Today's chapter is nice and long, enjoy!
The arrow flew short but true; the warg was dead before it landed, even with its claws still out and slavering drool. The deadweight of a paw landed on Legolas's shoulder, but the elf was already moving. Spinning on the spot brought his reloaded bow to bear in the direction of the nearest threat. With a hiss Legolas sent the quarrel burrowing beneath the bony ribs of the warg as it snapped at Strider's heels. Having been otherwise occupied with the furry behemoth's cousin, Strider jerked his chin appreciatively.
"How many wargs do you count, gwador-nin?" Elladan shouted as he buried his sword point behind a snarling jaw.
"Twelve here, six upstream." Came the answering call from Elrohir, who stood perched on a rotten log before leaping over a warg and stabbing it from behind.
The sound of yips and snapping bowstrings came echoing through the damp forest as if in answer. "Not six anymore I should think." Said Elladan, looking around the clearing in satisfaction as Strider's group of rangers finished off the remaining wargs. "It sounds like Beringil and the others found the stragglers."
When Legolas shot the final warg that remained in the clearing, it let out an agonized howl that likely could be heard for leagues around. Everyone winced at the sound, Strider included. None of them enjoyed killing wild animals, but the wargs fell into a category somewhat apart from your average bear.
"Everyone alright?" Strider called out, wiping the blood from his sword with a corner of his cloak.
"We're all here Strider!" One by one the rangers sounded off as they came sliding down from the trees. Those who had fought on the ground likewise confirmed they were intact.
Elladan sidled up to his brother with a grin. "That was three for me. What about your count Elrohir?"
With a raised eyebrow Legolas watched the brothers from Imladris compare their kill-tally. 'What an odd thing to do.', he thought to himself. It was not as if there was a prize to be won, except perhaps in warg pelts. The thought of the rank odor of warg filling the tiny cabin the twins shared made Legolas subconsciously wrinkle his nose.
Straightening up and brushing the mulch from his knees, Strider gave a loud whistle. "Ai, Beringil! Is everyone still in one piece over there?"
"We're alright Captain, just a few scratches here and there." Beringil's voice was already sounding closer; no doubt the other group of rangers had finished with their bloody work and were fast approaching.
Asvard cleared his throat. "Ah, Legolas...?"
Having been about to set to work reclaiming his arrows from the warg carcasses, Legolas paused. "Yes?"
The narrow-faced ranger made an indistinct noise, gesturing at Legolas as if he were trying to suggest there were a rather large insect on the elf's shoulder. Putting a hand to the joint of his arm, Legolas nearly jerked in surprise when he felt something distinctly warm and sticky.
"Aiya! You're hurt mellon-nin!" Elladan exclaimed, his and Elrohir's little competition instantly forgotten.
Oddly enough Legolas felt no pain whatsoever. That either meant the injury was not so very bad...or very serious indeed. Flipping back the ripped edges of cloak he examined the damage as best he could by cranking his neck. The warg he shot earlier must have clipped him with its claws as it fell.
Strider was already at Legolas's side. His shaggy dark hair was tangled with leaves and sweat, but his gaze was deeply concerned.
"May I see it?"
The man's voice was low, hesitating to lay hand on the elf until he had received consent. For a brief moment a flicker of pride tempted Legolas to refuse. He had only very rarely taken hurts while fighting throughout his life; Thranduil ensured his son was incredibly well trained. Whenever he had received a knick or cut before Legolas had always withdrawn to privacy and treated it by himself. In fact, he had never before received medical attention from anyone else's hands. Then again, he had never before had an injury so determined to ruin his clothes with blood. With a curt nod Legolas lowered his other hand away from his shoulder, giving Strider a clear look.
"Daernon, meet up with Beringil and head back to the village. I want scouts posted at the entrance to the valley and up on the ridge." Strider had already set to work carefully peeling back the edges of ripped tunic from Legolas's arm. "We will follow shortly."
The barrel-chested ranger bowed briefly, his eyes flitting back and forth between Strider and Legolas where they stood in the middle of the clearing before turning away.
"You heard the Captain, back to the village." He called to the others. The rest of the rangers melted away with surprisingly silent steps into the brush.
Legolas let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. With only Strider, Elladan and Elrohir remaining, he didn't feel quite so exposed in letting them see his arm.
