Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters, races, and creatures, as well as our beloved Middle Earth, belongs to JRR Tolkien.
"Shall we draw straws to see who the unlucky fool is who goes after that hard-headed daughter of yours, Anardil?" Elrohir asked, breaking the profound silence. "'Twill be nightfall before long."
"Where has she gone? What foolhardy thing does she hope to accomplish now, when the sun is near setting?"
Elrohir and Elladan glanced at each other, then Rhyse said, his tone uneasy, "You just sent her away, Anardil; to the stronghold, to deliver your answer to Aragorn. Do you not remember?"
Anardil's expression turned inward, as if exploring his memory. "I did this? Just now, you say? What tricks would you be pullin' on me, Rhyse? This is too serious a thing to be jestin' about." Then, as if some light went on in his mind, Anardil mumbled, "Oh yes— Mayhap I did do this. I considered sendin' her to the stronghold, to teach her a lesson, yet I do not remember actually lendin' voice to the words." He looked stricken and confused. "What can be wrong with me?" he asked in a near whisper.
There was an awkward silence. No one knew what to say.
"In that case," Anardil continued, his voice stronger, "I hope that you do go seek her, for her sake, but do not rely on me to be in the search party. Even could I sit a saddle with this Orc cut, it seems I have no sense with which to go looking for her. I do not even remember her parting." He heaved a huge sigh and set the arrow he'd been working on to the side.
"She knows not the pain she afflicts on me when she goes off on her own, though in this case, it appears it's my fault, not hers. She could be killed—or worse—like what happened before—and she seems to not even give it a thought."
"Or worse, Anardil?" Elladan asked, in apparent amazement. "What is worse than death? That's final. Nothing is worse. She triumphed over what the Orcs did to her. She lived. And she thrives. Seven years have passed and no one would ever know she'd been beset by Orcs. No wonder she despairs of you."
Elrohir tried to make some sense out of what Anardil was saying, but when Elladan said his piece, he truly knew something was wrong with both of them. Elladan was now arguing with Anardil! And over things better left unsaid, in front of others who knew nothing of Jeren's attack by Orcs. Yes, there was something very wrong here.
"I do all the worryin' over her for the both of us. It's makin' me old—and it makes me say things to her I do not mean," Anardil confessed, his fevered eyes etched with worry for his only daughter. "Of course there's nothin' worse than dyin', Elladan. When she was overrun by the brutes at our cabin, not only was I not there to help her, but afterward, when I was with her, there was nothin' I could do for her, save hold her hand. And I didn't do such a good job of that, neither." Anardil wiped the sweat from his brow. "Valar, it must be this fever that's talkin'. I make no sense, not even to myself."
Elladan stood and retrieved the saddlebag that contained the medicaments and instruments he'd need to see to Anardil's wound. He then sat in front of Anardil and motioned for him to open his tunic. Anardil complied.
Heat radiated off the man. Anardil's fever was great. Elladan cut off the bandage that Jeren had placed there the night before. The cloth was soaked with bloody ooze. On unspoken cue Elrohir built a fire, placing water on to boil for the instruments he fetched. Rhyse sat by, to help if they needed him. Joem and Brid set out to hunt. They had no stomach for injuries, especially ones that looked to be as bad as Anardil's.
Elladan took the pad of the bandage away from the wound and saw that this was indeed a horrific infection. The stitches were strained and the cut was already running with gore. "Lay back Anardil. I need better access to this. Elrohir, help me, please."
The twins set about working over Anardil, cutting the stitches, cleaning the wound. They had to sear it with the white-hot blades of their knives, to kill the decay in the flesh that had started. Rhyse was put to good use holding Anardil still. The pain had been great and it was a wonder indeed that the man remained conscious through it all. Would that he had not. They soon had him bandaged again and dosed with a healing herbal tea.
When the twins were finished, Elladan said, "We've done our best with this Anardil, but I fear for you. You need to see my father. I think we've not gotten to this in time."
