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"Here, My Lady," said Feren, lending me a hand as I mounted a horse quickly.
We rode into the Mirkwood with great speed, Feren and our Elven soldier on either side of me.
For a few miles we sped down the path of the elves, then the soldier stopped abruptly and lept from his horse. "We must travel on foot the rest of the way," he said, leading Feren and I into the woody depths.
We ran quickly through the trees, me with my bag slung over my shoulder, until we came to a brief opening amongst the branches. There was moss and vine hanging low from these trees, and before me, laid upright against the trunk of one of them, was Tauriel, the Captain of the Guard--the same elf who had told me of her Uncle my first night in Mirkwood.
Something black protruded from her chest, though at first glance I could see it was no weapon.
She heaved for breath, but was still somewhat conscious, though glazed in the eye, and a green tinted foam poured from one side of her mouth.
Beside her knelt the king and yet another Elven soldier, holding her steady.
"She's been poisoned?" I said, rushing to them at once and dropping to my knees in front of her, reaching into my bag.
"Yes," said King Thranduil. "A spider of the dark mountains. They have infested our woods for some time now."
I realized, with no small amount of horror, that the object protruding from the captain's chest was the head of one of these spiders, its giant barb embedded deeply therein. They had beheaded the creature while it was still inside of her.
"The head must be removed I said. The venom coagulates the flow of blood. But wait until I tell you." Grabbing a bowl from within my bag, I added to it dried Athelas blossoms, which would regulate the flow of her blood, and some sap from a Laurelin tree. These were unique to Lorien, their leaves known for producing a golden glow. I had found that the sap was effective in treating both pain and infection. These I mixed with water in a quick paste. "All right, take it out... but do not pull it straight. It is curved and would tear her internally."
The king nodded, and with a swift and clean motion, he gripped the spider's head and slid the giant stinger at an arcing angle, just as I had explained. A foul ichor began to pour forth at once.
"I must tear her clothes. Lend me a blade," I said. A nearby soldier gave me his knife and I cut just over the wound, exposing only as much as needed, trying to preserve her honor as well as I could. Then I poured water over it, clearing the wound of the foul discharge, and took some healing paste in hand. This I pressed into the wound deeply, and closed my eyes. "Poita," I said in a long exhale, and she gasped with a terrible, gurgling, wheezing sound, and more of the green foam poured from her mouth.
"What is happening to her?!" said the king with an edge.
I ignored him, keeping concentration. With my eyes closed, I pictured the light of the Valar, as given by Eru, filling my own body and pouring from my hands into her skin. I whispered in the ancient tongue the words I had spoke over broken soldiers countless times before. "I give you my grace, child of Eru. Let it fill you as your own breath, let it flow as your own blood, let all wounds be healed." Over and over I said this, the warmth of grace flowing from me to the wounded elf, to her heart, into her blood.
