Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Old Wounds

They stayed two more days in the inn while Ithilwen's ankle healed itself. Illeandir spent his time silently sitting in a hard chair next to her while she slept away the horrors of her capture. He would have gladly been out roaming the countryside but Thrilo had planted himself in front of the door and refused to let Illeandir out.

"I can't make ya sleep, but sure as my father's beard ain't gonna let ya undo what the lady did. Yer gonna stay in 'ere an' rest until she says so. Ya hear me?"

So Illeandir waited. The few times Ithilwen woke she told him to sleep, but he knew that if he did the dreams would return. Every time he closed his eyes they were there. And every time they were different.

He would dream of his life in Mirkwood when he was a child running through the forest faster than the deer beside him. He would run and run, laughing, hair flying. He would run out of the forest onto the vast plains beyond. The sky darkening and fire burning on the horizon as thousand and thousands of bodies lay, dead and mutilated, further than he could see. He would stand there, unable to move or think, while the forest behind him burst into flame and consumed the land from under his feet.

Other times Illeandir stood alone, where he was he could not say for it always changed, his sword in hand and a beast of shadow and fire looming over him. Illeandir would bring his sword up and the beast would cleave his sword in two. He always woke then, covered in sweat, shaking, and paralyzed with fear.

But the worst dreams were the ones with the hanging cell bathed in weak moonlight. He could see Zaharias, a shadow, weakly struggling to rise and pull himself up. Filled with despair, Illeandir could do naught but watch for hours on end it seemed, unable to help and unable to leave. It was only when a door clanged open and the cell began to recede from view could Illeandir finally wake.

It was that dream that Illeandir was reflecting on, staring at a dark stain on the wall, when Ithilwen woke. She touched his arm and smiled.

"You looked troubled," she said. Illeandir shrugged her hand off.

"It's nothing, only the need to be moving."

"How is your leg?"

"Healing," Illeandir said as he stood up. It didn't pain him anymore and for that he was grateful, but his shoulder ached deeply.

"Your arm?"

Illeandir grinned, "Must you worry? I am fine."

Ithilwen gave him a pointed look and he relented.

"It is weakened greatly," he admitted ruefully.

"As it should be, you reckless fool," reprimanded Ithilwen. She slid from the bed, her once clean white dress falling about her ankles. The hem was tattered and stained. Dried blood formed a dark stain on the right side of her dress, blood that had spilled from the gash on her head. The sewn wound was ugly red, crusty with dry blood while the skin around it rose puffy and pink. No sign of infection had appeared yet. Illeandir hoped it would stay that way. An infected scalp wound was hard to treat and keep clean this far from any large city where professional healers could not tend to it.

"How is your head?"

Ithilwen frowned and touched the worm-like wound. It was warm to the touch, but that was to be expected.

"It does hurt some," she admitted. "As long as it's kept clean. Though, with your clumsy stitching it's going to scar," she teased. "Did you have to cut my hair?" she asked peering into the mirror and fingering the short hairs around the cut. Illeandir chose not to answer.

"I'm going down to find Thrilo. He hasn't been himself lately."

"How so?"

Illeandir shrugged