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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!

Part Two: Aur Breitha (Morning has Broken)

If night in the forest was a living entity of fearsome mien and manner, then dawn was its counterpart in light and beauty. The voice of the woods by day was gay and hopeful, carried from branch to branch on birds' wings and sighing winds through the many-fingered, sociable trees. Dazzling was the only way to describe the sheen of the sun that penetrated the dense umbrella of leafy limbs, sending shafts of concentrated radiance all the way to the rich brown earth, charming from it the luxuriant aroma of the life-sustaining loam. Exotic avians, feathered in hues far richer than any rainbow's bands, decorated the stately greens and browns of trunk and stem like rare gem stones of precious worth, while the spicy scent of tropical flowers was enough to make the senses reel and thoughts go giddy.

It might have been his imagination, but Arathorn believed it was the new addition to his group that was responsible for the change in atmosphere. There was definitely a more joyous quality to his own mood than he had known for many a long year, and this he did not hesitate to ascribe to the unexpected presence of the youthful First Born in his camp. The whole of nature exuded exuberance, overcome in delighted contemplation of the Elf child. The animated woods seemed to be singing a lively invitation to wake, encouraging the young one to rouse and share the glorious morn. The man scarcely dared take his eyes from the fair face for fear of missing the moment when those enormous blue orbs opened and greeted the dawn.

His patience was put to the test in this, for all the humans woke and came to stare in confusion at the small bundle huddled into the thick woollen coverlet, no more than a mass of flaxen hair and a pixie face visible. Upon learning the species and condition of this visitor to their camp, all were amazed and disturbed. The adults' eyes betrayed the questions crowding their minds, but these remained unspoken in light of the vulnerable innocence surrounding their sleeping guest.

Yet the child did not stir. Alberic grew concerned and wanted to force the Elf to arise, but Arathorn would not allow it. In fact, he ordered all to be quiet in their activities and tend to their business without pestering the injured immortal. Still, they could not keep away from the ethereal creature and before long everyone returned to the ash-filled fire ring, gazing in awed silence at this myth come to life in their midst.

Gilraen, the girl-child, was the only one who could not be still, and she fairly danced around the camp, laughing out loud every now and then and clapping her fat little hands together in glee. She finally would have a playmate on the tedious and often frightening journey.

"Is it a girl?" she asked as soon as she saw the long gilded hair, and before her mother could stop her she twirled over and reached out to feel the silky strands.

"Nay, it is a boy. A boy Elf," said Alberic, shooing her back after carefully disengaging her chubby fist from the yellow mane.

Gilraen pouted; she did not think boys were any fun at all. Her cousin Albin was a boy, and he was always taking her toys and making her cry. Then she noticed the ears, and decided an elf must be more like a cat than a person. Cats were her most favourite of animals, and it did not matter if they were boys or girls, they all had soft fur and purred when she patted them. Thus she was happy again.

"What is his name?" she asked Alberic, and the man shrugged for an answer. "Why is he still asleep?" she queried again.

"He is hurt and needs to rest to get better," said Arathorn. "Do not pester him, now, for he must be very tired!"

"How did he get hurt? Did he fall down?" she demanded, skipping back to her mother's lap to settle for all of two seconds before dancing away again to resume peering down at the slumbering child.

"We do not know what happened, Gilraen. He was not able to tell us last night," Alberic replied, and tried but failed to stay her hand from patting the immortal's pink-blushed cheek.

"Soft!" she said delightedly and darted back toward her father amid the muted laughter and chuckles her antics induced. "When is he going to wake up?"

"When he is no longer tired, child! Now come with me, it will be fun to go and pick flowers for the little elf boy, yes?" said the old woman and held her hand out. Gilraen jumped up and down and giggled, nodding her agreement, and grabbed the granny's fingers.

"Yes! I want to make a flower crown and a daisy necklace! Mum, do you think the boy will like a crown or a necklace?" The girl and the old one ambled off, the grateful mother tailing behind, and the camp grew still again.

