PART SIX: Benign
Isoldis is immediately upon her feet and rushing to scan the view from the cave. Beneath her, the grasslands are dulled in shadows that blur upon the day’s ending, a skirt of woodland edging the surrounding mountains like an embroidered pattern of twig and leaf; the cool wind stirring debris beneath the dark weaving of boughs like dust swept under a rug. Kneeling to the ground, Isoldis places a single hand flat to the dirt and meditates upon the approaching rhythm of a horse’s hooves, gleaning worthy knowledge: only one horse, only one rider, only one direction.
Hurriedly, she returns to the wood pile and chips away at her piece of flint in desperation to set a spark among the tinder, whether the rider be friend or foe she must attract their attention, but the fire resists her efforts that are far from well practiced and then suddenly she feels a presence coming towards her and glances up to spy a hooded figure riding into view upon a mottled grey horse, climbing carefully up the steep slope of the mountain and turning towards the mouth of the cave.
The rider appears strong and tall beneath his travelling cloak, taller than the average Elf, his steed picking its way up the snaking dirt track with elegant manoeuvres. Reaching the plateau beside the cave, Isoldis quickly recognises the elven-made saddle and as the figure dismounts, she catches flashes of arms and armour beneath the traveller’s long cloak that can only be Eldar crafted. His presence has a singular impact upon the Lady; he is unmistakably of kindred status and seems neither shocked nor confused to discover Isoldis in her weary condition. Simply, he ties his horse to a dead tree stump before meeting her wide eyed expression.
“You!”
Instantly, Isoldis is infuriated as the lone traveller steps up to look upon her for a brief moment before surveying his surrounds attentively, the unlit fire at his feet, the dark mouth of the cave ahead and the jagged escarpment that harbours the nesting places of foul smelling creatures. Or, was that the lady’s scent? She was not looking her best and solid blue eyes frown beneath a tightly wrapped scarf as the lady makes fierce complaint.
“Of all the elves to cross my path...why does it have to be you? How my eyes burn now like there are needles in them.” Isoldis clutches her face and grits her teeth.
“Lady Isoldis...let me help thee..” The Lord proffers soft words as he hooks his chin over his scarf and Isoldis instantly bursts with tears.
“The Lord is injured...” she gasps between intakes of air and points to the interior of the dank cave.
Without hesitation, the Lord unwraps his scarf and removes his helm, recognising his kindred, “Lord Mittanyaro...” he steps into the mouth of the cave and kneels beside the unconscious Eldar, “are you badly hurt?” Anglachelm asks, but only Isoldis is able to answer.
“He is a--sleep...tell me he is not dead.” She gasps for more air between her words, “ tell me this!”
Anglachelm is momentarily thoughtful and inspects Mittanyaro with great attention, musing to himself,”...seems alive...”
“He was badly injured...and lost his vision. I dragged him here...but I cannot carry him further...”
Anglachelm peers suddenly to Isoldis before standing briefly to remove the outer layers of his travelling garments which he uses to cover the unconscious Lord and rest his head upon a pillow.
“I am greatly annoyed by this situation...I have to admit that I cannot carry him to the foot of the mountain, let alone Lothlorien! Oh! Why do I even tell you these things!” Isoldis pulls at her hair in despair.
Anglachelm remains kneeling and suffers the lady’s tantrum before speaking calmly, “Lady Isoldis. You will not carry Lord Mittanyaro to Lothlorien. He needs swift healing that can only be found in Imladris. You shall return with me and the Lord here, and if he perishes upon the road...”
“He cannot perish...” Isoldis stops weeping as a sudden fear grabs her. “He—he—promised—not to leave...me again.”
“If he perishes upon the road...” Anglachelm reiterates calmly, “...there shall be a great swell of anger within Bar en Vanimar...against you.” Anglachelm returns his attentions to the sleeping Lord, speaking softly, “Lord...come to my voice. Lasto beth nin.” Mittanyaro stirs momentarily, but he does not wake.
“You—you will save him?”
“I will save you both.” Anglachelm closes his eyes and bites his lip. “I have wearied myself upon the road, I do not have the strength within me for this...” He inhales deeply.”But I must try nevertheless...”
“I cannot wake him, and I lose count of the days...” Isoldis whines, standing at the mouth of the cave as Anglachelm begins to meditate at Lord Mittanyaro’s side, humming in a rare dialect of Quenya. Anglachelm knows the ancient song sings of bravery and sacrifice, flowing forth from the Tûr like rushing water.
...where did he go... to leave all us...
He followed me...although I knew it not until...
...a star and a sword in his hand
...Noléme, king of hithlum... none can look at his face
... return... return to us to the throne of Noldor...
