Twenty

Lancaeriel ran as best she could. Her back and hip ached, but she forced herself to go on. Lass gripped her hand, his strides shortened to accommodate her but he also tugged at her hand, urging her to go faster if she could.

Within minutes, they were far into the darkness of the trees. Lass paused to listen, but there was no sound of them being pursued, only yells and clamor. The men must be trying to make sense out of what had happened before they escaped.

"Can you go on?" Lass asked, releasing her hand.

Lancaeriel nodded. They had to put that camp and the horror of it as far behind them as possible, but her eyes had not missed the blood on his tunic. He had been wounded in that short fight with Jasper, right after—

Lass began picking a more careful trail through the trees.

She followed on his heels, trying to push the image of Torel from her mind, but it haunted her.

For almost six hundred years she had lived, and in that time she had lost her whole family. And yet, she had never seen death so close. Not so violently.

Her mother had simply faded, diminishing until her spirit just left, unable to endure her grief. Her father's body had been so damaged, she had not been allowed to view it, only mourn. And Anthir had been buried with the other warriors who had fallen in the battle of Dol Guldur.

So much death, and yet she had never truly seen death: the blood, the shock, the light fading from a person's eyes…

It was horrible, what had happened. She never wanted to see such a thing again! And no matter how she tried, she was unable to stop her thoughts from going to Torel. Prem had said he was becoming like Brigus, and she had feared it was so. But in the end, Torel had shown compassion in helping them.

It had cost him his life.

How could such evil still exist in the world? Were Men no different than orcs? But no, Torel and young Prem had not been like the older men. They had been misguided perhaps, but not evil.

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she reached up and brushed it away. She could not think about this now! She had to follow Lass through the dark forest, to escape a similar fate.

Lancaeriel's eyes focused on Lass's back and the dark stain of blood growing there, dripping down, leaving drops on the foliage they passed. They were leaving a trail of blood, marking their passage through the trees.

They had been on the move for at least a half hour. If he was still bleeding, he was in danger. His steps were becoming a bit unsteady. Had he slept since he had first found her captive by the men? He had eaten little in that time, giving her most of what they were given. Even water had been rationed to only a few mouthfuls a day.

He needed to stop, to allow her to staunch the blood. And they needed water.

But he did not show any signs of stopping.

She reached out and tugged at his hand. "You're bleeding badly," she whispered. "It's leaving a trail."

He paused then, glancing back at his shoulder. "I know," he told her. "But we can't stop now."

"But the trail…" she pointed at the splash of dark blood on a bush.

He winced, then began unlacing his outer tunic, grimacing as he attempted to maneuver his wounded shoulder from the heavy material. She stepped forward and assisted him, until he slipped from his arms, leaving his torso clad in a grey linen undershirt.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Help me tie this around the wound. It will help stop the blood from leaving a trail."

She used the sleeves to tie the garment around his shoulder. It did not stop the bleeding, but it absorbed it better.

"Should we not staunch the wound now?" she asked, concerned that he was losing far too much blood.

"Not yet," he told her, and pressed on, using more care in their passing so that there would be no sign to follow.

They walked another ten minutes, then he stumbled to a stop, glancing about as if he had just remembered something. He searched the darkness, looking perplexed.

And then she remembered the eyes she had sensed and the noises in the woods that had followed them the past few days. She had not heard or sensed anything in their flight from the men's camp.

"Looking for the moose?" she whispered.

He turned his head and looked at her with an expression of disbelief. "You truly thought we were being followed by a moose?" he whispered back.

Her face heated. "Something has been following us the past three days!"

He nodded, his face pale and drawn in the moonlight filtering through the branches. He was not doing well. They needed to stop.

"Indeed, but I have not sensed them since earlier this evening. Perhaps they will find us. It would be easier if they did."

Lancaeriel did not know what he was talking about. She did not ask, for he had turned back around and her eyes had come to rest on the stain seeping through his outer tunic where she had tied it.

"Lass, we need to stop."

"Just a little further," he told her. "Then you can rest."

He thought she was asking for herself! In truth, she would welcome a rest, but her concern was for him. She was about to tell him so when he pointed to a large oak towering up in the dark.

"We will stop there for a short rest. I would prefer to keep moving, but we must stop staunch the blood or the loss will be too much and I will not be able to go on."

Relieved, she followed him to the tree. It was old, it's branches thick and gnarled. He looked up at the oak. "We will be safer in its branches. Come."

Lass leapt up, grabbed a branch, and with a slight groan, managed to scramble up into the oak.

Lancaeriel followed with far less grace. Her back yet ached, though it was far better than when she had first fallen. It would be days before she was completely healed. She was certain her entire hip was black and blue and green and purple…

But she was not bleeding; he was.

Lass settled onto a thick branch, and she sat beside him, contemplating how to treat the wound. She untied his outer tunic and laid it aside.

"I wish I had some supplies," she told him. "I am not certain how to stop the bleeding without bandages or herbs."

"Cut off my shirt with the knife, then rip it into strips. You can use those to help stop the flow of blood."

Lancaeriel took his knife, using care not to cut him with it. A single cut up the back and she was able to peel the soft undershirt away from the wound. She winced as she saw it, deep and ugly and oozing blood. She pulled her gaze from the wound, and helped him ease the shirt off his arms and began to rip the linen into large strips.

Then she did as Anthir had taught her and applied pressure to the wound for several minutes. But she had nothing with which to clean and dress the wound. Even some simple plants would help clot the blood and cleanse the wound, if she could find them.

She folded a few pieces of the cloth to make a pad, then guided Lass's right hand over his left shoulder so that he could hold it in place as best he could.