Elrohir shot another look at his brother, noting again the lack of restraint in Elladan's words. Both he and Anardil acted as if they could not help but say what they were thinking. Elrohir was beginning to have some serious thoughts about whether those Orc blades that pierced Anardil and Elladan might have been poisoned after all.
And now Elrohir was torn. He was very concerned for his brother, who was obviously talking straight out of his head, with no thought about what he said or who might be listening. But the evening was not getting younger, and Jeren was out there alone.
He retrieved his saddle and other gear, and spread out his bedroll, where he kept an extra set of clothes. He found another tunic, which he quickly shrugged into, and located his spare pair of boots, which he donned. Then he gathered the saddle and bridle for his horse.
Elrohir said, looking directly at Elladan, "If no one needs anything else of me then I am off. I will not rest knowing Jeren is alone, while we suspect there's at least one angry Orc band out there on the hunt for a missing Elf."
"I will go with you," Rhyse said. "There's one too many rangers here for my liking, even though for now that ranger has gone to hunt. But he will return and I would rather be doing something constructive, than sitting here listening to him preach."
Neither of the twins knew that Rhyse had a particular complaint against Joem, but that he was speaking of him, they had no doubt. Joem, called The Mouth behind his back—or to his front if a ranger was brave enough—was not one of the more well liked of the company. He spoke out of turn more often than not, and seemed to generally grate on the others. But he was a big, brawny man and an excellent swordsman, so at least he earned his keep.
"I appreciate your offer, Rhyse," Elrohir said, "yet I need you to undertake another important task for me. As I just said, I fear the other part of that Orc band that held me captive last night might be tracking me, and that would lead them back to this campsite. I would have you scout to make sure they are nowhere near here. If they do appear, with your eyes watching, you all will not be taken unawares."
Rhyse, with a resigned expression, nodded his agreement.
Elrohir then asked Elladan, "Will you come with me to find Jeren?"
"Do you need my company, Brother?"
"I would wish it, but I do not need it, particularly."
"Then I would stay right where I am. Anardil will most likely need more tending before I can get him to Father."
The set of Elladan's jaw told Elrohir that he'd not move his brother with argument of any sort. Elrohir knew some of Elladan's reluctance to go with him had something to do with Jeren. While Elladan had pulled Jeren further into the trees today to give her a good blessing out, it was not far enough. Elrohir had seen the kiss that they shared. But now was not the time to question his twin.
And while he could have used his brother's company—Elrohir himself wasn't feeling any too hale after his night with the Orcs—Elladan was right about Anardil. He was going to be very sick for some time, and would need more care than any of the men they were with could provide. But Elladan's eerie behavior haunted Elrohir, and he wanted to be near so he could watch over him.
Rhyse was young—he'd only ridden with the rangers for a little over a year. Brid was a fifth year ranger, while Joem had been riding for three. Elrohir weighed the experience of each man against the possibility that the Orcs might track him back here. The three rangers were hale. And Elladan looked profoundly better than he had earlier today, before Elrohir tended his wound. Elladan could fight; Elrohir did not doubt that.
Jeren, however was green as grass. She'd gotten more real experience these past few days than she ever had while riding with Glorfindel and the trainees, regardless of what she thought. Yes, they'd skirmished with Orcs just outside the borders of Rivendell, but the situations were always well controlled. She'd never been in peril while in the company of the Elves. But she was certainly in danger now.
"Then I'm gone. See you soon in Imladris," Elrohir said. He gathered his weapons and saddlebags and tack and left the clearing. But Elladan followed his brother.
While Elrohir saddled his horse, Elladan told him, "These cuts we have—the infection set in too swiftly. I fear it is a poison—some new brew of the Orcs. If you reach Father before I do, tell him about it in detail, that he might contemplate what to do about it. I will bring Anardil home as swiftly as I might, but I know not how able he'll be to sit a horse. It could be very slow going."
