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Henvaethor (Warrior Child)	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 2478 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Henvaethor (Warrior Child)

By: erobey, robey61@yahoo.com

Beta'd by: Sarah AK, remaining errors are mine.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: The characters and settings were created by JRR Tolkien. Only the words surrounding them here belong to erobey alone. No monies earned, just for fun!

A/N: Let's pretend that Legolas shares his birthday with Bilbo, 2890! Let us further pretend that, after the Fell Winter of 2911, some folks left Eriador to see if living was any easier to the east, in Dale. And now let us imagine that five Rangers are leading such a group along the Forest Road in the early spring of 2912. Canon purists must forgive me, for I know Tolkien tells us the Dunedain spoke and understood Sindarin well; here they recognise only a word or two. Translation is left out till the end, to enhance the effect of the language barrier.

Part One: Dae Erin Ithil (Shadow on the Moon)

The camp was grim in the deep of the night and the fire had to struggle to perform its prescribed duties of supplying light and heat under the close roof of over arching branches. The dark seemed a thing alive, breathing upon them with its foul airs and tasting their scent to see if it might consume them, swallow them whole, never to be found or heard of ever after. Such was the fate of many who ventured into the unwholesome wooded wilderlands east of the Misty Mountains.

Crowding down upon the little clearing, invading the meagre space, ancient trees longer lived than the sum of years attained by all the travellers together hovered in seething silence as though to stifle both the wayfarers and their measly comfort of smoking oak. The trees had lowing voices, moaning as if it pained just to stand there in that unruly place, crammed so close together that no bracken or bramble could find root room in the loam or glean light from Anor beneath the dense cover of leaf and limb.

The night had its own tongue and contested with the creaking woods, speaking its harsh language through the subdued severity of hungry growls from beasts skulking through the country and the whispery crisp panic in scuttles and scurries from the small creatures meant as their food. Here and there, the dark allowed itself a look into the camp through intermittent sets of gleaming eyes that shifted from ground level to tree tops and seemed to be everywhere at once.

The human travellers shouldered together forlornly around the billowing anaemic flames, coughing when the acrid fumes twirled and danced about their heads, stealing away their lungs' needs and smiting eyes. The burning stingers prompted watery gleams of unnatural brightness to blur their sight. There were twelve on the journey all together: two men with wives alongside, one pair old and faded, the other vigorous and with a small girl-child as well, two brothers silent and dour, and five Rangers vigilant and armed as though to battle called.

"Da! The eyes are looking at me! Make them stop, Da, make them go away!" the child, no more than 4 or 5 years of age, whimpered and burrowed her face deeper into her mother's bosom.

Her father shushed her gently, flashing a nervous glance toward the Rangers who all scowled at the family. Such racket might well attract more dangerous eyes upon them; the girl must be silenced. The mother caught the warning and gently soothed her lass, rubbing the girl's back and cooing a lullaby that was heard no further than the stunted fire's fulgor. The little one gave way to her weary spirit and drifted into sleep under the comforting caress of her mother's hands and voice. The second woman looked on sympathetically.

Two of the Rangers rose, their motions smooth and sinuously synchronised like paired predators on the prowl, and stepped from the clearing into the tangible gloom. The brown of their rugged leather cloaks instantly vanished in the pitch and the fall of their feet formed no noise. It was as if they no longer existed.

The two brothers shared willied looks and sidled closer to the other Northmen, closing up the gap in their circle. One made a scraping sound in his throat as another gagging gust of gases engulfed him, and he squinched his eyes against the searing sensation upon his corneas. After a moment he regained his composure and wiped away the teary dew clinging to his lashes.

"How much longer do you think we will be on this blasted road?" he finally found enough air to ask, and cared not which of their guides chose to reply as long as one of them did. The Ranger next to him looked over speculatively, as if determining whether to bother giving a true answer or to lie as one would to a child.

"We are nearly half of the way through. The forest is over 16 leagues broad at its thinnest, but that is not the course of our pathway. Here the woods are more than 60 leagues across. The speed with which we go depends only on the stoutness of our hearts and our ability to ease the way for the youngster. Even so, we can hardly hope to go faster than a league every hour, and so at best we may reach the eastern edge in three days time, barring any complications," he sad quietly and saw that his calculations came as no surprise.

