The Foundling

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The forest was eerily silent. Soundless steps of the elven-bred horses tread the sun dappled path their riders bade them follow, their hooves touching so lightly that only another of the elvenkind would have a chance of hearing it. The border patrol that had ridden out from Makonenn Rhal early in the morning hours two days hence included the eldest son of the elven King, Morrim, as well as his closest friend, Herrolm, the Captain of the guard, and a few others. Aeroen, the Captain, rode at the front of the party with his prince, with Herrolm just behind. The softly colored mounts of the elves blended seamlessly with their forested surroundings and the people mounted on them communicated with hand gestures to preserve the secrecy of their coming to their quarry. Their goal was to eradicate the band of shraeken that had been plaguing the forests too close to their King's land for comfort. The vicious creatures, known for their brutal raids, had attacked at least three caravans lately, both elven and human, and the need to remove the threat grew daily.

A sudden, sharp motion from Aeroen brought the silent group to a seamless, well-practiced halt. He gestured ahead to a clearing. Amidst the trees, there was a small area with enough space for a camp. They could sense someone there, but the presence was not one of a dark, twisted creatures like the shraeken they hunted. Instead, it was pure and light and fading fast within their perception. The group fanned out and entered the clearing carefully, wary of possible traps, to see a limp form tied to one of the trees. The body was clearly that of a female, and her top half was unclothed, baring a painfully whip-scored back that bled freely and skin that was mottled with bruises, burns and abrasions. She appeared to be unconscious. Or worse.

"Herrolm," the Captain said in hushed tones to his younger brother, "you are the best healer in the party. If she lives, tend to her while we search the area. Prince Morrim will remain with you." His eyes were fastened on the woods around them instead of on his companion's irritated features, but he knew he was receiving a very sour look from his brother.

The youngest of the group opened his mouth instantly to protest being left behind, but the elf just behind him shoved him lightly toward the tree where the young woman was bound. He didn't feel like listening to the brothers bicker and the girl clearly needed immediate aid, if she was even yet alive. The other elves fanned out to conduct a search while the remaining two approached the bloodied woman's wood-and-rope prison. As they'd already noticed, her head was lolling alarmingly backwards, and Herrolm noted as soon as he was close enough that her breathing was shallow. He was relieved it was even there. She was on the sharp edge of tumbling into a more permanent darkness. Any remaining ire at being left behind to tend to the girl fled and he quickly transformed into a healer trained by the best.

"Go around back and cut the bindings on my mark," he ordered his friend quietly, moving to hold the girl up and trying to be careful of her torn skin.

"I will take her," Morrim replied, equally quietly. He was still watching the girl in front of them with an odd, almost pained look on his face. Seeing his usually impassive companion so enthralled, Herrolm didn't argue. He made sure the prince was ready, then moved to the other side of the tree and drew his dagger. The girl was held up by a single, filthy rope tied to either hand tightly enough to impede circulation and looped around the massive tree trunk. As soon the knife sliced through the thick, rough rope, she fell. The prince was ready and he gently caught her, keeping his hands on the least torn skin and politely averting his eyes from her bare form as best as he could. Her remaining clothes were naught but over-worn, calf length leggings made of thin, supple leather and the remainder of what looked to once have been a boot. Herrolm removed his finely woven cloak and spread it on the ground.

"Lay her down on her stomach my friend," he instructed, seeing that the worst of the damage was contained on her back. He almost bade the other elf to take care, but Morrim's hands were steady and careful, and he was nothing if not gentle as he maneuvered the girl into a prone position. It took very little effort to do so. Herrolm left her to his friend's careful hands and went to his horse to fetch his pack; he needed his healing supplies. When he returned the girl was arranged on the cloak, face down, and Morrim crouched next to her, motionless. His face was inscrutable, but his eyes didn't leave her still form. He toyed absently with a small, bare blade in his hand, and was crouched in a decidedly protective stance.

"She is but a child," Herrolm observed sadly, keeping his voice low. Morrim started and stood back from the girl, allowing his friend in. They both eyed her battered body and lank, tangled hair with pity.

"I am not so sure ..." the elder of the two finally said.

"Humans show their age, Morrim, unlike elven-kind. She can't possibly be more than fifteen or sixteen summers," the healer answered as he worked. He'd already unrolled his supplies: bandages and dried herbs tied neatly into a leather coil. "I'll need some water," he said after a minute. Morrim sprung up and grabbed the nearest canteen in an instant, handing it over without comment. His friend cast him an odd look, but he didn't see it, as his attention was fixed on the girl. She had a starved look about her – he could see the lines of her ribs – and had clearly been through no small torment. What skin that wasn't marred by colorful bruising and lacerations was pallid. Her hair was matted and fell over her shoulder in coarse snarls. He had to wonder what sort of girl she was, to have survived the hands of the shraeken.

"She must be human," he remarked, brushing a lock of tangled hair back to better see, "for her ears have no point. And yet I feel as if ... as if she is somehow ... more ..."

"What else could she be?"

"I know not."

Morrim knew his friend thought him absurd at the moment. The girl clearly looked human, he admitted, but he'd felt the anguish of the tree that held her captive by no will of its own. Why would the tree hurt for her, if she was a mere human? Could she perhaps be a witch of some sort? She seemed far too young to have learned enough to bear such a connection, if she was, but it was at least a possibility.

The two didn't say any more as Herrolm worked, and soon her back was as free of blood and grime as it could be under the circumstances. He made a poultice to stave off infection with the dried herbs and water, and Morrim helped him to wind soft bandages around her waist and shoulders. She was surprisingly light, even for her small stature, and he held her up with ease while the other man gently applied the...