At Elrohir's worried glance, Elladan quickly added, "Worry not about me—I feel well on the mend. But Anardil; to have the flesh in the cut already be black—it cannot be simple infection."
Elrohir calmed when he suddenly felt the mind connection he had with Elladan grow stronger. He could now feel the well being of his brother's fëa, and that was a great relief to him.
He decided against telling Elladan of his suspicions—that this poison also had other unwanted effects. There would be time to discuss that later. It was more than possible that Elladan's inclination toward speaking freely was only a temporary thing—until the last of the poison was out of his system. Elrohir now felt much more at ease about leaving Elladan behind.
"Think you I should look at your wound before I go?" Elrohir asked him.
"I believe all is well with it, Brother."
For most of the day Elladan had been saying exactly what he was thinking, so Elrohir had no cause to doubt him now. He clasped his twin in a strong, short hug, mounted his horse and rode away at a swift trot.
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Elrohir soon caught up to Jeren. The mare's slow plodding walk had not changed.
Jeren blew out an exasperated breath when she saw she'd been followed by an Elf.
"What are you doing here, Elrohir?" she asked, obviously irritated.
"I am going with you."
"How clever of you, to be sure," she told him, "but I neither want nor need your accompaniment. You should be resting, back with the others."
"So should you."
"My father ordered me to the stronghold."
"Since when do you do as you are ordered, Jeren?"
She stopped Two and looked fiercely at him. "I do not need your escort, Elrohir. Neither do I want or wish to have it. I want to be left alone. Is that blunt enough for you?"
"Certainly it is," he replied. "I just am not going to comply with your wishes or wants."
"Suit yourself," she said tiredly. She kicked Two into a slow walk once again.
"Where exactly are we going?" Elrohir wanted to know after a few minutes.
"We are going toward the stronghold, for as long as I feel like riding this evening."
He paused a few minutes, and then said, "If you are tired of riding already, I know of a very good place to rest for the night. It isn't far." He urged his horse into a canter, veering off to the left. Jeren did not follow him; she allowed Two to keep her same slow, measured pace of before, in exactly the same direction in which Jeren had started out.
Elrohir, as a rule, was a patient Elf. But he had wrestled with Orcs for most of the night, had been in a battle before that, hadn't had a decent meal in awhile, and was achy and sore from mistreatment. His store of patience was empty. He turned his horse around and went back to Jeren, where he grabbed her reins from her hands before she even knew what he was about. She began cursing at him, at which time he shushed her, telling her that one never knew what lurked about in the twilight of the evening. Jeren cared not—she cursed him some more.
He led them to a small cave, more an indentation in the rocky soil of a slight hill. It was well covered with brush and trees, as the campsite had been that Jeren had led the others to last night. Had it only been a day ago? It seemed years since then to her.
They took the tack off their horses and set them free. Two would be safe untethered, as long as Elrohir's Elven-bred horse was there to keep her from straying too far. They settled themselves into the little enclosure, bringing all their belongings with them. Elrohir promptly left again and didn't return for close to half an hour. Jeren gave fleeting thought to leaving while Elrohir was gone, detesting the fact that he had commandeered her in the first place. But she was extremely weary, and heart sick besides, and could not muster the will to do so.
Elrohir finally returned, carrying the remains of two large hares. He'd already dressed them out and spitted them. He handed them to Jeren while he built a fire with wood she had gathered while he was gone. In no time, the aroma of roasting meat filled the small enclosure.
"Worry not. There are no Orcs about," Elrohir told her. "Our fire and smoke will go unheeded."
"I wasn't worried," Jeren said tiredly. "If there's one thing I've learned about traveling with Elves, it's that they know when things unsavory tread the ground around them."
"Ah, so you are speaking to me again," he said with a slight smile. "Good. I really hate talking to myself." Then he added as an afterthought, "But I hate being cursed at even more."
"Then it is simple, Elrohir—do not make me mad enough to curse you." Jeren smiled.
"That is not so simple, Jeren. One never knows what might make you angry."