"I trust it's nothing serious?" he asked, speaking perhaps more flippantly than he'd meant.
Elrohir had moved in closer, eyes narrow as he appraised the damage over Strider's shoulder. When Strider peeled back the final layer of sodden tunic, the Peredhil let out a low whistle.
"It sure isn't anything to look at unfortunately." Elrohir exclaimed, earning him a sharp look from Elladan. "That's the first time I've seen a dead warg leave its mark!"
"Elrohir!" Elladan scolded, pulling his brother back out of Strider's way. Glancing at Legolas, the younger twin gave a limp excuse for a grin. "The claws only cut shallow tracks, but I should think you're going to get more than a few stitches out of the deal."
Strider glanced up and nodded at the twins. "I agree Elladan, the wound are more scratches than anything serious. However, they will need thorough cleaning and stitching I'm afraid." He looked apologetically at Legolas.
"Imagine what wargs must have under their nails!" Elrohir said with a burst of horrified mirth. Legolas couldn't help but shudder at the thought, a burning sensation finally beginning to make itself know from his shoulder. "You'll be growing fungus within the hour!"
With a clear 'a-hem', Strider rolled his eyes. "Well you could certainly tell us, couldn't you?" This seemed to be an inside reference, for Elrohir instantly colored and Elladan hooted with laughter. Taking care to lay a hand on Legolas's good shoulder, the ranger spoke once again to the Sindarin elf. "Shall we go back then? I have everything needed to tend the scratches at home."
Gingerly drawing his cloak up to cover the bleeding site as best he could, Legolas nodded. Pointedly ignoring both chortling twins he fell into step beside Strider. He was unused to both being hurt and being teased, and especially not both at the same time. Still it was better than being coddled, and he thanked the Valar it hadn't been anything serious. The last thing in all Middle-Earth he could ever want would be to need carrying back to the village.
It seemed the rangers had held their tongues, and Legolas gratefully ducked past the main square and up the hill to Strider's home in relative peace. Elladan and Elrohir broke off once they passed the cabin, but not without parting well-wishes.
Once Legolas had been seated on a stool before the hearth they both set to work carefully peeling his tunic off. The garment was one big red stain across the right shoulder, and Legolas grumbled internally at the thought of having to mend the seams. Needlework was not his favorite activity; it had been years since he had stitched anything.
"I will admit I am surprised that even a dead warg's claws could do this." Strider remarked as they waited for a handful of rosemary and lavender to boil. The two herbs were both excellent cleansers, especially when taken together.
Legolas half-grimaced, half-smiled. "So am I. It serves me right for having my back turned though."
Strider chuckled, taking the roiling pot off the heat with a cloth. "No, this will serve you right I fear. The more painless the wound at first, the more it tends to sting when cleansed." The Dunedain gathered up a clean wad of cotton and dipped it into the herb water. "I apologize in advance."
Unfortunately, Strider was not kidding. The second the steaming cloth hit his raw skin, Legolas jerked and drew in a hissing breath through his teeth. The long trailing scratch marks ran from the top of his shoulder to his pectoral muscle on the right side. Four red trenches laid him open atop his chest, now blazing with heat and irritation like fire coals.
"Sorry." Strider repeated apologetically, dipping the cloth back into the kettle. The next time he touched the scratches Legolas was ready, and comfortable silence fell.
Legolas could not even begin to recall the last time someone had laid a hand on him in such a familiar manner. His father never touched him, had not since he was a much younger elfling. Tauriel certainly had never, either out of deference for their respective ranks or perhaps a subconscious desire to keep the status quo of their relationship intact. Come to think of it, the last person who had handled Legolas was not even really a person, but that disgusting creature Bolg whom he had grappled with in Laketown.
Something as simple as contact with another person was a foreign luxury, and Legolas found himself relaxing by degrees as Strider tended his hurts. Elves on the whole were not particularly inclined to physical displays of affection or companionship. The relationships of his people were more emotionally and mentally slanted, first and foremost. When Strider brushed aside his long silvery blond hair to better see his work, Legolas understood why Gelwin had so enjoyed their earlier lessons in braiding. Perhaps he couldn't fault mortals for their propensity to touch one another. It was after all rather pleasant, like a physical reminder that a friend was nearby. Legolas didn't even mind the calluses of Strider's rough hands, so unlike the silky softness of elven fingers.
