Veryacano led the small group. He was in the front,mostly covered by a dark cloack, silent and invisible as they advanced in secrecy just as much as he was bright and noisy as a thunder when in the heat of battle. The twelve that followed him elves were spread in a half circle, three in front with other three following each of them, in a formation like the rounded tail of a peacock. She was one of the three following Veryacano, with Telpenasse leading the second group and an elf named Turmagor the third one.
There seemed to be a special sense they used to feel eachother’s presence because they were barely visible and impossible to hear. Turuninde was loosing patientience. She was accustomed to be an equal to her brother Tyelpenasse and to the silent communication of her own group: small gestures, glances, all learned during long time spent together. Veryacano was more hard to read than her old companions but she was ready when he gestured again for them to follow and glided behind the next rock. She took his place while the other shadows were rearranging in the hideouts nearby. The goblin camp was just ahead, its fires already visible. They established it only days ago and the elves gave them time to settle up before taking them out, but not enough to fortify their positions fully, in order to maximize the impact of the strike. A few of the goblins were sleeping around the fires and probably some more were in the crude tent-like structures. They have started to make a barricade but it was in no shape to matter yet.
The elf Arrows were behind, up on the rocky edge, trying to spot their counterparts in the dark. As planned, Veryacano stepped forward, letting his long chainmail -almost a trademark for him in the Moors- shine in the moonligth, catchy bait to uncover the goblin archers if there were any holding guard unseen, so that the Arrows could take them out silently. He was majestic, all silver and black, as he seemed ready to take on alone a whole camp, menacing like a ghost of the past coming to hunt down ancient enemies.
The crude arrows and battlecries did not delay for long but they found only unpierceable shield and armor. Neither delayed the elvish Arrows response or the Hammer Lord’s followers coming out of the shadows as one, rushing towards their targets.Turuninde still had her eyes on Veryacano when she saw the other massive dark shadow coming from around his rocky hideout. She was the closest to him.
“Behind you!!” she let out a shout and launched herself in the direction of the attacker, sword in hand. She landed between him and the dark figure with the sword above her head but she landed, badly, on slippery rocks. The blade of the attacker found its way to her shoulder and upper arm. The would burned and she lost balance even more, with a cry of pain. Veryacano pushed her brutally out of the way and she heard his shield against the attacker’s blade before managing to regain her composure enough to try to stand up. Veryacano already was turning towards her, alone.
“He ran. If he did not manage to take me by surprise, he fled before I could end him.Coward!” he responded to her unspoken question.
The other elves were taking care of the remenants of the goblin camp. Veryacano took a look around evaluating who needed help the most, then he pressed his lips together and did not leave her side. She tried to stand up but his look, half anger - half pity, was the last thing she saw before seeing all black around her.
***
The healer looked almost as pale as the wounded on the bed, as white as her long robe. Her shoulders, her eyes, the sadness of her glance were speaking before she opened her mouth.
“I do not know what else to try. The fever resists everything. The lord Elrond will come to see her later today, he promised to. Perhaps his power and wisdom can cast some light where I cannot. Remain here with her, Turuviel, perhaps you can answer questions he might have. I will return in time as well, I promise that I will”.
Turuviel nodded and the other vanished silently trough the side door. She’d better rest a bit, Turuviel thought to herself, she needed it. The Vanimar healers did their best, as Veryacano said that they would, but the Hammer Lord’s intuition was right: it was not enough. A higher power than that was needed.
The wounded moaned and her lips parted, dry. Turuviel dip the cloth on the small table in the silver cup with a herbs mixture on the bed side table. She wiped the wounded’s lips with the cool and perfumed mixture. The smell was so familiar. The herbs were the same as those that she herself gathered, in what seemed another lifetime, for another friend touched by darkness, ready to go to the end of the world, confident, enthusiastic. She failed back then. She learned in all this time that passed between then and now about all the things that were not in her control besides the many that were. She sat by the bed, a face of stone with living eyes, full of care and love for her kindred in need but also ready to see anything that came before her. Old eyes on a young face, soldier eyes, eyes guarding for any need that she could fulfill and ready for any danger that could arise unexpectedly.