Jeren chuckled quietly. She so loved Elrohir. He could always make her laugh, even when she was miserable.
The hares were cooking and the aroma was mouth-watering. Jeren hadn't eaten much lately either, and she could barely wait to tear into the meat. Before long, but what seemed an eternity, they each had a hare, browned to perfection. They ate with relish, until neither could eat more. Elrohir took the bones outside to bury, well away from their camp. No use in inviting unwanted scavengers to sleep with them.
When he returned, he found Jeren propped against the back wall of their home for the night, her eyes closed, and a blanket around her. She had laid out their bedrolls. All they need do is lay down to sleep. She looked completely uncomfortable, so he retrieved his own blanket and wrapped himself in it, then skirted the dying embers of their fire and sat beside her, drawing her to him with his arm around her shoulders.
They'd sat like this so many times in Rivendell, Jeren thought. She might be unhappy for whatever reason—Glorfindel found her wanting in a drill, the other novices—all Elves—had been jeering at her mistakes. And Elrohir, when he was home, always somehow knew she needed comfort. He'd come into her room in the evenings, hold her just like this, and listen while she poured her heart out to him. She very seldom cried. Not since she'd recuperated fully from the Orc attack those many years ago, had she really cried as girls might do. She knew that the tears of a woman were seen as weakness, and she wanted no part of that.
"What are you thinking about, Young Lady?" he asked her quietly. It was the way he'd always started these evening conversations.
"I was sitting here wondering how you can be so calm after having been taken by Orcs," she replied, even though that had not been what she'd been thinking of at all. She'd been thinking about her father and how he must hate her, since she was in no way the child he wanted, apparently. Nothing she did made him proud of her, and her every move seemed to make him angry.
"The reason I am so calm, as you say, is because I knew I wasn't about to die at the hands of those five Orcs. I knew I had time to think of some plan to free myself, if none of you came for me, even though when you arrived, I still did not know what that plan might be. But while I was being bargained over, I would live—I knew this. And I'd live a short time after the exchange. When there's life and time, there's hope." He paused slightly, then added, "Oh and, thank you for rescuing me, Jeren." He made her smile, he saw, even in this almost total darkness.
"No need for thanks, Elrohir," Jeren said, then smiled again. "I wasn't busy doing anything else."
He snorted. "Now I have a question for you. What prompted you to come to my rescue alone? Was it some sort of test for you? Or perhaps Anardil or Elladan? What is the reason?"
"I was the only one hale enough to come after you, Elrohir. You saw Elladan—you took care of that putrid Orc cut, for Valar's sake. He was in no condition to come after you. I was right to do as I did, and you know it."
"As Elladan asked you today, what about Rhyse? He seemed hale enough to me when I saw him this afternoon, and he could have helped you."
Elrohir had heard the exchange she'd had with Elladan? What else had he heard—or seen?
Jeren had no ready answer for his question, so she searched her mind quickly for one that might satisfy him. "Rhyse had been concussed. He could barely hold his head up last night; how was I to know he'd be hale enough to come after you?" Her voice had risen, and her defensive tone held anger just under the surface.
"I wish not to have cross words with you now. But more to the point, I do not believe this is what is truly on your mind. Speak to me, Jeren. What is hurting your heart this evening?"
She paused for so long Elrohir thought she might not answer. But after a few moments more, she said, "That which has been on my mind since I came to the stronghold—how do I become a ranger? No one will give me a chance. I thought that perhaps showing you might do it. I helped with the battle—ill conceived though it was."
Still not what she'd been truly thinking of, but this was not far from the truth. This subject was ever on her mind.
"I saw your shooting when you freed me, Jeren. It was first-rate. And to think the bow is not your weapon of choice."
"What good does any of it do me, Elrohir, if the ones that matter are not moved by it?"
He sat away from her slightly and frowned. "Since when am I numbered among those that 'do not matter' Young Lady?"
"Oh Elrohir, you know I am speaking of my father and Lord Aragorn. Of course you matter, but not so much in affairs of the Dúnedain."
