the bags from both of the Elven horses.
Anardil called her to him. "You should not promise him that which you cannot do."
She frowned at her father, not really comprehending what he was saying. "I can and will do exactly as I told him."
"No, you will not." Anardil looked her square in the eyes as he spoke to her. "I have plans for you tomorrow and they do not include running after that Orc band. You will go to the stronghold and seek help—and those men you retrieve will go after the Orcs who have Elrohir."
"There is no time, Papa," Jeren said with quiet vehemence. "I will not leave Elrohir with those monsters for any longer than I might."
"You will do as I tell you, girl." The hushed, direct tone of Anardil's words would have left her cold at one time in her life, and the expression on her father's face left no doubt that he was as serious as she'd ever seen him.
Yet anger at Anardil—for so many reasons—suddenly flared in her heart. For leaving her and her mother alone for months at a time all those many years ago; for not being there when her mother sickened and died, leaving Jeren to care for her and then bury her by herself; for not coming to her aid when the Orcs attacked her; his faithlessness in the hall at the settlement, when he turned his back in apparent shame on her only request.
She fought down her rage with effort. "You taught me yourself how to track, Papa. And the Elves of Imladris have perfected that ability in me. No one could do a better job of it than I, unless it be Lord Aragorn or Glorfindel or one of the twins themselves." Jeren knelt beside her father in a futile attempt at keeping Elladan from hearing what she was saying. With steel in her tone she lowered her voice and said, "I know firsthand what Orcs find sporting, Father, and I will not leave someone I love to their vile treatment for any longer than I must. I survived what they did to me, but Elves are not so flexible. The twins' own mother could not continue living in this world with the knowledge of what the beasts had done to her. Think you they will not torment Elrohir in the same way?"
The tic near Anardil's left eye told Jeren how close she tread to taking the full brunt of his temper. But he inhaled sharply and looked away, seeming to consider what she had said. When he looked at her again, the same steely expression on Jeren's face showed in his. "You—will—do—as—I—tell—you." He punctuated each word and his gaze did not falter.
Her gray eyes met his square on. "I will do what I must. If you have not noticed, Papa, I am no longer your little girl. And Lord Aragorn made it abundantly clear that I will never be a Dúnedain ranger. While I will always seek your council, I do not take orders from you unthinking as I might once have done. I promised Elladan that I will find Elrohir and I will do it." Jeren rose, and without a backward glance at her father, continued on her way to get the saddlebags from the Elven horses.
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An hour later found Jeren seated cross-legged beside Elladan, tending to him. She'd first stitched her father's wound. Even as angry as she was with him—on several issues—she found no pleasure in the pain which she brought him. He'd tried again to dissuade her from what he termed 'her folly,' but she kept her eyes on her work and did not even acknowledge that she heard him.
Now her mission was to stitch Elladan's wound. Since she had practiced on her father—placing ten stitches in a cut that truthfully only needed half that—she found the proposition of sewing on Elladan not near the trial she would have thought when Anardil first suggested she take up the needle. Elladan had fully regained his wits, and he protested long that she need not ply her needle on him at all.
"I am Elfkind. I will heal quickly without need of sewing." Jeren halfway believed him, but her need for some sort of justice would not allow for her total convincing. He'd once sat right beside her and watched Elrohir as he sewed a wound of hers—under her complete and utter protest—and he'd not aided her. No, as far as she was concerned, he needed sewing in the worst way. And if he kept up with his whining, she just might sew his lips together too.
"I have only your word that your healing will be swift," Jeren said. He began another spate of protestations, but she ignored him and started with the sewing of the wound in his shoulder. He grimaced and ground his teeth as the needle pierced his skin.
"At least you were offered drink to dull the pain, Jeren," he told her accusingly between his clenched teeth. His eyes would have wounded her had she been paying any attention to them at all. She might have wondered at his seeming to read her mind, bringing up the subject of the twins' tending of her all those years ago, but again, she was paying his words no notice. She continued with her mending. It did not take long to place five neatly lined stitches in the cut, after which she sat back satisfied. Taking Elladan's directions that she'd already used on Anardil, she mixed up a poultice to bind to the wound with a bandage. She was finding the treatment of injury to her liking after all.
