Lapsus Memoriae [Rávamë's Bane: Book 1]

Part II : Chapter 7 ~ Black, Blue & Grey

Turning hesitantly back to the cot I saw Elrond stooped over the little form, carefully inspecting the bloodstain on the upper left side of his shirt. He was so small, even smaller than Bilbo, with dark curly hair and pale clammy skin that was fast turning the colour of sour milk. Tiny veins of black had raised around his eyes and neck, his face was contorted in pain, and when he opened his eyes I saw they were starting to cloud over with a misty film.  I’d seen a lot in the time I’d been training as Lord Elrond’s apprentice, but I’d never seen anything like that before.

“Are you sure?” I asked, not daring to step closer until I was absolutely certain, “You really want me here for this? It looks… worse than usual.” 

Elrond read my hesitation like it was a book left open on a table, and frowned hard at me. Since I’d become he apprentice, he’d adopted a very Yoda-esque ‘do or do not’ attitude towards my tutoring. Either I studied hard and learned how to do something correctly, or I got it wrong and reaped the consequences. 

There was never any middle ground, and he did not approve of hesitation.

“Every challenge in life is a lesson, Élanor. You cannot pick and choose the severity of them.” He beckoned me over without waiting to see if I’d listened, “Quickly now, tell me what you see here.”

I hastily moved over to his side, peering down at the hobbit and gingerly and going through my ingrained routine of assessing a patient. I wasn't an expert like Lord Elrond or anything, not even close, but by this stage into my training I was starting to border on capable. It wasn't usual for him to hand the reins to me anymore, as a test to see what I'd learned. Also if there were any gaps in my knowledge that needed filling. I started prattling off symptoms out loud as I went down the mental list of symptoms to possible causes.

“He’s feverish and in pain, but not convulsing yet so it’s probably not septicaemia. Milky film over the eyes likely means some kind of poisoning.” I carefully unbuttoned and pulled aside the hobbit’s shirt, noting what I saw with a clinical detachment, “Darkened veins around the face, throat and chest… and the wound is… blackening, and… cold.”

I jerked my hand away from where I’d pressed my fingertips to the skin around the stab wound, just under his left collarbone. I’d read about symptoms like this before in my assigned studies, but even so I couldn’t quite believe I was actually seeing it in front of me. Out of everything I could have thought up from my reading, this was by far the last thing I’d been expecting.

“Black Breath?!” I spluttered, looking up at Lord Elrond and half expecting him to announce the punchline of an elaborate joke, “Are you serious? He’s been stabbed with a Morgul knife?!”

“He has.” Elrond answered me simply, still using that serious but calm voice to prompt me on, “You know the theory behind them; they affect both body and soul. Which do we treat first?”

“The hröa, the body.” I said immediately using the Quneya word — the elves equivalent of medical latin — my head buzzing with memorised information, “His fëa feels weak but it’s still clinging on. I think it can still be healed, but if the body is not healed first then the spirit will just whither away inside it.” 

“Well said, apprentice.” Elrond said it in a detached tone — a simple acknowledgement of my correct answer, “Though in this case, both must be treated at the same time. The blade’s tip remains embedded in the wound, and is burrowing in. It must be removed before anything more can be done.”

He beckoned for me to come and stand around the opposite side of the cot while he removed a bound set of medical instruments from a side table. He unrolled the set out on the stand next to the cot and began removing and disinfecting them in a quick and well practiced manner, “Time is of the essence here. You must keep the shard from causing more damage to his fëa while I remove it physically from the wound.”