Isoldis stands vacant upon the words of the song, catching only fragments in her minimal understanding; she dares not to move a muscle lest she disturb the resonance of the hymn and can only watch as Anglachelm sings, his eyes closed and the last lines being sung with such reverence that the Lord almost topples aside. She remarks not and Anglachelm rises to his feet and paces to his horse with heavy footsteps, untying a water skin from his saddle before returning to the fallen lord. He glances at Isoldis only momentarily as he wets Mittanyaro’s mouth with fresh water. “How did you even think you could reach Lothlorien?”
Isoldis’ mouth falls open in response, but the statement seems not to beg for an answer. She paces the entrance of the cave before deciding to put her own concerns aside for the love of Mittanyaro, kneeling opposite Anglachelm and taking the water he offers her as she watches him inspect Mittanyaro’s badly burned face.
“What happened to him?” Anglachelm asks as he gingerly removes the strips of cloth Isoldis has been using to dress his eyes.
“A terrible incident...he saved me, but in the process he was severely injured.”
“By what?”
“A worm came out of the water, deep inside the cave.” Isoldis gestures in the direction of the cave’s lightless interior. “It rose up behind me, but Lord Mittanyaro...” Isoldis pauses briefly before declaring, “he...was willing to sacrifice his own life to save me.”
Anglachelm listens, tilting his head at such an angle that his sharp vision brushes over the burnt flesh around Mittanyaro’s eyes more acutely in the dimming light. Discovering minute flecks and shards of poisonous barb still in contact with the skin, Anglachelm removes his right glove and picks the tiny pieces free with the utmost dexterity, leaving the wounds free to breathe for the time being and pulling his glove back on.
“Do you have a weapon about you?”He asks, standing.
“no...I do-do not.”
Anglachelm leans forward to remove his boot dagger and hands it to the lady. She takes it reluctantly, frowning as to its purpose, so far the creatures beyond the cave have left her alone, but Lord Anglachelm only nods simply before making his way back to his horse where he prepares to ride out.
“You are leaving us? Do you scheme to end us here? What especial judgement is this?” Isoldis is roused with sudden rage, but Anglachelm ignores her, hopping into his saddle swiftly. Isoldis runs up to him and attempts to hold the horse by its bridle.
“A wound to kill mortal men a hundred times over, but he does resist! Elbereth gives strength to my hands and sight to my eyes...I shall return with the medicines he needs.”
“Lord..please help us. Don’t leave! You may mock me all you like. But for Mittanyaro’s sake? Save him!” Anglachelm’s horse dances with eager feet in the dust and Isoldis lets loose her hold open it, tugging at the Lord’s hauberk instead, despairingly. Anglachelm glances skyward before unsheathing his sword, tightening the reins on his horse to hold it still and peering down at the beseeching lady. “Take him! Please, take him with you...and leave me to perish...” She begs.
“Stay with him...I will return.” Anglachelm nods calmly before his steed is kicking at the dirt and riding off down the track. Isoldis follows after, running until her feet are complaining of the stony ground and she is forced to halt. Disheartened and confused in equal measures, her face achieves a torturous expression of emotion yanked up from her churning gut.
“I believe you not! I trust you never! She calls out with a shaking fist, but the lady can only offend the encroaching night, as Anglachelm sinks into shadows and dreams from whence he had come, causing Isoldis to suddenly wonder of her imaginings. Fretfully, she searches the ground for footprints and hoof marks and then the interior of the cave where Anglachelm’s travelling garments still cover Mittanyaro. The fallen Lord moans softly in his uneasy sleep and Isoldis kneels to rest her eyes upon his stillness, resisting the desire to weep more yet taking up the Lord’s hand and sitting with him a full day without moving. She is the pale statue against the unlit mouth of the cave, the setting sun against Anglachelm’s back as his horse rides back onto the plateau in a cloud of hast.
Immediately, the Lord is dismounting and returning to check upon Lord Mittanyaro’s condition before untying a bundle of wood strapped to his saddle and using it to assemble a fire of subsistence. Then he is collecting fresh roots and herbs from his saddlebags and setting them beside the warming fire before offering Isoldis cool water from a freshly filled water skin. She wets Mittanyaro’s throat with gentle dribbles before gulping a few mouthfuls herself, Anglachelm empting the remainder of the returned skin into a small iron pot that he settles snugly into the growing fire, crushing parts of the roots between two smooth stones and adding selective parts of the freshly gathered herbs to be brewed slowly.
He works with care and a wealth of knowledge previously unseen by Isoldis, and though the Lord would be the first to confess he is no great healer, his experiences in field medicine are much in evidence. There is silence between Anglachelm and Isoldis until the remedy is well prepared, then he stands.
“This will burn, but it will also heal him...” He informs almost coldly, carrying the still warm pot to Mittanyaro and glancing down before kneeling. “I am sorry Lord...” Anglachelm speaks softly to the sleeping Lord, applying the mixture carefully to the red raw skin of his wounded face, peering to his uniform once the ointment is applied. “I need some wrappings...” The lord searches himself and clutches at his chest as though he has just realised that he lost something.
