Unspoken ( A Legolas Love Story )

27: Poison and Poultices

"How many wargs do you count, Wren?" yelled Strider, as he buried his sword behind a snarling jaw and finished off yet another beast. He had long relied on Wren's exceptional eyesight in any potential skirmish to assess and quantify the existing threat.

"Twelve here, likely six upstream," she said, without turning towards him, "Three orcs."

The sound of yips and singing bowstrings came echoing through the damp forest as if in answer. "Unlikely six anymore; it sounds like Beringil and the others found the stragglers," said Strider turning around in satisfaction, as the Rangers finished off the remaining wargs and orcs in the glen.

It was then that he saw them. Wren was kneeling beside a fallen figure on the ground. A large arrow protruded vertically into the air. He ran, but from some distance away, he already knew it was Legolas by his unmistakable silver-blond hair.

By the time he arrived, Legolas's eyes were dull and listless, looking at the sky. Wren was on her knees, ashen-faced, next to the elf, her long knives still firmly clasped in her hands. Strider lent over at Legolas's side, his shaggy dark hair was tangled with leaves and sweat, his gaze deeply concerned.

The arrow had pierced the top of Legolas's left shoulder and passed right through. Strider's eyes however, were drawn to the elf's bleeding right shoulder. There was a large quantity of blood and the tunic was ripped in several places.

"I think the warg that Legolas shot earlier, grazed him with it's claws as it fell," Wren said as she followed his gaze, Strider heard a tremor in her voice .

"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. Faolán, stay here with a half dozen rangers and burn the bodies. Asvard, I need four of you to fashion a stretcher." 

Strider had already set to work carefully peeling back the edges of ripped tunic from Legolas's arm.

"You heard the Captain; you six stay here with Faolán, the rest of you back to the village," Daernon called to the others. Asvard and three Rangers began fashioning a rudimentary stretcher out of nearby branches.

When Strider peeled back the final layer of sodden tunic, he heard Wren suck in her breath. There were four deep gashes on the elf's pale skin. Relief flooded over him as he examined the elf, however he looked up grimly and said to Wren. "His injuries are severe, but unlikely to be fatal. The cuts will need thorough cleaning and stitching."

Wren merely nodded at him.

"And we obviously have to get that arrow out and hope it was not poisoned."

Legolas's eyes were open, but he did not respond. He just looked up at the sky, his breathing faint. Strider tried to prompt a response out of him, but none was forthcoming. They gently lifted the stricken elf onto the stretcher and carried him back to the village, the arrow still protruding from his shoulder. Strider could sense Wren's anxiety rising, the deathly silence was oppressive.

Once Legolas was laid on a bed in the cabin, both Strider and Wren set to work carefully peeling his tunic off his upper body. 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. The arrow had gone straight through his left shoulder, the tip of the arrow head visible from the elf's back. Around the arrow entry point, the blood had begun to coagulate. But nearby the wound, the skin was tinged with a darkness that seemed to be slowing spreading.

"Poison," said Strider, looking up at Wren. "We need to work quickly." He called for help, Rodorin and Daernon showed up first.

"I need you to hold him down, while I break off the arrow." Strider instructed them.

Strider need not have bothered calling Rodorin and Daernon, as Legolas barely flinched. Legolas's eyes closed briefly, breaking from their steady gaze towards the ceiling, and his face momentarily contorted in a grimace. But he made no sound or other movement.

With the arrow broken and the shaft and arrowhead removed, Strider dismissed the other two Rangers and set to work boiling herbs, while Wren began cleaning the wounds. Strider watched her out of the corner of his eye and noticed as her hands trembled.

"Wren, get your mother," he said sharply. "I am going to need a steady hand."

However, footsteps were already crunching over the dry grass outside. Nerwen's tall frame was silhouetted against the bright light in the doorway for a moment, a basket under her arm. Not waiting for an invitation, Nerwen crossed the hearthrug to lean over where Strider was cleaning Legolas's shoulder.

"That's going to scar." She said casually. Then gathering up Legolas's discarded tunic, she added it to the basket on her hip and went into the kitchen.

Coming back in from the kitchen, Nerwen was already crushing herbs between a small mortar and pestle. Her dark eyes swept over the elf's lean, but well-muscled torso, with no hint of any previous scars, now a scene of devastation.

"Where do I start?"

"Stitching the claw marks. I will deal with the arrow wound."

Wren stood back, clearly distressed. It was not long before she left the cabin and stood on the porch, looking out with her arms folded. There she stayed for the duration of the elf's treatment. Nerwen's stiches were deft and neat, Strider's treatments methodical and expertly administered. Legolas's wounds were treated and poultices applied, but still, he did not break from his stupor.

Nerwen spoke to Strider in an unusually soft tone. "Why does Legolas not speak or acknowledge us?"

Strider replied equally carefully, "I do not know, perhaps he is in shock" He paused. "Or perhaps something else ails him ..."

When Nerwen had done all she could, she rose to leave. As she passed her daughter standing at the doorway, she lingered, holding Wren's cheek gently with one hand, while looking deep into Wren's tormented, but dry eyes. Barely audible, Strider heard her whisper softly, as she lent to kiss her daughter.

"Hold fast to hope, child, it is more powerful than you know." Then Nerwen left.

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Resting on 'the  edge of knife', to quote Tolkien and plagiarize @MonsterCupcake61176 's book title... Hang in there, my fine readers!!!

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