The Winds of Change
by WindSinger
Chapter 5
As the ranger started to turn from the dead warg something bright
protruding from a bloody gash in the massive chest caught his
eye. As his fingers wrapped around it he felt the graceful hilt
of the elf’s second knife. He pulled it free, marveling at the
coolness and skill of the unconscious warrior. Somehow as he was
falling, entangled with nothing less than a ferocious warg trying to
rip him to shreds, he had managed to not only cut its throat but to
pierce the evil heart.
The ranger thought he might like to get to know this elf, but first he
had to make sure he lived through the night. He knelt and
carefully loosened the elf’s grip on his other knife. Thrusting
both bloody knives behind his belt, he carefully eased the limp body up
into a sitting position, pausing as the light hair came away from a red
stain on the rock pillowing his head.
Another tremor snapped him into action. Pulling the elf erect he
put his shoulder to his middle, allowing the bright head and shoulders
to rest on his back. With one arm securing the elf’s dangling
legs across his chest he turned and, moving as fast as he dared,
stumbled over loose rock and debris to the untouched clearing
beyond. Rocks crashed behind him, but none came near the ranger
and his burden.
Sweaty, grimy, but strangely exhilarated, the ranger eased his burden
down as soon as they were beyond the reach of the collapsing
cliff. The elf was still as death. His face; white, still
and flawless, had the sculptured look of marble. The ranger did
not fancy himself a healer but Elrond Half-elvan, who had been as a
father, was renowned for his healing skills and he had also learned
much from his fellow Rangers about treating the wounds of battle.
His eyes swept every inch of the still body. The only wound he
could see was the broken bone protruding from the elf’s arm. But
he knew that hidden, internal injuries could sometimes be even more
deadly than the obvious ones. And then there was the blood
stained rock that had been hidden under the long, golden hair.
The ranger started at the elf’s head, his fingers gently probing to
find what lay under the light hair. They touched something warm
and sticky. He carefully turned the elegant head and parting the
long hair, now tangled with twigs and dull with dust, he found a gash
welling blood just behind one delicately pointed ear. His
fingers, continuing their exploration, again found a slippage of the
shoulder joint under the blood caked tunic in addition to three broken
ribs. Finding no further injury the ranger, supporting the
injured head and taking extra care of the ribs, carefully and slowly
rolled the elf over to repeat his probing examination. He found
nothing of additional concern beyond three, perhaps four, cracked ribs.
Carefully rolling the elf on his back, the ranger spared a glance at
the darkening sky. Although it was still a few hours before
nightfall, dark, angry clouds stretched from horizon to horizon.
A steady breeze had also started up, carrying the smell of rain and the
bite of winter. Spring had fled and winter was re-exerting its
hold on Middle Earth one last time. It would rain, if not snow,
before the night was over. He needed to find some kind of
cover. But first the wounds needed tending.
Taking off his pack, the ranger brought out a length of cloth and a
small packet of herbs. He ripped half the cloth into strips and
soaked the remaining half in water from his water bag. His
strong, calloused fingers were surprisingly gentle as he parted the
elf’s hair to examine the head wound more carefully. Blood was
still slowly oozing from the deep, ragged gash. The ranger
cleaned the wound then covered it with dried herbs that he held in
place with a strip of cloth wound around the elf’s head.
Taking a knife from the sheath strapped to his boot, the ranger cut the
blood soaked jerkin away from the elf’s shoulder, continuing to slit it
all the way down the sleeve. He gently pealed it away, being
especially careful of the exposed end of bone jutting from the ragged
gash in the arm. He sighed. At least the break was clean,
the bone had not splintered.
Using more of his scant water supply, he washed away both elf and warg
blood, making sure there were no bits of debris or dirt in the
wound. Then, with one hand gripping the elf’s wrist and placing
two fingers of the other hand on the protruding end of bone, he
carefully placed one knee on the upper part of the arm, between the
injured shoulder and the wound. He looked at the elf’s
face. It was still a white mask. Closing his eyes for a
second to calm his nerves he took one quick breath; and while putting
just enough weight on his knee to keep the arm still, he pulled hard on
the elf’s wrist while pushing the broken end of bone down and in with
his other hand.
As the broken end of bone disappeared into the wound and the ranger
felt it settle into place with a dull snap, the elf’s eyes flew open
and his whole body tensed, arched, then thrashed away from the
pain. The ranger put both his hands on the agonized elf’s
shoulders, pinning them to the ground.
Still the elf thrashed. Desperate to still his violent movements
the ranger, using all his strength to keep the elf’s shoulders pinned,
added the weight of his body, twisting his legs about the elf’s,
forcing the pain wracked body to be still. The elf, now moaning,
ceased struggling. As the ranger moved his hand off his injured
shoulder the elf’s vibrant blue eyes, clouded with pain, flew open.
“Naur dan I ngurhoth! Huine utuli n.” He breathed and slipped back into darkness.
The ranger took a deep breath and looked down into the once again
still, white face. The terrible agony he had witnessed shook him
more than he wanted to admit. Never before had he seen an Elf in
so much pain. He had seen Men and Dwarves deal with all levels of
pain from countless types of wounds, many times ending in death – but
never an Elf.
Elves lived forever. They were vibrant and strong. They had
the wisdom of the ancients but young bodies that were strong as
oaks. He knew they could be killed in battle and, therefore,
could be wounded. In truth, Elrond’s wife, Celebrain, had been
wounded so terribly by Sauron’s evil Orcs that she had been unable to
heal fully in Middle Earth and had sailed over the sea to
Valinor. But that was long before his mother took him to
Rivendell; long before he was even born.
The ranger had seen a few wounded Elves but never had they died; and
never had their pain been so great that they had lost even a smidgen of
self control. This elf had been in such agony that he had known
nothing but pain.
Even worse, the young man finally really believed that the fair haired warrior may never recover.
A drop of icy water struck the ranger’s hand. He needed to hurry,
the rain had come. He finished cleaning the jagged gash on the
elf’s arm, laying more of the dried herbs on the wound and wrapping it
with another strip of cloth. He broke a long, thin branch off a
near by tree and cut it into four lengths, placing one on top, beneath
and on each side of the wounded arm, lashing them in place with the
remaining length of cloth.
Careful not to disturb the newly set arm, he then moved to put his knee
between the elf’s arm and ribs. Then, putting pressure on the
outside of the upper arm, he forced the shoulder to part.
Aligning the shoulder joint with his other hand, he slowly released the
pressure and heard the joint settle into place with a soft pop.
Taking a long strip of cloth he passed it under the elf’s shoulders and
bound his arms close to his body. The ribs would have to wait
until he found shelter.
Bundling the limp body in his sleeping blanket and lifting him up in
his arms, the ranger strode off with his burden toward the darkening
sky, his breath leaving a trail of white mist in the cold air.
Night was falling and the rain would start in earnest before he could
reach his destination. He only knew of one safe, secure shelter
within his strength to reach; his feet must find the tended roads of
Hobbiton before the thick, black blanket of a night with no moon or
stars smothered all of Middle Earth. The ranger trusted the map
in his mind’s eye and the clues his remaining senses would ferret out
to show him the way once he found a real road.
‘Bilbo must have a bed large enough for an Elf. After all, did not Mithrandir visit him for weeks at a time?’
His mouth set with grim determination, the ranger quickened his pace to a ground eating lope.