"I had thought as much, even perhaps that four days would be likely," the questioner sounded relieved that he had not underestimated the journey's demands and smiled. The group had ample supplies on two pack animals, was well armed, and to guide them they had five of the hardiest souls in all of Arda. Surely, if the worst they must endure were sore soles by day and apprehensive imaginings at night, they would reach Dale in good health.

The missing Rangers rematerialized as silently as they had vanished and the brothers hurriedly shoved over to make room by the rheumy firelight. The men seated themselves and leaned closer to the heat, blowing out cold misty breaths over the struggling flames.

"We are being watched, and I do not mean yon foxes and owls darting through the dark," one said in restrained tones that spoke of curiosity rather than concern. All eyes turned to heed him but he took his time with his reply, fumbling in his pack for a whetstone and his dirk. He set up a slow and ponderous scraping against the blade, no doubt already ground fine to hair-cleaving sharpness, as he thought how to answer them.

His fellow Rangers sat with tense attention to their comrade's face, for in such journeys of escort through the wilds to the settlements in the East, seldom would a warning be shared with their charges. What this could mean was unknown to them and any unidentified variable could sway their fortunes into shadow and dire demise.

It could not be Orcs; they would have observed the signs as well. The same could be said for any other predator of the forest, and yet none of them had noted an unseen prowler spying them out. The Forest Road was known to be safe as long as one stayed rigidly upon it, yet the night did bear a strain greater than its black breath usually instilled. They waited for his explanation, yet no words did he utter and finally one spoke.

"Out with it, Arathorn!"

He stopped his meticulous sharpening of the previously razor-edged steel and glanced up at his fellow with a dark sparkle lighting his vaguely menacing stare.

"Wood Elves."

A moment of silence ensued as the Rangers regarded Arathorn to see if he was serious, and then, when they were certain he was, erupted into a mirthful blend of guffaws, rude jokes, and outright laughter.

"Oh, Manwë spare us! We shall be enchanted!"

"Aye, turned into toads or trapped inside trees!"

"Mayhap it will not be so bad, Arathorn, perhaps a faery princess has come to claim you!"

But the mother gasped in alarm and tightened her grip around the slumbering girl. "Nay! Say it is a lie! Have brownies come for my wee one?" she wailed and rocked her daughter, distressed, as her husband tried to calm his lady-wife's fears.

The one with the tale to tell, Arathorn, let them all have their say, whether in joke or in earnest fright, for to him they were all of the same source. Ignorance and superstition clouded rational judgement of their situation and allowed erroneous assumptions to be concluded. All his brethren Rangers sensed the presence, as did he, of this he had no doubt. They simply chose to laugh it off rather than seek out the true cause of the observation. He felt for the woman, though, for her fears were genuine even if they were misplaced, and he decided to speak his mind.

"Heed your good husband, Lady! There is no harm to be found for your little one from brownies. Such are not here, if ever they existed at all! We Rangers will guard you from harm due to true threat, in any case," he spoke with calm compassion and offered a grim smile that he imagined to be reassuring.

One of the brothers frowned and got up, pacing just to the edge of the firelight to peer blindly into the velvety darkness, so thick it might be a coat of panther's fur. "What is out there, then? If it is harmless, why mention it at all?" he demanded and turned back to the Rangers, looking them each one in the eyes to see what thoughts they might betray. They were utterly inscrutable, however, and he turned lastly to the one called Arathorn. "Will you speak, sir, or must we hearken to our imaginings as your fellows suggest?"

Arathorn regarded him carefully, again ceasing his attention to the dagger, and worried if he had been unwise to speak at all. There was something about this man he just did not like, right on the face of it. Always tallying things up, he was, and accounting the value of time spent against money yet to be earned. The Ranger feared, however, that the voyeur would be revealed and there would be a price to pay for it in blood if he did not properly prepare the band of travellers first. Arathorn sighed and carefully returned his belongings to their proper places in the pack.

"Alright then, it is Wood Elves. Or at least one Wood Elf for certain," he said and calmly waited for the hoots and incredulous oaths to subside again before continuing. "We need fear nothing as long as we behave in a respectful manner, for these are not our lands. This one has no intent to harm any of us or would have done so before now. I judge the Elf has been near our camp for several hours, just watching. Mayhap this a scout, or some sort of border guard."

"Oh please do not start with this again, Arathorn! How is it that you are the only one who ever sees these beings? I have accompanied you on five such crossings and never beheld other than ordinary woodland beasts!" one of his companions said with obvious irritation.

