Hiraethwyn

The other elves fanned out to conduct a search while the remaining two approached the bloodied woman's wood-and-rope prison. As they'd already noticed, her head was lolling alarmingly backwards, and Herrolm noted as soon as he was close enough that her breathing was shallow. He was relieved it was even there. She was on the sharp edge of tumbling into a more permanent darkness. Any remaining ire at being left behind to tend to the girl fled and he quickly transformed into a healer trained by the best."Go around back and cut the bindings on my mark," he ordered his friend quietly, moving to hold the girl up and trying to be careful of her torn skin."I will take her," Morrim replied, equally quietly. He was still watching the girl in front of them with an odd, almost pained look on his face. The girl was held up by a single, filthy rope tied to either hand tightly enough to impede circulation and looped around the massive tree trunk. As soon the knife sliced through the thick, rough rope, she fell. The prince was ready and he gently caught her."Lay her down on her stomach my friend," he instructed, seeing that the worst of the damage was contained on her back. He almost bade the other elf to take care, but Morrim's hands were steady and careful, and he was nothing if not gentle as he maneuvered the girl into a prone position. It took very little effort to do so. Herrolm left her to his friend's careful hands and went to his horse to fetch his pack; he needed his healing supplies. When he returned the girl was arranged on the cloak, face down, and Morrim crouched next to her, motionless. His face was inscrutable, but his eyes didn't leave her still form. He toyed absently with a small, bare blade in his hand, and was crouched in a decidedly protective stance. "She is but a child," Herrolm observed sadly, keeping his voice low. Morrim started and stood back from the girl, allowing his friend in. They both eyed her battered body and lank, tangled hair with pity. "I am not so sure…" the elder of the two finally said. "Humans show their age, Morrim, unlike elven-kind. She can't possibly be more than fifteen or sixteen summers," the healer answered as he worked. He'd already unrolled his supplies: bandages and dried herbs tied neatly into a leather coil. "I’ll need some water," he said after a minute. Morrim sprung up and grabbed the nearest canteen in an instant, handing it over without comment. His friend cast him an odd look, but he didn't see it, as his attention was fixed on the girl. She had a starved look about her – he could see the lines of her ribs – and had clearly been through no small torment. What skin that wasn't marred by colorful bruising and lacerations was pallid. Her hair was matted and fell over her shoulder in coarse snarls. He had to wonder what sort of girl she was, to have survived the hands of the shraeken. "She must be human," he remarked, brushing a lock of tangled hair back to better see, "for her ears have no point. And yet I feel as if… as if she is somehow… more…" "What else could she be?" "I know not." The two didn't say any more as Herrolm worked, and soon her back was as free of blood and grime as it could be under the circumstances. He made a poultice to stave off infection with the dried herbs and water, and Morrim helped him to wind soft bandages around her waist and shoulders. She was surprisingly light, even for her small stature, and he held her up with ease while the other man gently applied the linen. Her entire back was covered in welts and lacerations and some of them wrapped around her waist and down over her shoulders. She'd been beaten viciously. Her wrists were bloodied by the ropes used to restrain her, so they too were bandaged, and she bore myriad other contusions, cuts, and – even worse – burns scattered over the rest of her body. To what purpose this damage had been done, they did not know. Part way through the treatment, the other elves returned. They didn't interrupt the healer's work. Instead, they built up a fire near the girl and cleared away the remnants of the shraeken's camp from the clearing. The land was glad to be rid of the taint the foul creatures left behind, and Morrim felt the oppressive atmosphere left behind by their presence begin to lift as they worked. The girl had not yet awakened, but hopefully, Herrolm's wake-herb would rouse her when he was done tending her injuries. "The shraeken were here, my prince," Aeroen whispered, crouching down next to them."Something sent them off in a hurry then," his brother replied. "Any sign of what it was?" Morrim asked as they efficiently checked the girl over for any other injuries. Herrolm gently cleaned each cut and applied a mild salve to the bruises and burns he found. "None," Aeroen replied. "She needs more care than you can give her in the field and we do not yet know who she is. Shall we return to Makonenn Rhal?" Morrim asked. "Not this night," Herrolm said firmly, "Darkness falls soon, and the girl cannot chance travel until I have woken her and seen if there is more damage. I do not wish to do that until I have finished treating her wounds. Even then, she will have a great deal of pain.” He sighed, frustrated with being unable to do more to help her. “And weakness as well, I fear,” he continued, “She has obviously been starved." Aeroen nodded his agreement and went to give the order to make camp for the night, leaving Morrim standing watch over his friend and the girl in front of them while the others made camp, eyes not leaving her unconscious form. "You still do not believe she is human," the healer observed. "I do not. Can you not feel it my friend? Can you not hear the very forest cry out for her?" "You're the one with a blood bond with these lands, my prince. I'm just a lowly warrior and healer," Herrolm replied, smirking. Morrim didn't smile, but he shifted closer to the girl, whose cheek was pillowed on the soft cloak. The earth seemed to have piled itself around her to create a softer bed. He'd been too enthralled with the girl herself to notice it before. "Ah! See this, here," he cried, gesturing. The healer set aside the last of the bandages and moved closer to the other elf. He saw immediately what his friend was referring to. The leaves and pine straw pillowed the girls head and arms, making her more comfortable than the elves could in her unconscious state. "Heaven's stars," he whispered, "You may be right Morrim…" "Can you wake her yet Herrolm?" another voice called, interrupting their thoughts. "Aye, Aymer, in a moment," he called back, then reached again into his pack and brought out a small vial. It contained a powerful smelling herb preserved in alcohol, guaranteed to wake nearly all but the dead. He uncorked it and waved it under the girl's nose. She awoke, immediately and violently. She cried out, calling something in a language no one understood, frantically searching for something. At first, she didn't seem to be aware of the elves surrounding her. Before she could further injure herself, Herrolm grabbed her arms just above her rope-burned wrists, and tried to still her. His intentions were good, but she had no way of knowing this. Last she'd been aware, the only hands laid on her were the vicious, clawed limbs of shraeken. At full strength and without her many wounds, she could have possibly held against the taller elven man, though Herrolm didn't know this. Even without her weapons, she had other ways to fight. As it was though, he was far stronger than she and behind him stood many elves. Finally, the fight left her and she collapsed to her knees. "Adire," she sobbed, finally breaking down, "adire, ie entreme re ti… Fentirer ie." (Please, please, I beg of you… Release me.)"We cannot understand you my lady," Herrolm said quietly in the common language, hoping she could speak it, but still not releasing her. He couldn't take the chance that she would fight again or flee and hurt herself.