Immediately, Isoldis begins tearing shreds of cloth from her tattered skirt, catching a seam that pulls apart too easily. She yanks some of her underskirt free and holds it outward, Anglachelm quickly averting his eyes.
“Lady! This is most inappropriate...”
Isoldis glances at the lower part of her legs, visible through the shredding of her skirt and quickly wraps the loose fabric about her as best she can while Anglachelm searches his own garments to find some clean clothing. Pulling off his hauberk, he offers it to Isoldis to regain her modesty, whilst Anglachelm rips at his undershirt, making strips of clean white fabric for dressings that he applies to the sleeping Lord. Then he is walking to the edge of the cave and searching the horizon that proffers the last flickers of Anor to back light the mountain range like the scribbling of someone’s signature with a quill of daylight across black parchment.
“It is too dangerous to travel at night. We shall move out at first daylight, you better get some rest, I will...stay on watch...” He announces, settling against a lip of rock at the cave mouth, not far from Mittanyaro’s side. Isoldis lays herself to rest against the opposite wall, and closes her eyes without further complaint. When she next opens her eyes, Anglachelm is gone and she stumbles out onto the plateau in confusion.
“Lorien is far away Isoldis...” She hears Anglachelm’s voice and picks apart the night to discover him set upon a ledge above the cave mouth. “Could you not rest?”
“No...too many bad memories.” Isoldis pouts upon her confession. “Plus...this uniform is itchy. And it smells of you...I am not accustom to a Lord’s smell upon my person.”
“It’s better than what you were wearing...”
Isoldis wipes her face, “I had a desire to travel...was not my best decision to leave unpacked. But what else could I do, when you were holding me against my will.”
“You fled. You failed to obey wisdom...and risked elven lives, including your own.”
“You know the reasons for my leaving...my lute...”
“Forget the lute! Can’t you see! Look...what happened to Lord Mittanyaro.”
Isoldis sniffs back some tears and takes a deep breath.
“A lute is not worth the price of an elven life.” Anglachelm sighs deeply and glances at the starry sky and his feet, or any place other than in Isoldis’ direction, yet what he perceives from the hidden places of the surrounding escarpment prompts him swiftly down to the lady’s side. The mountain side is stirring with life, slipping and sliding from the crags and crevices as to stir the darkness with a growing menace. He lays a gentle hand upon her shoulder, “Come inside the cave...and don’t complain about it.”
Isoldis wrinkles her forehead but does as the Lord command, immediately checking Lord Mittanyaro’s condition.
“How is he?” Anglachelm asks.
“The same...yet a good patient, to survive so long without proper care.”
Anglachelm steps up to the sleeping Lord and kneels to offer him a few precious drops of tonic kept in a small vial upon his person. The liquid has a strong vapour that fills the murky hole in the ground with the scent of Eldar.
“Come on Lord...dawn is breaking...” Anglachelm enthuses and the Lord stirs.
“He moves! You awaken him...it is true!” Isoldis gasps and Anglachelm cradles the Lord’s head and shoulders to encourage his rousing. Mittanyaro coughs voicelessly, yet awakens not and his company sink back from their moment of glee with heavy shoulders.
“Help me carry him to my horse...the dawn comes and we shall be gone from here forthwith.” Anglachelm pulls the dead weight of Mittanyaro upwards until he is able to hook one arm around his shoulders, digging the heels of his boots into the ground for leverage. Isoldis helps to pull Mittanyaro upright by the other arm, nestling her slight frame under the fallen guardian as if she actually proffers any aid when in all reality his dead weight falls entirely Anglachelm’s way, yet it seems that together they drag the wounded Lord across the plateau to the single horse, leaving two scratches in the ground made by the steal toes of Mittanyaro’s boots. As if with some unspoken command, Anglachelm’s horse lowers itself to accommodate the wounded Lord who is shifted up into the saddle, his slumped body coming to rest precariously across the horse’s neck whilst Anglachelm rubs the faithful stead’s nose as it stands, speaking softly into a twitching ear. “Do not drop him.”
Drawing his sword, Anglachelm leads the way down the dirt track as the mountain lights upon the first rays of the new day like unfolding crumpled paper from a gift, aching with worm flesh drawn from their nests perhaps by the scent of Eldar and the timely departure is much in evidence. Isoldis follows dutifully, holding the bridle of Anglachelm’s horse, her eyes fixed upon her direction ahead and she glances back to the mouth of the cave not at all, neither to the distant mountain range to which her hopes and desired had been so acutely focused, nor does the Lady meet Anglachelm’s gaze while they travel. No more words are spoken between them during the homeward journey to Imladris and the silence is palpable.