"That is a little better, I suppose," Elrohir conceded with a sarcastic look, settling back down beside her.
Jeren laid her head on his shoulder, weary beyond words. "Why must I always want what I cannot have, Elrohir? Why can I not just be content with my lot in life—whatever that is?" She was silent for a few minutes, and then she added, "Do you remember when we first met, you told me the story of your mother?"
"Yes, I remember that," he told her. "You'd given up, it seemed to me."
"That's exactly right. I had given up. I simply did not care about anything anymore." Jeren paused again. "You told me that when all was said and done, my life was all I truly possessed, and I should fight for it with all I had."
"You have a good memory. I'm not sure if I should praise it or curse it. Why do I feel that this story is about to come back at me?"
Jeren chuckled quietly. "Probably because it is." She sat up and turned her face toward him. Again, as ever when in company of Elves, she was amazed at them. Even though they were in almost total darkness, she could see him ever so faintly. He seemed to glow, as all Elves did in the dark. "It was that day that I decided to fight for what I want, and all I've wanted since then was to become a ranger, with my Father; to train and become so proficient that I could join him and my people in the fight against the dark that seems to plague our land more every day. I vowed to myself—ever since you told me your mother's story—to fight for that, Elrohir."
His hand found her braid, and he fingered it, bringing the end of it up to gaze at it in the darkness. After a lengthy pause in the conversation, Elrohir finally said, "Do not get your hopes up, Jeren, but I will speak with Aragorn."
Her melancholy seemed to all but vanish. She sat straight up and threw her arms around him. "Thank you, Elrohir! I will never forget this. You will not regret it, I promise."
They settled down on their bedrolls then, still side by side. Jeren was asleep in moments, but Elrohir lay there thinking for a little while.
He felt like a worm, if he were honest with himself. He didn't know whether to thank the Valar for giving him the opening he needed with Jeren to teach her a lesson, or to curse himself as a villain. He'd planned on speaking to Aragorn about Jeren since she'd taken off on Elladan's horse this afternoon to ride back to Anardil and Rhyse. This was the plan he'd spoken of to Elladan. It was about time that Aragorn took charge of one of his wayward kinsmen—kinswomen, he should say.
Elrohir knew in his heart that Jeren would never see her dreams fulfilled, but, if all went as planned, at least she would get a taste of what she was wishing for, and perhaps learn a lesson she badly needed to learn.
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When Jeren opened her eyes early the next morning, she was alone in the small cavern. Judging from the darkness still surrounding her, the sun was not yet up. She wasn't concerned, though, because in the vague semi-darkness she could distinguish Elrohir's saddle, still where he'd left it the evening before. She'd been alone at times and she would be again. If Elrohir had decided to leave her where she was, she did not care. After what he'd told her last night, he could do no wrong in her eyes today—at least, so far.
She sat up and ran a hand over her hair. It certainly needed a good scrubbing, she thought. When she made it back to Imladris she would bathe for hours if she so desired.
Her reverie was interrupted when Elrohir ran into the cave. He gathered his bow and his sword and looked at Jeren with quiet intensity for a moment, as if sizing her up for some reason. "The other half of the Orc band has found us, Jeren. They are headed this way—less than five minutes from here."
Jeren sprang into action, strapping on her long knife and raising her bow over her shoulder. She'd gone to sleep fully clothed last night—including her boots—as was her habit when out in the wild. Within seconds she was ready.
"What is the plan, Elrohir?"
"The first thing is to get out of this trap," he told her honestly, looking around the cave. "There's no time to run. We'll gather the horses and lie in wait for them. I want you in the trees again. Your bow is lethal, especially if they do not see you."
"How will I see to aim in the dark, Elrohir? I am no Elf!"
"It is much lighter outside of this enclosure than it is in here. The Orcs are bound to be looking for a place to rest for the day, but we will not let them find it, will we?"
"What about you, Elrohir? I'll not leave you to face them alone on the ground."