When she had completed her task of bandaging Elladan, he said, "Help me to sit up. My nose is what's paining me most of all." She shot him a look of incredulity. "Despite what you think," he said, irritated, "what I told you before is true. I am already mending, and I have no serious injury." Her frown deepened, complete skepticism shouting from her face. "Jeren, you are sorely trying me. Help me sit up. At most I have a couple of cracked ribs, which are paining me some, but it is my nose that needs attention. I cannot breathe lying down. Perhaps sitting up will help."
She eased him into a sitting position. She had to admit that his voice had a distinct nasal tone to it, and she'd known of the break the minute she'd seen him after the battle. He felt of his nose with both hands then let out a sigh. "You will have to set it straight, Jeren. I cannot do it myself. He gave her half a smile. "And besides, I really cannot breathe through it the way that it is."
Jeren's heart lifted just a little at seeing even a ghost of a smile on Elladan's face. She knew his every thought was with his brother, but she also knew that his fretting over it would not hurry him on his way to Elrohir's side any faster.
She didn't suppose there was truly any art to pushing a nose back into the center of someone's face, so she thrust her unease aside. She placed her fingers on each side of Elladan's nose and before either of them could think much about it, she shoved it firmly back into place. Elladan's harsh intake of breath, as well as his squinted eyes and drawn mouth, told her just how much the move had hurt him. But they both knew he daren't yell or shout the curse words he so desperately wanted to hurl in her direction.
A fine trickle of blood came out of one of his nostrils. Jeren wiped it away with one of her cloths. After a few minutes Elladan opened his blackened eyes and with a calm Jeren doubted he actually felt, he said, "Thank you," in a voice barely above a whisper. She helped him lie back down and moved to rise, but he caught at her hand. "Do not leave without me in the morning, Jeren. I will be able to ride."
She rolled her eyes. "Elladan—"
"Do not leave me here, Jeren. Our continued friendship depends on what you do." His eyes never left hers.
Jeren looked at him for an extended moment, but said nothing. She rose and walked out of the clearing into the trees surrounding them.
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Jeren busied herself making an herbal tea that Elladan had told her would fight infection in his and Anardil's wounds. So she made enough for Rhyse, as well; she knew it would soothe his headache. She sweetened it with honey, expecting it would taste vile without it.
As soon as everyone had settled for the night, Jeren prepared herself for her journey on the morrow. She packed everything she would need—and she was taking one of the Elven horses. They were of leaner build and faster besides, as well as much more enduring of long runs. She'd often wondered why she'd chosen Two as the mount she had when Glorfindel offered her the choice. But in her heart she knew it was because of Jones, her old horse she'd lost in the Orc attack at her house in the woods. Jones would always and forever have a soft place in Jeren's heart, and in loyalty to Jones' breeding, Jeren chose a Human bred horse for her own. And besides, she wearied sometimes of the perfection of Elves. She wanted a horse that had faults—just as she had. She'd named the mare Jones Two. However, on this mission, Two would not be the best choice. Jeren figured the mare would forgive her—eventually.
She dumped what was left of the tea into the fire, stirring the ashes and embers to completely kill it. She finally laid back on her bedroll, wondering not for the first time, why she didn't simply leave to go find Elrohir. Of course she knew why—the land was perilous after dark. Orcs and Wargs and Valar only knew what else skulked about after the sun went down.
Jeren lay there and prayed to the Valar, that they would watch over Elrohir until she could find him; that they would watch over her when she did; that they would aid her in her attempt to free him. It felt as if she laid there praying for a very long time. She did not believe she would ever sleep this night—but she was wrong.
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A/N Yes, I know the rangers would have had more sense than to stage a battle at sunset, rather than sunrise. What can I say, besides that it made for more drama?