"This needs more than just a bandage. I am going back down to search for moss and herbs. "

He held her gaze a moment, as if assessing whether her going were a good idea or not. But then he nodded.

"Stay near the tree, where I can see you."

She climbed down and searched the north side of the tree. There was moss! Moss would pack the wound and help cleanse it. She stuffed several handfuls into her shirt, and began to search for the wide-leafed, low growing weeds that would help clot the blood and keep the wound from festering. In the dark, it was not easy to distinguish the varieties, but she found two plants that she was certain were the right ones and plucked the leaves off each.

If only she had some water with which to rinse them! But she could hear no running stream, and a stagnant pool would be of little benefit, if she could even find one in the dark.

She climbed back up the oak and found Lass sitting as she left him, but his eyes were glazed and that darkness was in them again. He gazed off to the West, his head tilted as if he heard something she could not.

Her heart began to race. Did the Belain call to him? She did not want to lose Lass too! She reached out and pressed her fingers against his throat, feeling for his pulse, and found that it was weak, but, to her relief, steady.

The Belain would not take him from her this night!

Her breath stilled in her chest as she realized that Lass had become dear to her. She had shared with him her losses and grief. She had allowed him to see into her heart, something she had not allowed anyone to do since before Anthir had died. He was her friend, and she would be hurt if anything happened to him.

She inhaled sharply, for the thought did not comfort her. But as she sat staring at his familiar features, she realized it did not frighten her as once it had either. She wanted his friendship, and would gladly follow him to Ithilien.

But first she needed to do something about that wound.

She moved behind him and took the cloth from him. He did not stir. It was strange, the way he just sat and seemed to listen, as if he were in another place. She had never seen anything like it before.

"Lass?" She touched his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

He did not budge nor speak.

Her heart began to pound again. "Lass!" She shook him gently, and he inhaled, then turned his head to look back at her.

"What? What is it?"

She exhaled in relief. "You were in a daze and would not answer. Have you lost too much blood?"

He stared at her a moment, then looked back to the West. "No. I was just…" He sighed. "It is nothing. I am only tired."

Stubborn. Just like Anthir. Refusing to admit when something was wrong! But he was talking now, aware. And that was good enough for her.

She began rolling the leaves between her fingers, crushing and bruising them before packing a few into the wound with some of the moss. Then she placed the rest of the moss over the wound to help absorb anymore blood, and wrapped it tight as she could with the makeshift bandages.

As she worked, Lancaeriel could not stop her mind from going over the night's events. Their attempts to escape the ropes. The feeling of hopelessness and fear. Torel's approach and offer to help them. Jasper slipping up unnoticed behind him and killing the boy.

She had thought them lost in that moment, or at least herself. But Lass had managed to disarm Jasper. And Lass had not left her. Unable to bear the thought of him being recaptured again at her expense, she had urged him to leave her, but…

He had refused, and in a manner that as she recalled it, left her shaken.

The look in his eye when he spoke of 'my people', bespoke that there was far more to him than he presented. She had already known there was more to him than what he had told her. He spoke as one high born, calling her 'my lady', even if in jest to make her smile. And he spoke with the tone of command she had heard from the captains of the patrols.

She might not be important, but Lass was special. She could feel it.

She sat back and looked at her finished work. There was a few dark spots showing up on the cloth, but it appeared the bleeding had dwindled to mere seeping. Then she moved to sit in front of him where she could see his face, and found he had retreated again to staring into the West, his eyes glazed and dark.

"Lass?"

He roused, blinking as if waking from a dream.

"The bleeding is staunched as best I can make it without needle and thread. But you need water and food as well as a good rest so it can heal."

He shook his head. "We cannot linger here. We must head south. I am fine," he tried to reassure her, but she was not fooled.

"You are not fine. You took a nasty wound, and you are tired and are in need of food and drink. I can do nothing about the latter in the darkness, but you must rest for a while at least."

"Nay, we need to stay ahead of the men!" He started to rise, but she placed a hand on his arm.

"The men could not track through these woods during the daylight hours. Do you think they will find us in the dark? We left Jasper wounded and unconscious, Torel dead! I cannot imagine they will search for us before dawn."

He rubbed his hand over his face, then looked up at her with a resigned expression. "My heart tells me you are wrong, but my mind is too muddled to argue with you." He gave her a lopsided half smile and shrugged. "Very well. The night is nearly spent in any case. We shall rest here awhile longer, but we must start moving again at dawn."

Lancaeriel picked up Lass's discarded outer tunic and helped him slip it back on over the bandage. He scooted back against the trunk, leaning his good shoulder against the aged oak, humming softly with the tree's whispering song as his eyes glazed over once more.

She settled back on the branch, picking up his knife, which she had set in the crook of a branch while bandaging his wound. She ran a finger over the smooth, white handle made of bone. It was finely crafted. Another testament that Lass was more than what he presented. The blade had only decorative markings, however, no device or emblem of a noble family.

Her eyes drifted to his tunic and came to rest on the device there: two silver oak leaves crossed. She had never seen it before, not even when she had taken refuge in Thranduil's Halls during the war when the wood had burned. She had taken note of the device of the king, for upon her collar, the Princess Anoriel had worn a single oak leaf imposed over a staff .

She shrugged. Lass was from Ithilien. He wore the green and grey colors and the sigil was probably the mark of Prince Legolas and the small fiefdom King Elessar had granted him there. Besides, in her heart she knew it would not matter who he truly was. He was her friend, and that he would remain. And in that thought she did find comfort.

To Be Continued…