"You will cover me. With any luck, you will have them dispatched before I even unsheathe my sword."
There were only seven of them, Jeren thought. She could easily pick them off before they got to Elrohir—as long as she could see them. They chose their spot to make their stand and Jeren shimmied up a tree, keeping well hidden. What she did not know was what Elrohir had not told her—the seven were now fifteen. The Orcs hoping to bargain for an Elf had joined with what was left of the original band.
Elrohir chose to fight on horseback this time. His feet, while having healed quite a bit from their burns, were still tender, and it would be to his advantage when fighting not to depend on them too heavily. Moreover, his horse despised Orcs and would probably kill his share of the brutes.
The Orcs spied their treasure immediately, and immediately grabbed up their bows.
Jeren's heart went into her throat when she counted their numbers. And Elrohir had purposely put her in a tree to protect her. Curse his hide! Jeren did not think the Orcs would actually shoot him, since he was the prize they were after, but she held her bow with arrow notched, trained on the obvious leader of the Orcs. As soon as he was close enough, she would shoot and kill him.
And when she had a shot she could not miss, she did. Instantly she notched another arrow and had it away. Two down, thirteen left. Arrows sang in the air around her, but she continued her onslaught of them.
They'd swamped Elrohir by now, who was hacking at them with his sword. But his horse would not stand still through the fight, and while he was a brave animal, he did exactly as Elrohir predicted—he would not tolerate them being so near. But instead of running, like a reasonable horse might do, he reared, his front hooves lashing out at those in their path. He took out three, before Elrohir scooted off the horse's back, facing the throng of Orcs. Jeren let arrows loose until she had no more clear shots.
There were only five Orcs left now, all armed with their short, curved swords. She climbed down from the tree, unsheathing her long knife. She'd rarely been so scared while fighting Orcs—but on the other hand, she'd never been so angry—they would not take Elrohir again.
She hacked her way into the throng, and Elrohir, in the center of it all, was slicing at Orcs, and she thought he'd never been more beautiful! Between the two of them—and Elrohir's horse had not let up; he was stomping on those he could get to—they had soon dispatched the last of the Orcs. They both stood, breathing heavily for a few minutes, to regain the strength to move.
"Well done, Young Lady," Elrohir said, when he could breathe somewhat normally again.
Jeren gave him a hard shove. "How dare you try to protect me by putting me up a tree!"
He shoved her back. "I was protecting myself! I put you there because that was where you would be most effective. If you ever have any hope of becoming a ranger, you had better learn to take orders without questioning them!" He walked away from her a short distance, then returned. "How did you ever get along with Glorfindel? I know for a fact that he brooks no arguments from trainees."
Jeren bent her head, looking down. Her shoulders began to shake. Elrohir thought he'd made her weep, but on closer look, she was laughing! He wanted to shake her till her teeth rattled. Instead he went to his horse, soothing the beast, as his horse wasn't quite ready to quit the fight. He'd trampled several dead Orcs until it was hard to discern how many of them there'd been in his path originally.
When Jeren had control of her laughter, she glanced up to see Elrohir looking at her with concern. He crossed back to her, taking her arm into his hand. She looked at herself—her upper arm on the left. She hadn't realized she'd been cut until he'd pointed it out to her. No matter, they'd clean it up and celebrate their victory then. Only for a short while—she still had her errand to the stronghold to run.
But Elrohir had gone quiet on her. She questioned him with her eyes.
"Elladan and I fear these Orcs have devised a new poison. You left yesterday afternoon before we checked Anardil's wound. It was more than infected, it was necrotic."
"What are you talking about, Elrohir?" she asked him, very concerned.
"The flesh inside the wound was dying—and as Elladan reminded me, the time from the infliction of the wound to when we saw to it was not great enough for it to even be much infected. Elladan's wound was the same—badly infected long before it should have been."
"What are you saying, Elrohir? Are my father and Elladan dying?"