Except for Arathorn and Alberic, the men folk, once left on their own, suddenly felt a bit foolish to be gazing wordlessly at a sleeping child, Elf or not, and attempted to find important things to tend while they waited for the momentous awakening. There was only so much one could do in a small camp, however. Finally Esmond and Iomhar decided to go hunting, Baldwin and Gilraen's father left to take the burros to search for grass, and one of the dour brothers decided to go gather dry kindling while the sun was bright. That left the old man, the calculating brother, and the two Rangers to watch over the elf.

A peaceful calm extended over the camp, broken by the distant laughter of the little girl playing among the boles, the occasional twitter and call of the forest's bird-life, and the gentle sighing of the towering trees as Manwë's breath caressed their uplifted arms.

"How long will we delay here, Arathorn?" the unpleasant brother spoke at last, dispelling the mood of relaxed amiability.

His tone was one of aggravation and impatience that the Ranger disliked. This man so easily rubbed him the wrong way that he had to make a conscious effort not to send him a hard look and order him to be quiet. A calming breath helped steady him, and Arathorn met the man's eyes with his irritation well hidden.

"We cannot leave before the little one is able to travel, and I do not know when that will be," he said evenly. He suddenly realised he could not remember how the man was called, and began to mentally list given names that seemed possible in the hope of jostling his memory.

"I do not see why we are taking that thing with us!" the calculating man blurted out. "We have only enough water for ourselves on this journey; it is you that warned us against the enchantment upon the river here. Neither do we have extra supplies to feed it and for all we know its parents are searching for it right now. They will likely harm us if we are found with their spawn in our company!" he ranted.

"Dacre! It is an Elf, not an animal! Do not refer to him as a 'thing'!" this strident reprimand came from the old one, and Arathorn silently thanked him both for his scolding and for naming the odious brother.

"I do not care if it is an Elf! Orcs are nothing but Elves, Berkeley. Why are you so glad to have it among us? You should be worried for your goodwife's sake if not your own. We should just leave it here and be on our way!"

Alberic rose and stalked over to Dacre, anger plain in his dark brown eyes. He pointed his finger at the rude man and loomed over him with menace. "I do not want to ever hear such a horrible slur again! You are intolerably ignorant, and I will not suffer your prejudice. What Elf has ever done you harm for you to speak so against an innocent?"

Now Dacre stood up, countenance red and eyes all glittery and he loudly snuffed his breaths in and out. He was not about to allow some common hired guide to insult him, yet he was acutely aware of being unarmed and outnumbered. His eyes darted from face to face among the three men before he wheeled and strode out of the clearing.

Alberic and Arathorn exchanged exasperated looks. There was a Dacre in every trip, it seemed: an over confident and under educated man set on making a fortune and buying his way into the respect of his betters.

The old one, Berkeley, sighed and returned his eyes to the huddled heap under the blanket.

"I am sorry for his attitude," he said. "He is my sister's child, and I agreed to finance him in this venture. Now I am sure it was a mistake. I did not know he had become so bitter! His young wife was the victim of an Orc raid upon our village five years ago. Somehow, he has turned the tragedy of the First Born into his own personal affliction, as if the Elves caused that terrible fate to befall his beloved!"

The two Rangers nodded sympathetically; at least they could understand the man's fears and hatreds now. It would make him much easier to control should things get unpleasant. Alberic felt sorry for yelling at the man, pitying his loss and woe.

That moment the Elven child twitched under the blanket and cried out. The three humans instantly drew closer and Arathorn cautiously laid a hand upon the immortal's shoulder. The clear blue eyes opened and stared up at him in bewilderment and pain, and the youth rolled to his good side and curled up, trying to choke back another moan as he did.

"There now, young one, do not try to move about!" Arathorn said quietly.

"Aye, you are not in very good shape, boyo!" added Alberic. He just shrugged in response to the quizzical expression gracing his friend's face upon hearing this silly nickname.

The elf child gazed upon each of the kindly faces regarding him in turn and managed a weak smile of his own. In spite of their admonitions, he struggled to sit up and so Arathorn helped him. The child investigated his person, taking note of the clean bandages and warm blanket, and stared up at them then with genuine gratitude as he wrapped the blanket close around his shoulders, shivering a bit.

