The Littlest Warrior

The journey up the eastern slopes of the misty mountains was tough going; and on more than one occasion the elves had to bring the traveling party to a halt and carry Andras for his safety. When the path became narrower and narrower they removed him from the cart and used a handmade litter; the closer they got to the summit it became obvious that it was simply too risky to allow Andras and Elwaith to continue riding, or to leave the cart attached to the horses. They unhitched the small vehicle from the animals and began pushing it along by hand while Timagol carried the injured elf.
Haldir worried that if the path became slippery or the ground gave way under foot that the cart might pull the horses over the side of the mountain; so they took turns, first with the litter and when that became impossible, carrying him in their arms. It was tedious work, but none complained. They were in this together; they were all of one mind, one purpose; to get their friend to Imladris. Their goal was close at hand as they neared the western exit of Red Horn Pass – the gateway to the Western slopes and an easy descent.

As the sky darkened to eventide, Haldir called the bedraggled, exhausted elves to a halt. Calling out to Orophin he instructed his brother to scout ahead and find a suitable place to rest for the night. Ingorn drew two blankets from the cart and positioned them on the ground while Timagol gingerly laid Andras down. The young elf had been heavily sedated for the majority of the trip, but he was conscious now, and although the pain was somewhat diminished the lad was still extremely distressed. When he initially awoke in the healing tents he’d caught sight of his arm, and seeing the extent of the injury had nearly caused him to fade. It was only through Lord Celeborn’s quick thinking that the young elf’s life was saved. Celeborn, observing Andras’ shock and revulsion, immediately sent the elf into the reverie of a healing sleep. Once under the great elf lord’s control, Celeborn set about making a mental connection with the young elf, and slowly brought him back from the brink of death with promises of Elrond’s healing power.

Elwaith, who had been tending Andras during the cart ride, sat beside the pain-wracked elf and tried to sooth him. Whispering a calming chant to the young one, Elwaith could, at this moment, only wish that he had the skills of his Lord Celeborn; he so wanted to ease Andras’ fear but for the time being all he could do was hydrate the wounded arm with the herb potion and pray for their speedy arrival in Imladris.

Orophin returned quickly, and reported finding a small sward (a grassy area) a short distance ahead. Haldir ordered the main body of the troop to bivouac there, saying that he and Elwaith would follow with Andras as soon as the lad had a chance to catch his breath. As the others set up camp, Haldir and Elwaith knelt beside Andras offering comfort and support.

“It will not be long now Andras,” Haldir said softly, “in a few short hours we will be in Imladris and you will be under Lord Elrond’s extraordinary care.” “He will take good care of you ‘Dras, I am confident that he will find a cure for your injury. We must have faith dear friend, just hold on a little longer.” Bowing his head he placed his hand on the elf’s forehead and sent a prayer to the Valar.

“Beleg Belain anna Elrond bellas an nesta sen beren maethor.” (Mighty Valar give Elrond strength to heal this bold warrior.)

Andras appreciated Haldir’s confidence, but he could not say that his own was as strong. He’d seen his arm twice now, the night of the attack and again days later in the healing tents. The sight had repulsed him. He knew not how anything born of Middle Earth could make an injury like the one he now bore. The hideousness of it was too much for him to look upon. So much so, that he often found himself struggling with Elwaith and the others when they attempted to tend the arm.

'Arm?' he laughingly thought, if you could still even call it that. As far as he was concerned it was anything but that. An arm is something alive, red blood pulsing through it, an arm is something strong and useful, something you wrap around your father’s shoulders or the waist of your favorite elleth. No, this was not an arm; rather, it was a grotesque misshapened appendage that could not possibly belong to an elf.

The Firstborn were beautiful; even the humans in all their ignorance could not deny it. There was nothing beautiful in this thing attached to his body. It was an abomination; he was an abomination, an abomination better left to the wargs or the orcs. How could he subject anyone to look upon it, when he himself could not stomach it? There then was the truth of it; he could not, he would not. He would not put another elf in the position of having to look upon the withered shell that once held so much strength. He would end it, here in the mountains before they reached Imladris. He would not have the Lord of Imladris look upon him in pity as his friends now did. He would not. He would wait for darkness, and he would end it while they slept.