"And you are scaring the woman! What is wrong with you, man?" spoke another.

"Sir, is what you say the truth? Please, do not tease us with such stories, for I have my wife and child to consider!" the gentle husband said with distress as his woman softly cried.

"Peace, sir! All of you be still and cease this useless drabbling!" the calculating man almost shouted. Everyone looked at him in surprise and he glanced away and then at his hands in embarrassment for revealing his own anxiety over the topic.

"Yes, we should all be calm and keep our voices mild and free of such angry tones!" Arathorn cautioned, his own tone low and soothing. His eyes flitted briefly out into the darkness, up high toward the branches, and then rested again upon the blaze. "We are in no danger of any kind, for the Wood Elves are a shy folk and do not make efforts to engage with humans who travel their road. Yes, it is their road," he said as he noted the surprise on the elderly man's features.

"But, I though the men of Dale built this pathway!" he said.

"Nay, it was here long before any humans ever walked this land. Even the dwarves do not know how long the way has been maintained, or who first broke the trail, though it is they who made this highway as it is now: broad, smooth, and straight fit for the travel of Men and dwarves. For Elves of the wood have little need for foot-roads when the trees beckon and shield them. Some claim it has been a byway since before the time of Anor and Ithil, when the First Born marched West at the call of Oromë," Arathorn continued.

His comrade to the left made a brusque snort through his nose and sent him a sideways scowl. "You cannot actually believe all that rubbish about First Age and Second, and a time with only eternal night and stars for light," he growled.

"Why not, Alberic?" Arathorn shrugged as he spoke. "You have been to Rivendell. Your very name calls upon the fair folk! Can you tell our company there are no Elves?" Arathorn demanded.

"That is different!" Alberic huffed defensively and drew himself up. "Everyone knows Elrond's people are the last of the wise among us! Wood Elves were hunted to extinction by Orcs long ago, or turned into Orcs themselves by the Evil One."

"You are wrong," said Arathorn emphatically but softly. "Iomhar and I will take first watch tonight. Alberic and Baldwin second, and Esmond and I will keep the third. All should retire now, for we move on at dawn's light," he commanded.

He stood and moved to the far edge of the camp to stand below an ancient beech with a girth so great that the five Rangers all together could not surround it, even if all stretched their arms to their very limits. The rest of the humans, save Iomhar, began to settle down into bedrolls and blankets and soon were resting under the forest's protection.

Slowly the hours passed as Ithil traversed his lonely path across the heavens, and all of the travellers save the watch slept soundly. It was then that Arathorn moved cautiously a little back from the great tree and motioned for Iomhar to approach. When the other Ranger reached him Arathorn pointed up into the branches.

"Do not make any unexpected movements, my friend, and you will see something rare indeed!" the man excitedly whispered, and his companion strained to see through the dark cover of the foliage, yet nothing seemed unusual at all. He looked at Arathorn with dismay.

"Now you are playing me to be a fool, old friend, and I am not so gullible as that! Wood Elves, indeed!" he scoffed and stalked back over to resume his post, muttering nondescript complaints against his comrade's strange sense of humour.

But Arathorn was patient, and stood silent and still, gazing up at the eerie gleam of non-human eyes belonging to the figure he could barely discern cosily tucked among the great tree's majestic limbs. He knew his sight was more acute than his fellow's and did not doubt what his eyes beheld.

Oh, the night was sluggish in its animation, seeming more frozen and timeless than eager to finish its labours and rest in the rising of Anor! Two hours more passed, and the first watch ended, but when Iomhar was replaced by Alberic, Arathorn did not rouse Esmond but stood his shift at guard as well.

The man had about lost hope that the creature would ever move when the eyes quite suddenly blinked, and a very soft yet sharp sound issued from their owner. The eyes disappeared then, and Arathorn despaired, thinking the being had fled at last, disturbed by something the man could not hear or see. He sighed his disappointment and turned away from the tree to join Alberic, and there at his feet, crouched upon the forest floor was the Elf.

"Saes, nen? Saes!" the creature spoke in a voice so quiet and words so brief that Arathorn was left uncertain if he had actually heard the sounds at all. He stared in wonder at the small immortal, overawed to be so close to one of the mysterious woodland folk he had barely glimpsed from the distance before, frozen lest he frighten the forest sprite back into the trees.

