[Tinuviel of Denton]

Reynion stood guard, staring off into the darkness of the woods, fervently praying that there would not be another attack this night. He doubted that Ihwesta and Gilbereth could go any further, and he himself was worn out. His leg was aching, but he mentally brushed it off. There were others who were much more grievously wounded than he. It was only a leg wound, after all. Even if it did hurt like the Void. He didn't need Taurëwen's expertise as much as, say, Ihwesta. Now, she needed the aid of the healer, as did Gilbereth. He had lost a hand and her side was torn up. It looked like a piece of meat.

He grimaced. It seemed that he was trying desperately to convince himself of something he should know beyond doubt. It was only a leg wound, for Valar's sake. So why did he feel so anxious about it? Well, maybe the fact that it felt like his leg had been thrust through a forge, then pounded on the anvil. He shook his head and leaned against a tree, not-so-incidentally taking his weight off of the injured leg.

He glanced back at the company. Unaware, his eyes softened when they lit on Taurëwen. He winced in sympathy with Gilbereth when she seared his arm wound. He was very grateful that it was not he who was lying there. When Taurëwen ran to the other side of the clearing, he debated going after her, but putting weight on his leg decided him against it. It simply hurt too much to walk on it.

Well, he would just have to fix that, he supposed. It shouldn't be too hard, wrap it up tight, and put aum on it. That was all it really needed. So he took one of the extra shirts out of his bag and set to work ripping it up. When he reached for his belt knife to start the tear, he realized that he'd left his daggers in the carcasses of the various spiders. Silently calling down imprecations on himself for his stupidity, the spiders for their ancestry, and the daggers for their disloyalty, he started the rip in the fabric with his teeth instead.

He tore the thin black cloth into fairly even strips and rolled up his leggings. The wound looked a little worse than his thoughts had painted it, with swirls of angry color surrounding the gash itself, but it was less severe than either Gil's or Ihwesta's wounds. He put a bit of the herbal paste that he always carried in case of emergency on the red flesh, and wrapped it tightly. The advantage of black bandaging, he mused, was that it wouldn't show blood as easily as, say, white, and would give the others less reason to comment. Especially Taurëwen. He didn't want to worry her.

Perhaps an underlying reason for that was that he didn't want to appear weak to her either. After all, he was supposed to be this big, strong elf, who needed no one. Though, that could be a bad image, if he wanted to win her over…oh, never mind. He thought he'd seen her casting covert glances on Orodhin, Ihwesta's brother, anyway. He was just the recluse who lived alone in the middle of Greenwood. He glanced in her direction again, and tested his leg. The wrapping appeared to help the pain, so he decided to see if there was anything he could do for her.

He glanced at Ainemetion, who was paying very close attention to the direction of the spider lair, and concluded that it was safe enough to leave the watching to the younger elf for a while. He skirted the clearing, and in order to keep from shirking, he scanned the forest around him as he passed through.

For a little while, he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to find Taurëwen, but the sound of soft sobbing soon solved that problem. He slipped through a group of trees, and found her huddled at the base of a giant oak, weeping as if she would water the entire wood. He retreated to the shadow of an overhanging tree, and watched her. This sort of situation was far beyond his experience, and he wouldn't know what to say...

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: Tinuviel of Denton ]