"Hannad nîn," he said softly with another smile. The men just stared at him, grinning happily to be under the scrutiny of so pure and gentle a soul. "Geril hannad nîn ar rîn an uir," the graciously spoken Sindarin syllables fell like a caress upon the mortals, though they understood not more than a word or two. 'My thanks' seemed to be the gist of it, and so they just nodded and smiled even wider.

The elf licked his dry lips and swallowed with some difficulty, and Alberic came out of his daze in a flash.

"Are you thirsty, lad?" he asked and the elf just stared, a questioning expression in his eyes, and Arathorn shoved his friend roughly but with high humour.

"He is a Wood Elf, not one of the Noldor! He does not speak our tongue, Alberic!" He laughed at his friend's crestfallen look.

"How are we to talk with him, then?" Alberic demanded.

"In this way," old Berkeley suddenly said as he rose and retrieved the water skin, holding it up as he walked back to the elf's bedside. "Water?" he asked, and the elf nodded emphatically and held out his hands. He drank deeply, as he had the night before, and again smiled and spoke his thanks when done. Berkeley tapped the centre of his own chest with his index finger. "Berkeley," he said, and lifted his brows in question as he pointed at the elf.

"Legolas," came the reply as the elf imitated Berkeley's gesture, tapping his breastbone and then pointing, brows up, at Arathorn. And thus the introductions were made. Alberic became quite enthusiastic and started naming and pointing at all sorts of things around the camp, repeating the elvish words as Legolas spoke them.

Then the elf took the initiative and reached out, tugging on Alberic's shirtsleeve and then the woollen coverlet. "Hammad nîn?" he said, and the man understood, nodding at first, then frowning and shaking his head.

"Sorry, Legolas, your shirt is all torn," he said. The elfling's brows crunched together in disappointment as he attempted to decipher these remarks.

Arathorn searched around and found the garments he had removed from the elf and held them out apologetically. Legolas looked dismayed as he took them and examined the ruined clothes.

"Man cerithon an hammad?" he sounded perplexed and worried, and it was not too difficult to figure out his concern. Arathorn went to his pack and pulled out a clean shirt, which he shook and handed over to the elf.

Legolas shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and slipped into the shirt, pulling the long sleeves back over his wrists and examining the buttons and their corresponding holes closely. He had not ever seen such before but it was not a difficult concept to understand, and his nimble fingers closed them all up. Then he looked down at the voluminous garment, many sizes too large for his small frame, and burst into merry and musical giggling. The joyousness of that sound was infectious and soon all three of the men were chuckling delightedly at the ridiculous mismatch.

The gentle laughter from the fair child caught the other humans' attention, a swirling hint of paradise teasing their hearts. It drifted in the breeze offering comfort and eliciting an instinctive response of hope, for if an immortal could yet laugh amid the cruelties of the world then life was not a futile venture. They were drawn to the sound, and soon all were once again seated in a semi-circle near the Wood Elf's bed, wide-eyed as only mortals can be in the glory of the Eldar.

Arathorn and Alberic puffed up proud as though they were some how responsible for this blessing upon their camp, and were about to begin sharing names when the little girl took matters in hand. Gilraen squirmed from her mother's hold and hopped over to the injured Elf, pulling from her hair a rather bedraggled and limp crown of purple Morning Glories. She set it upon their guest's head with the shy delight only a child can express, and sat back on her heels with a pleased smile.

Legolas grinned back and adjusted the crown with as much care as he would a circlet of mithril. He lifted his chin with all the formal regality he could muster in such a humble court wearing homespun clothes four times his size.

"Hannad nîn, gwend vain o dyr chae! Suilad uin Ernil-en-Taur!" Somehow, in spite of the rude accommodations and ridiculous attire, he managed to project a sense of elegant nobility and gracious refinement.

Gilraen giggled and clapped and Legolas' eyes danced appreciatively to see her happy glee.

"He is so pretty, Mum! Look, he likes the flowers!" she said. "What is your name? My name is Gilraen and that is Mum and Da," she rapidly presented her family, pointing at her parents in turn. The Elf child nodded and tapped himself again, giving his name; then touching her and saying hers.