Beautiful, ethereal, graceful, noble: none of the words he could call to mind did justice to the magnificent rarity of the small, slender figure kneeling on its haunches, curled tight as though prepared to spring away at any moment. The delicate refinement of the facial features was breathtaking and the translucent skin seemed to have captured the subdued light of the stars. The human actually sighed in joyous abandon as he contemplated the depths of the huge blue eyes gazing into his with such incredible intensity.

{Girl?} A flowing crown of spun gold tresses framed the small face and from beneath this fall of earth-bound sunlight the pale pink tips of pointed ears peaked out.

{Or boy?}, he absently wondered. The straight firm set of the ruby red lips did not change the soft suppleness of the clear-skinned cheek or harden the demeanour of the small Elf's pristine countenance.

{Small.} The concept registered through his brain in a blinding flash of recognition and Arathorn almost fell over.

{This is not just any Wood Elf; it is silvan elfling!} The man was shocked to say the least, and instantly knew something must be wrong, for never, even in Imladris, had he ever been allowed near an Elf child. This one should not be out among the trees alone in the night, when Orcs and other dangerous and loathsome monsters lurked.

The Elf bowed its head then, and the thick mane of flaxen locks cascaded forward, obscuring the features. The next sound could not be mistaken, though the child tried hard to suppress it, and Arathorn was startled and alarmed, for it was a strident hiss of acute pain.

"Ah! You are hurt?" he cried and stooped down, edging closer yet still cautious so as not to startle the wood sprite. Arathorn at last reached out and tentatively tapped the being's shoulder. The Elf's head snapped up and jolted back, fear and pain coursing through the eyes. "Nay! Do not run, I mean no harm." He could see confusion suffuse the azure gleam and sudden inspiration broke upon him. "Dartho! Mellon, mellon," he said, pointing to himself, hoping his limited vocabulary of elvish would win the child's trust. "Let me help! You need help, that is why you are here," Arathorn spoke in very calm and coaxing tones, as if he were trying to tame a wild thing.

"Saes! Nen?" the Elf relaxed slightly as he repeated this plea, distress clear in the strained and hoarse voice, and Arathorn, now roused from his amazement, recognised the simple request for water. The man nodded and smiled and pointed towards the camp to show that he would go and get it and rose very slowly, backing away as he did so. The Elf's eyes never left his face as he retreated to the fireside and retrieved the water skin. Once back in arm's reach, the man crouched down again and held it out.

The child fairly grabbed it, and Arathorn saw that the hands were all grimed and bloody. In the dim light he could not see where the creature was hurt, but was alarmed at the amount of water the Elf was guzzling, as though not a drop had been swallowed for days and days.

"Hannad nîn," said the Elf and held out the water bag with one hand while the other slipped back around his middle, disappearing behind the drawn up knees. Another groan and a shudder accompanied this action.

"Alright, now, alright," the man soothed as he took the container, wanting to do something to reassure the immortal so that he could examine the wound and determine its severity. "I mean not to hurt you, just let me have a look now, alright?" He edged closer and the child watched him guardedly but did not shy away.

"Arathorn? What are you doing over there on the ground?" the words were spoken in subdued tones so as not to wake the others, but as soon as Alberic began to approach the elfling panicked.

With a strangled gasp the child vaulted upright and raced for the giant tree. Making a tremendous leap, hands reached out for the lowest branches, but the injury betrayed the body and robbed the little one of the necessary force to clear the distance. An agonised cry escaped the Elf upon landing back against the trunk, slowly crumpling down into a heap of limbs askew and hair awry. The immortal made no move to get up, and Arathorn hurried over.

By the time Alberic reached him, Arathorn had scooped up the inert and senseless form and was striding back towards the fire. Had the situation not been so grave, the Ranger would have thoroughly enjoyed the stunned stupefaction on his friend's face when glimpsing the fragile burden he bore in his arms.

"I do not believe it!" Alberic whispered, and just stared with mouth agape as Arathorn carefully laid the Elf upon his own bedding.

"Alberic, do not just stand there gawking, help me!" Arathorn snapped impatiently. "Get me the healing kit; hurry up!"

As Alberic hastened to retrieve these supplies, Arathorn cautiously examined the motionless body. He could see now that the whole left side of the creature's tunic was blood-soaked, and the essential fluid still seeped through the great tears in the clothing, where the source of the flow was exposed to be three grisly slashes ripped through the slender side and ribs.

