Anariel of Erudin: Valmoria's Wrath | Lord of the Rings

11. Campfire Stories

"He's strong," Elrohir choked out while his brother addressed his injury. Carefully, the elf inserted the leaves of a strange plant into the two-inch dagger wound. Elrohir winced and pressed his head back against the rock behind him. "He's fast. He's really fast."

"You should have known better than to face him," Elladan said as he reached for a small flask and brought it to the injured elf's lips, letting the clear liquid drip into his mouth. "You were reckless."

The elf coughed. "You're starting to sound like Father."

"At least one of us does."

Elrohir flashed a weak, crooked smile. "You always have, even when we were young. You were always so boring, so careful. Every little action required meticulous planning. Without me, you would've never accomplished anything, like that time we stole those horses—"

Elladan abruptly smacked the side of his wounded brother's head. "Stop reminiscing," he said upon rising. "You are not dying. Fortunately, your stupidity will live on, but hopefully you will learn to be a little wiser next time."

"Ow!" Turin yelped, ripping my attention away from the twins and back to the cut on his bicep. It was really just a scratch, but he was acting like he'd nearly lost his arm.

"Oh, settle down. It's just water, anyway."

He too had taken quite a beating. His little training session with Elrohir had left him with several shallow cuts along his arms and chest, but they weren't life-threatening. Of course, he wouldn't believe that. In his mind, he was in critical condition and needed serious medical attention. Why, he looked like a complete fool next to Elrohir, who despite having lost a great amount of blood, resisted care until his brother threatened to snap his bow in half. But Turin the Great was practically begging me to take care of him, so there I sat, with a torn piece of my dress, cleaning the wounds of the seventeen-year-old baby with a bit of the water from the vial Indilwen had given me.

"What is that?" Turin asked after I'd finished cleaning the cut on his bicep.

I picked up the vial and held it between my fingers. "Um, I think it's water from some fountain in the Undying Lands."

"What? You've given me elvish water?" He made it seem like I'd given him poison. "I don't want that wretched stuff coursing through my veins."

I rolled my eyes. "Do you want your wounds cleaned or not?"

Turin grumbled. "I guess."

"Then be quiet," I said as I moved on to his other arm, and he was quiet, but not for long.

"So I've been thinking of some names for our fellowship," Turin went on.

"Names?"

"Well, yes, every great fellowship needs a name. My first thought was the Fellowship of the Amulet, but that just sounded lame to me, so I considered the Great Fellowship of Elves and Men, but then I realized that was too long, so I came up with the Erudin-Rivendell Alliance, but that didn't have quite the ring I was looking for, so I eventually settled on Turin and Friends."

I blinked. "Turin and Friends?"

Turin grinned and nodded his head. "Sounds great, right? That's something that will resonate forever in the hearts of men and elves alike."

"Turin and Friends?" Elrohir interjected. "I'll be damned if I let you take all the credit for my deeds!"

Turin growled. "Oh, why don't you just die already?"

At that remark, the angry elf reached for a dagger from his belt, but his brother quickly stopped him. Safe on the other side of the fire, the overconfident Turin was still provoking Elrohir, calling him a coward among so many other terrible names. Knowing the elf could've easily killed him, I gave Turin a hard smack. "Enough. His wound needs to heal."