The Littlest Warrior

As the traveling party made camp for the night, Elwaith helped Andras to get comfortable, or as comfortable as could be expected. Elwaith had been the Chief Herbalist and Master of Lórien’s apothecary for over eight hundred and fifty years, a position that he had worked hard to obtain. After centuries of apprenticeship the old apothecary-master Beregnas, decided that the sea called to him, and before sailing to the undying lands, he recommended Elwaith as his successor.

Lord Celeborn had been somewhat surprised that Beregnas had given his vote of confidence to an elf who was so ‘young’; at only 2315 years of age Elwaith was the youngest apprentice under Master Beregnas’ charge. Nevertheless, the old master assured the great lord that Elwaith, although young, was the most talented of his peers; he had a ‘gift’ for healing and on many occasions had come up with unique and unconventional potions. His affinity with herbs was known throughout the realm and he was single-handedly responsible for identifying and cataloging more than 150 herbs and plants during his time with Beregnas. The talented elf had gone on to prove his mentor correct; he was indeed the right one for the task.

As the elves settled in for the night Andras sat propped against a fallen tree, cradling his afflicted appendage even tighter against his body than normal. Haldir had just assigned the sentry positions and Timagol, Malrin, and Rúmil had been given the first watch. Andras sat quietly watching as the evening meal was prepared. He could tell by the nagging ache in his shoulder that Elwaith would soon approach him and bring his evening sedative; he thanked the Valar that the elf was not only a caring and efficient healer, but punctual. Soon he would put his plan into motion and rid his fine compatriots of his disgusting presence. 'They will grieve,' he thought to himself, 'but tis better this way, better for all of us'.

Thoughts now drifted to his father and the effect this would have on him. He regretted that his actions would undoubtedly cause his father to sail; and in that second, the selfishness of the act he considered near brought him to tears. However, the second passed swiftly, and again his thoughts returned to the abhorrent appendage still attached to his otherwise perfect body. For a moment he recalled their ancient ancestors; the days of Maedhros and his plight on Thangorodrim, the Mountains of Tyranny. He wondered now how the son of Fëanor found the courage to continue, maimed as he was…his hand severed by his own kin in a last ditch effort to save his life.

“Maedhros had Fingon,” he reflected, “and his brother Maglor.”

“But are these here assembled not as your brothers?" the tiny voice inside his head questioned. "Do they not seek to rescue you as Fingon rescued Maedhros?”

He lowered his head and quickly covered his eyes, as the shame of what he contemplated shone brightly behind his closed lids. “How can I do this to them? They have come all this way, tended me, and even now; they protect me still.”

His eyes fell upon Haldir who effortlessly went about his chores, and Elwaith, diminutive for an elf, yet still so graceful and beautiful. He watched as Orophin settled on his pallet drawing a blanket around his broad shoulders to stave off the chill dampness of the mountain air, while his friend Ingorn – steadfast Ingorn, so like Rúmil; quick to smile, quicker still with a bow, stirred the pot of vegetable stew he’d so carefully prepared for their evening meal. These were his friends, who else would have carried him mile after exhausting mile up treacherous paths so narrow that even a goat would have had trouble traversing them?

Who else would have held him so gently, refusing to allow his battered body to experience so much as one unnecessary moment of discomfort or pain? As he looked now to the trees, he could just barely see the back of Timagol’s tunic, so well hidden had the elf made himself in the branches. “Timagol…” whose strong arms had carried him with ease, as if he were still an elfling in swaddling clothes.
He thought then of Rúmil’s oath, and the vow that was sworn before his father, “Know that by whatever power we have within us we will fight to bring you justice; Andras will be avenged.”

‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘I have no doubt that I will be avenged…but vengeance will not give me back my arm’.
At last his eyes searched the trees for Malrin…Malrin who had warned him to stay away from that god-forsaken forest. Malrin, who had risked his life entering that evil place to bring him out alive – however damaged he might be. Malrin, whose guilt and anguish was almost palpable; ‘This will be hardest on him’, he thought.

“In time mayhaps he will come to understand why I must do what I must do. Ever has he cared for and protected our people, he is blameless in this,” he said under his breath as he looked again at his lifeless arm. “I will not suffer an elf so great as he to look upon me one moment longer than is necessary. Better that I end it now and allow these good elves to return to their homes and families.” And with that thought firmly in his head he beckoned Elwaith to him with the lie that could seal all their fates, “Elwaith, my arm torments me…would you make the potion for me again?”