"Legolas, what a beautiful sound that has!" said the aged crone and reached for her husband's hand to squeeze it, catching her breath as the Elf's eyes fell upon hers at the speaking of his name. "I am called Hanna," she whispered.

Legolas knew the woman's name was somewhere in the flow of syllables, but did not know which part, and let his gaze shift to Berkeley. He lifted his brows and pointed at the old woman, and Berkeley translated for him.

"Hanna, mae govannen," Legolas said and inclined his head in respect, for he could see that these two were different from the others. They reminded him of the wizard, Mithrandir, with their deep-lined skin and soft white hair, and he thought it best to treat them with the same courtesy and honour he had been taught to give the Istar.

Arathorn and Alberic told Legolas all the other's names and he smiled with equal friendliness to all, until Dacre's seething eyes met his and the Elf child's mild expression dissolved into a serious and searching demeanour. He was instantly on the alert and everyone noted it, turning almost as one to glare in disapprobation at the man. Dacre frowned even more sourly at this.

"When are we moving on, Arathorn? He seems well enough; we should leave him here and go," he demanded, for while the words phrased suggestions his tones snarled an order.

"I am not going to desert him. Legolas is wounded and cannot fend for himself; he has no weapons and is but a child! Surely you cannot be so cold as to suggest we abandon this innocent to another attack?" Arathorn spoke through ire-thinned lips as he struggled to maintain his calm.

"Attack? What attack?" Gilraen's father asked in fear and came forward to peer into the Ranger's stern features.

Arathorn mentally cursed; he had not said anything about the nature of the Elf's injuries and had not intended to tell his group that a band of Orcs was nearby. His plan had been to evade the issue, mentioning wargs and wolves and such as possible sources for the hurts.

"His injuries were caused by…" Alberic began.

"We should save this discussion for adult ears only!" cautioned Berkeley abruptly and cut him off. Arathorn acknowledged his timely interruption with a grateful nod. To Alberic he sent an exasperated scowl, and his friend shrugged, sheepish over his loose tongue. Yet it was Arathorn who had slipped first and so Alberic flashed back the same type of frustrated frown to his long-time friend.

"Berkeley is right; it not a subject for small ones. Let us set to breaking the camp, for we have been delayed many hours already," Arathorn said. "Alberic and I will see to the little Elf; you need not have any concerns about it, Dacre!"

"How can you say that? He has family somewhere and they will be searching for him. What will happen when they find that we have him?" Dacre fumed. His brother came forward and took him by the arm, tugging him back from the child.

"I would imagine they will thank us, brother! Come, help me with our things, let this trouble you no more," he urged kindly but firmly, and Dacre allowed his brother to overrule him.

Legolas observed this heated exchange fearfully, for it was obvious the one called Dacre was displeased with him for some reason. When Berkeley had halted the Ranger's words and Arathorn at once responded, this confirmed the immortal child's belief that the white haired ones were the leaders. Before the elder could move out of range, the Elf child called to him urgently.

"Berkeley! Boe ammen baded sí! Le tegitha men an ost nîn? Avradon. Men beriatha uin Yrch ennas!"

The old man peered into the youthful countenance and tried to divine the emotions fleeting through the indigo orbs, but failed. Berkeley gave an apologetic shake of his head and a shrug.

"I am sorry, young one, I do not understand." Berkeley patted his shoulder and smiled, glancing over at Arathorn before rejoining his wife as she gathered up their simple possessions.

Legolas watched him depart, and having only comprehended the negation, applied it to his own request, and sighed heavily. Berkeley would not lead them afterall.

The immortal monitored all the activity around him, seeing that the humans were preparing to leave. He struggled to stand up, thinking this was the time for him to go, and it cost him in anguish as he vainly attempted to keep all pressure off the sore, abused muscles in his side and leg. He bit down hard on his lower lip and silenced the cry he wanted to release, but could do nothing about the rasping breaths that gave away his distress.

Arathorn stopped what he was doing and reached for him at once, surprised to see him try to rise with such wounds still unhealed.

"No, Legolas," he said gently and seated the Elf back down on the fallen log near the fire ring. "Do not try to walk around; we can take care of things on our own."