"I hope not, Jeren. Since Elladan is Elfkind, and when I tended him he had what looked to be only a bad infection, I believe that he will be fine. But Anardil—when the flesh turns black in a wound, it is a very hard thing to cure. I will not lie to you, Jeren—your father is very sick. Elladan was taking him to Imladris as soon as he could manage it. Right now, it's you that I'm worried about."
"Well, what's to be done, and let's do it!" she said.
He led her back into the small enclosure where he immediately started a fire. His saddlebags were still there, so he found what he needed and set it all out. Jeren wondered at his choice of instruments—he'd gotten out a knife. What would he need that for?
She sat on her bedroll, which she'd gotten out of so quickly less than an hour ago. She doffed her tunic to give Elrohir access to her arm. She wore a light cotton shift beneath, so nakedness did not concern her this time, when he tended her. He handed her a clean cloth, with which she dabbed at the blood. It was a pretty deep cut—not quite to the bone, and about three inches in length.
As soon as the herbal water was warm, he began dipping another clean section of cloth into it and cleaning out the wound. Jeren hoped that that would be all he intended to do. She'd heard enough about stitching Orc wounds lately that she knew she'd not be sewed upon. But when he looked at her, her heart fell. The sympathy in his face spoke volumes. Whatever he intended as a cure would not be pleasant, she was now sure of that.
"I cannot take the chance that this cut was not made with the same poison used on your father and Elladan," he told her quietly. He placed the blade of his knife into the open flames. "If it's any consolation to you, you get to do the same to me." He pointed to a slice on the calf of his left leg.
Jeren had been right—it was not pleasant. She almost swooned with the pain of the searing hot blade on the edges of the cut. Elrohir then swabbed it with healing herbs and bandaged her.
"We'll look at that in a couple of hours. I hope what I've done so far will be enough, but it is something we need to keep watch over." He sliced the cloth of his leggings to give Jeren access to his wound. After cleaning it, it was time for her to cauterize it. She was more afraid of inflicting this pain on him than she'd been to face those Orcs outside.
"You didn't need to do this to Elladan. Perhaps it isn't necessary for you, either," she all but pleaded with him.
"I thought you might jump at the chance to use a knife on me," he told her with a slight smile.
"I'd rather not, if I have the choice."
Even in the dim light, Elrohir could tell all the color had left her face. Yet he needed all his wits about him now and would not gamble that the Orc blade had not been poisoned.
"I am sorry, Jeren, but it must be done. Worry not. I'll try and do it myself."
Elrohir took up the glowing knife, about to apply it to his own wound. But Jeren could not let him do what she knew she must. She took the knife from him with trembling fingers.
"Steady now," he told her. "The blade is sharp."
Not letting herself lose what little heart she had mustered, she pressed the blade to Elrohir's cut. He hissed in a breath, but that was the only sound he made. She closed her eyes momentarily, afraid she might faint or be sick, and when she opened them, he was looking at her. He nodded and she dropped the blade, fighting nausea so great she knew if she moved any muscle at all in her body, her stomach would heave. She finally was able to breathe again, so she finished with Elrohir's injury, applying the poultice and bandaging it.
Elrohir stood and gingerly put his weight on his injured leg. He gradually put more and more weight on his foot until he was standing on both legs equally.
Jeren was still very pale, but she'd gotten up and had begun rolling the beds tight. They gathered and packed until all was ready. They took everything outside and saddled their horses. Jeren tried not to favor the cut on her arm. She knew use would help with the soreness—at least that's what Glorfindel always tried to tell her when she'd hurt herself in training. She never quite knew if he was right about that or not.
"Have heart, Young Lady," Elrohir told her. "So far, luck has been with us. If our luck holds, we'll be at the settlement for noon meal. And by then, you'll be fit enough to be glad of that fact."
"If luck had been with us, Elrohir," she said in an exasperated tone, "would Orcs have attacked us at all?"
"If luck had not been with us, Jeren," he said patiently, "we would not be here to argue about it."
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