The pleasantry of the moment was short-lived, broken when Strider brought out his sewing kit. It had not been idle threats that the claw marks would need stitching.
Footsteps crunching over the dry grass outside reached Legolas's ears, and he perked up suddenly. Thinking he had poked the elf a bit too sharply that last time, Strider hesitated with the needle in midair.
"Are you alright?" he asked, glancing at Legolas with concerned grey eyes.
Legolas flicked his gaze to the door, taking care not to let his shoulder follow the gesture. Having a needle and thread at work in one's flesh did encourage a certain degree of reticence toward movement.
"Someone is coming, are you expecting company?"
Strider shook his head. "Nay, but I can tell you who it likely is..." Legolas had to resist the urge to flinch as the ranger set back to work putting in stitches. When the expected knock came, Strider called out calmly "Enter!"
Nerwen's tall frame was silhouetted against the bright light in the doorway for a moment, a basket under her arm. Barely waiting for an invitation, Nerwen crossed the hearthrug to lean over where Strider was patching up Legolas's shoulder.
"That's going to scar." She said casually. Then, kneeling and gathering up Legolas's discarded tunic, she added it to the basket on her hip. "Would you like a poultice to keep the itching down?"
"If you would be so kind." Legolas said after a slight hesitation. A quick glance at Strider caught the amusement on the man's face as Nerwen turned away toward the kitchen.
"The woman can smell blood like a hunting hound...if not better!" Strider murmured, his voice low enough that Nerwen did not overhear. "You'll be glad of her poultices though."
"Spoken like one who has worn them often enough to know." Legolas noted with a half-smile. Strider had gone back to his stitching, and the elf was beginning to pity quilts.
Apparently Nerwen's ears were keener than Strider thought. Coming back in from the kitchen, she was already crushing herbs between a small mortar and pestle. Dark eyes sweeping in reminiscence over unseen scars on Strider's arms, torso and legs, the woman shook her head.
"More than you know, my friend. More than you know." Nerwen's gaze likewise appraised Legolas's slender and otherwise unmarked torso. For some reason Legolas felt his ears heat; he hoped she didn't think his lack of scars indicated lack of experience. Among the Eldar, a lack of scars was a sign of great competence in battle. From what he had gathered it was somewhat the opposite among mortals.
Strider finished the last stitch with a small tug, biting the thread to break it off. "There. I am afraid my stitches are not the finest, but it ought to heal well now." By way of demonstration, the ranger patted the flesh just beside one of the scratches. It was tender, but the irritated heat was already fading.
"Thank you Strider, I appreciate it." Legolas meant the sentiment. He had a feeling that Strider understood the pride behind a lack of scars for an elf. It was stupid really, that a moment's inattention today would have earned him his first one.
Putting out a hand to prevent Legolas rising, Nerwen took up Strider's vacated place on the stool.
"My turn." She said, giving the pestle one last good grind before adding water to the developing poultice. When Strider gave a helpless shrug, Legolas got the impression that Nerwen took a fair amount of professional pride in her contribution to the healing process. Resigned and at the same time looking forward to further handling before the day was out, Legolas gave his shoulder an experimental stretch.
Nerwen made a sound in the back of her throat. "I know your sort, Legolas." She said warningly in answer to Legolas's glance. "You'll be looking to use that bow of yours as soon as possible. Now I can't forbid as much in the name of healing, but I can assure you that if you tear those stitches, I'll put them back in with my largest threading needle."
Thoroughly alarmed at the threat of such torture, Legolas shot a pleading look at Strider. The traitor was clearly siding with Nerwen though. Rolling up one side of his tunic, Strider revealed a puckered but quite old scar on his side.
"I learned firsthand, Nerwen does not jest. I've never forgotten...the re-stitching was worse than the actual wound!"
Unsure whether the two Dunedain were actually making fun or not, Legolas could only grimace at the thought as Nerwen began plastering her poultice across his shoulder and chest. Unlike Strider's, her fingers were thoroughly chilled, and he shivered involuntarily. There was still much he had to learn regarding mortal humor it seemed.