The Littlest Warrior

The Lórien party rode hard towards the Entwash River as Fael kept one arm tightly wrapped around the young elf slumped in front of him. Andras had finally stopped screaming about a mile back, and now moaned helplessly as he leaned back against Fael’s chest. Reaching the river, Malrin judged the banks too steep and the river too fast to cross and gave the others orders to follow him.

“We cannot cross here; the water moves too quickly and is too deep! There is a bend just north where the river narrows…it is shallow, we can cross there!” he shouted over the sound of the rushing water.

“Can we not stop for a moment? Elwaith begged, “Andras is in a bad way, we must tend to what pains him.”

The others looked hopefully to their leader, the elf’s screams still echoed in their ears and they knew Andras suffered greatly. The moonlight allowed Malrin to take a hard look at the lad’s face and assess his condition. Sweat beaded his forehead and his face was contorted in pain. His tunic seemed soaked in perspiration and Malrin could see that at some point the pain had been so great the elf had lost control of his bladder.

“Get him down…but be quick about it, I do not wish to be caught here in the open. Hedrían, light a small fire so that Elwaith can tend to him.”

Elwaith lit from his horse and Fael handed the injured elf down to him. They lay the young one on the hard packed earth as Malrin dismounted and pulled his bow, notching an arrow – just in case. Andras had thankfully passed into unconsciousness still firmly holding his arm to his chest. With the fire lit, the darkness gradually faded, and Elwaith was at last able to see the elf's hand.

“Sweet Eru,” he uttered as he flinched back from the boy. “What in the name of Elbereth could do such evil?”

As the elves crowded round, they could not believe their eyes. Where once there had been a strong arm and healthy flesh there now hung a lifeless withered limb. Dry as old parchment, and shriveled to the bone. The skin was grey, almost black in places and the imprint of a hand could be plainly seen. As Elwaith cut away the boy’s tunic, they found that the damage extended up almost to his shoulder. The arm was dead. Nothing that looked so, could possibly hold life within it.

“What has done this?” Hedrían questioned fearfully. “What could cause such an injury and still not draw blood?

“I know not,” answered Elwaith, “but there is nothing I can do for him…this is beyond any healing I have learned.” ”We must leave…we must get him back to Lórien with all haste, perhaps our Lord knows of this witchcraft. Hand me my satchel, I will wrap the arm and secure it to his body.”

Elwaith scanned their surroundings, “Quickly now…heat some water, I will mix him some great mullein for the pain, and then we must be on our way.”

The elves rushed to make fast Andras’ arm and to brew the painkiller. With their tasks completed Elwaith slowly poured the elixir into the young elf’s mouth and massaged his throat to aid his swallowing. Malrin paced nervously as they gathered their things and remounted. Satisfied that no one had followed them he mounted his horse and led them to the crossing, silently praying that the borders of Lórien would soon come into view.