Recovery

It was a bright cold dawn high in the mountains.  Hoarfrost rimed the scattered patches of grass.  The breath of the horses lingered in the air.  Aranuir knelt next to Creor, persuading him to take some broth.  The young man’s forehead was warm, his breathing shallow.  Infection might have set in.

Care was at over a day’s ride away to the nearest farm, further to Framsburg, the main settlement of the Eotheod.

Aranuir eased him onto his horse, barely conscious.  Using a length of rope, he bound Wulfric to his stallion, tied secure as if he were baggage.  There was already some extra baggage, a fine black wolfskin he could boast of if illness did not claim him.

All morning they picked their way down a long arm of the Misty Mountains, at times along the ridge, occasionally finding easier way in the valley.  Not long after noon he stopped.  Wulfric was asleep in the saddle.  Not necessarily bad if his body was fully occupied with recovery.  Aranuir palmed his forehead.  Still warm, but holding his own. 

He took stock of their position.  Up ahead there was a spur coming off the main ridge they had descended.  The spur splayed out into the forested uplands that ran to the Anduin.  With strong, experienced horses they would make good time.  They would camp in the woods tonight and make way to Framsburg in the morning,

Aranuir mused on Wulfric's luck.  This trip over the Misty Mountains was not compelled by events.  It was an old man’s remembrance, taking to the wild one last time over old paths, familiar lands from more than one hundred years of patrolling.  His son Aravir had long taken over chieftain duties and was now training his own son, Aragorn. 

So for the sake of memories he was there to save Wulfric from bleeding out on a rocky mountainside.  Would that the young man live.  Aranuir had no enthusiasm for arriving in Framsburg with the corpse of the chieftain’s son.  They were a fierce people who might not grant his life the time to explain what had happened.   

The hours passed.  They descended off the last of the spur and rode into the forest, picking up a game trail.  The firs had mixed with birch, poplar, aspen and oak, all brilliant green in their first spring leaves.  Late afternoon’s sun filled the air with a quiet glow.  Birds chirped and chattered.  Life was on the land.