Legolas stared up at him, not sure what it all meant, and the Ranger sighed to see the question in the blue eyes regarding him.

"Bedin bar si, erui, Arathorn?" the Elf said, and even though he had no idea what that meant the man grinned warmly to hear his name trilled in the soft Sindarin accent. But Legolas was waiting expectantly for some sort of response, and the Ranger crinkled his brows up in dismay. Perhaps this was not going to be so simple after all.

"You stay there, Legolas! Do not get up!" he said and placed a careful hand on the youth's shoulder, pressing down just enough to get the idea across. Legolas nodded understanding and smiled, but it was not the bright and gleaming beam of glory his eyes had emitted prior to Dacre's outburst. The Elf seemed worried. His eyes strayed often to the unpleasant man and his brother as they went about their work.

Alberic came back to Legolas presently, having resituated the supplies on the donkeys, and offered him a slice of waybread and more water. The Elf's face lit up at the sight of the morsel and he uttered hasty thanks before wolfing it down in four quick bites. He again drank as though he had not seen water for days, and while the Ranger was pleased to see his young guest's appetite, he was concerned about how long the child had been out in the wilderness to be so famished and parched. He very much wanted to know what had happened to the young one and what similar troubles they might encounter.

"Legolas, can you tell me why you are all alone out here?" he said. The inquisitive expression this generated revealed that, besides his own name, none of those words held any meaning for the Elf. Alberic pointed at the bandaged area of the child's body and lifted up his eyebrows.

Legolas face clouded over and his emotive eyes darkened with deep hatred that shone all the more for the tears filling them. The child's mouth set in a tight grim frown and he wrapped his arms protectively around himself.

"Yrch!" he hissed, getting the word out of his mouth as though just to speak it left a foul and bitter taste behind. For extra emphasis, Legolas turned aside and spat, returning Alberic's gaze with fear and rage in his own.

At this point Arathorn joined them and Alberic explained he had tried to learn the child's circumstances, to which the Ranger just shook his head.

"It matters not. We will just have to be careful, for he cannot explain where the attack occurred, or even when, or what direction he has travelled from. I know not how to return him to his people, and cannot bear to leave him alone. He comes with us and we can but hope the Wood Elves have ways of tracking him that will lead them hence," he said.

"Yrch!" the child said again, trying to get their attention and succeeded. "Leben oer io, teraid nîn ar im farol vi taur. Yrch toll an estolad. Ti nant baug ar coru ar rem! Maethennem beren ar breg. Pân dant. Erui, cuinon. Ti aphadatha nin, ti telitha si!"

From the seriousness of the elfling's tone and manner, the Rangers knew he was recounting what had happened, but could make no sense of any of the words other than 'Orcs'. Arathorn shook his head and smiled down at the frustrated expression on the young one's face, kneeling down to be at eye level with the fair youth. Arathorn pointed at the Elf and then swept his arm out wide to indicate the gathered company around them.

"Legolas, you will join us," he said and repeated the motions, adding a beckoning gesture between himself and the child at the end.

Legolas looked from the Ranger before him to each of the expectant faces trained in his direction, and found all but one filled with hopeful longing. The Elf smiled as his eyes returned to Arathorn, nodding his head and again attempting to rise. This was prevented by Alberic laying his huge heavy hand on the slim young shoulder. Legolas looked up to find the gruff Ranger calmly shaking his head.

A brash boyish grin on his lips, the man leaned down and scooped the youngster up, careful of his injuries, to seat him on his shoulder. and Legolas gasped and then laughed, clutching two handfuls of the human's thick brown hair to steady himself in his new perch.

With easy agility the Elf swung a leg over Alberic's head and draped it over the other shoulder so that he was securely settled, crossing his ankles in front of the man's chest as the Ranger's hands steadied his knees. Legolas bent over and peered into Alberic's upside down countenance and laughed again, patting the crown of his head.

"Bedo, Alberic, roch tad-dal nîn!" he said with high amusement and pointed out toward the road.

Everyone laughed, for his meaning was clear, and Arathorn rose from the ground.

"Alright, let us be on our way, then!" he said and led the group onto the road.

~continued~
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Henvaethor (Warrior Child)