The Ranger sought for clasps or openings upon the sleeveless garment, but found none and realised it was simply made to draw on or off over the head. He had no choice but to take his dagger and cut it away. The tearing and blood rendered it unmendable anyway, he reasoned. The undershirt was of softest wool, unlike any lamb's coat the man had ever felt, and he wondered if the cloth had instead been woven from elven hair. This, too, was unable to be opened, and he sliced through it down the front from neck to hem and gingerly peeled it away.

The poor child stirred and moaned, for the cloth had stuck to the wounds and pulled the abused flesh as Arathorn removed it.

Alberic arrived back with the bandaging and the pack of herbs supplied to them by the Elves of Imladris. He was all business now, reserving his marvelling for later, when the fabled being was awake and well. Into a bowl he crumbled some of the herbs and poured over them steaming water left from the night meal's tea. Once this had steeped a few minutes, he added clear cold water from their water skins to make the temperature bearable for cleansing the ugly wounds. He handed the bowl and a cloth to Arathorn and stooped beside him, ready to assist should the child wake and try to move.

Arathorn tried to be gentle but knew he needed to be thorough. The gashes looked like claw marks, and now that his examination of the upper body was completed he noticed a deep black bruise on the child's left forearm just below the elbow. The skin was swollen and bore jagged teeth bites that pierced to the bone, and the man cautiously palpated the site to learn if the arm was broken. The bone was solid and unfractured, he was glad to learn. There was a long rend in the right leggings below the knee and an equally lengthy slash into the calf, also freely bleeding again after the disastrous attempt to regain the protection of the heights. The human had seen wounds like these before; the child was fortunate to be living after such an attack, for it could only be Orcs.

The little one whimpered in agony and thrashed a bit, but soon slipped further into unconsciousness. Arathorn and Alberic exchanged relieved glances, for the child was suffering enough and they would spare him any more distress if they could.

Him, indeed, for clearly now they could tell it was a male child. The soft warm woollen leggings clung to the child's lower body and outlined the masculine genitals, undeveloped yet in prepubescence, but all the necessary equipment obviously in place.

"He looks to have seen no more than ten summers, were he human," said Alberic. "Yet who knows how many that is in elf-kind years."

"You are right. Mayhap he has lived twenty or so seasons," Arathorn agreed.

"What is he doing out and about in this awful place alone?" Alberic fussed, feeling protective of the helpless child and angry at such neglect.

"I do not know; something has happened to his family, both of us can guess what from his condition, and he alone escaped," said Arathorn. "It happened not overly long ago, either; three days maybe judging by the progress of healing. We had best be on alert from here on out. The foul beasts will be following his scent, stronger from the addition of his blood."

He had finished cleaning away the bloody gore and was relieved to see that the wounds had not punctured anything major inside the elfling's body. He took the silk-threaded needle Alberic held out and began stitching the nasty gouges shut. This done, he bound up the wounds in clean cotton and linen, and then treated the injured limbs. He splinted the arm, just in case a minute fracture had evaded his perception, carefully cushioning the contused area first, and wrapped the whole in firm but non-restrictive bindings. He cleaned and stitched the leg, bandaging that as well.

That was all he knew to do, and so he retrieved a blanket and covered the Elf over, first removing the soft leather shoes. One slender white foot crossed over the other protectively at this sudden exposure and the long toes all curled down tight before the comforting warmth of the coverlet hid them.

Unsatisfied with his comrade's efforts, Alberic knelt over the child and carefully shifted and tucked the thick blanket all around the fragile looking form, hesitantly patting the shimmering hair when he was finally satisfied no draft would chill the suffering Elf.

The two men sat back and stared at the unconscious immortal, and then at each other, in disbelief.

"If I had not just touched that creature with my own hands, I would swear all this to be some strange dream!" said Alberic as he shook his head.

"Oh, now you have no scoffing words to say?" Arathorn laughed. He took out his whetstone again and settled into a comfortable position by the fire, stirring up the embers a little to encourage more warmth from the straggly blaze, and started the soft, steady scraping of blade over rock.

Alberic just watched the Elf. When their shift ended, neither man woke their replacements, for they could not bear to move from the immortal child's side, fearful he would wake and become alarmed in his strange surroundings.

…continued
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Henvaethor (Warrior Child)