And With Him Was Elrond by elfscribe

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The Catalyst

Chapter summary: Gil-galad is badly wounded during a hunt; Elrond works feverishly to save him.
Warning: Vicious animal attack. Semi-graphic description of injury.

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“In Middle-earth dwelt also Gil-galad the High King, and with him was Elrond Half-elven, who chose, as was granted to him, to be numbered among the Eldar . . .”
J.R.R. Tolkien. The Silmarillion. “Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath.”

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.
-Rumi

S.A. 1598

Golden light dappled Gil-galad’s back under the forest canopy. His drape of silver hair slid forward as he bent over his horse’s withers to examine the ground.

Seated on his bay mare, Elrond watched from a respectful distance, his spear growing heavy in his hand. He shifted it under his arm, the sharp blade pointing downwards, so as not to become entangled in the branches overhead. “Appears we’ve lost our quarry, Gil,” he said. Turning, he looked behind them past the clearing into the forest. “And I fear we’ve wandered too far ahead of them. We should have waited for the dogs.”

“They will be here, anon,” Gil said, softly. “Oh look, mushrooms!” He pointed to a cluster under a tree. “Maybe we should gather some to take back to the lodge.” He grinned. “Do you remember that time near Emyn Beraid when we found a large clump of the black variety, and were congratulating ourselves on locating dinner?”

“I do,” Elrond said. “And we heard something moving in the brush, thought it might be orcs.”

“Orcs, or something worse. So, we pulled our swords, when a hare darted out . . .” His hands pantomimed the action, “and it . . .”

“Ran right between your legs, just as you were stepping forward, so of course, being clumsy, you tripped, and fell on me . . .” Elrond smiled.

“Knocked you flat on your arse—squashing them all flat!” Gil chuckled. “Then that hare, instead of running off, had the temerity to sit up on his hind legs and twitch his nose at us, as if to say ‘silly elves.’ How we both laughed!”

“Mmm, yes.” Elrond said. “That was the day I discovered that sitting upon that variety of Telum vorn will render it into a gooey black mess, stickier than mud. ‘Twas an unfortunate way to find out.”

“What a sight we were coming back into camp. You had to wash off the breeches in the pond and walk around half-naked all day while they dried. Can’t say I was sorry to see that.” Gil laughed, that deeply happy sound that Elrond so loved to hear. But the suggestive tone was something he’d been doing of late. Perhaps it meant nothing. Gil often joked in that manner with others. In any case, Elrond reminded himself, he couldn’t even contemplate exploring where it might lead.

Elrond scanned the small clearing again. “I only wish we were currently hunting something as innocuous as mushrooms or small as a hare. This beast is not to be trifled with.”

“Agreed. Oh aha!” Gil-galad swung off his black horse, Craban, landing quietly amidst the bracken. His cape settled rather sensually about his tall frame and he adjusted the long bow over his shoulder. Pinching a curled fern through his fingers, he examined it, then looked up at Elrond with keen grey eyes. “It’s blood. He looks to have come through here.”

“I see that. Have a care now,” Elrond whispered. He didn’t like the dense undergrowth on the ridge above them. Something felt monstrous up there. Where was the rest of the hunting party? “I don’t know why you insisted on joining an expedition to take down a rogue boar. We have soldiers and dogs for that task.”

“What kind of king would I be if I refused to help my people? No fewer than three envoys have pleaded for aid in slaying this demon that has destroyed gardens, attacked men in the fields, and worse, slaughtered several children.”

“I know that full well, having been at your side when the messengers came,” Elrond said, feeling grumpy and uncomfortable as Gil pushed through tall ferns, seeking the signs of the beast’s passing. “But you shouldn’t take unnecessary risks.”

“My dear Elrond, always worrying.”

“And you, my lord, don’t worry enough.”

“Huh,” Gil said, as his eyes swept the ground. “It’s been peaceful enough for long enough. And we’re both still here, against all the odds, I daresay.”

“True. But there are signs. I have heard rumors . . .” Abruptly, Elrond’s senses prickled sharp as knives. “Gil! Watch out!” he cried.

An angry grunt sounded in the underbrush at the top of the slope, causing both horses to startle. Craban threw up his head, jerked free from the king’s hands, and backed away, while Elrond reined in Filig. Gil whirled towards the sound and pulled his bow from his shoulder. None too soon.

A groaning bark shook the leaves and the massive boar, black as soot, and tall as Gil’s shoulder, lunged from his hiding place and bounded with unnerving speed straight down the slope towards them. He carried several arrows trailing lines of dried blood down his hairy sides. His neck bulged and tiny red eyes fixed keenly upon them. Elrond had never seen anything quite like it.

“Ai!” Elrond cried. He raised his spear and urged Filig to intercept, but the boar dodged them, and instead headed straight for the king. Gil released an arrow that hit the beast in the flank, which only increased his rage. Moments passed in blurred horror as the boar knocked Gil to the ground and his bow went flying. With an upward thrust of the beast’s vicious snout, he ripped open the king’s thigh.

“No! No!” Elrond kicked Filig forward and threw the spear with all his strength. It nicked the boar’s side, but it was like hitting the side of a wall and the lance barely penetrated flesh, instead hung limply from his side. Nevertheless, it must have hurt as the boar squealed, and continued butting the king, shoving him along the ground. Gil cried out, grabbed an arrow from his quiver, and thrust it in the boar’s eye. The roar was deafening.

Leaping to the ground, Elrond seized the end of the spear that still protruded from the boar’s flank, and putting it to his shoulder, attempted to drive it deeper. That had some effect. The beast stopped his assault on the king and wheeled upon Elrond. The movement jerked the lance from Elrond’s hands. Eye dripping blood, the monster pawed the ground and bellowed – a sound not unlike that of a wounded bear, then he charged.

Elrond ran with all he had in him. Grabbing his horse’s mane, he swung aboard, just as the boar collided with them, slashing at Filig’s legs. The mare squealed, half-reared, then kicked out her hind legs viciously, throwing Elrond to her neck. As he attempted to regain his seat, Filig sprinted away. Looking over his shoulder, Elrond was horrified to see that the beast had rounded on the king again, who was struggling to stand, blood streaming down his leg.

A pack of baying hounds poured into the clearing, closely followed by Erestor, Gildor, and a dozen guards and villagers. None too soon.

“Shoot him, shoot him!” Elrond yelled, as they surged past. There was a quick zip, zip, zip. Elrond wheeled Filig about only to see the boar stagger and then flee, leaving a trail of blood. “You lot, go finish him off,” Elrond barked. “Erestor, come attend the king!”

Heart pounding at what he might find, he rode back to Gil, who was sitting stiffly with one hand propped behind him, a confused grimace on his face. Bright red blood pumped from the ragged tear through his breeches on his inner thigh. Elrond knelt beside him. “Lie back, my lord. All the way down. I’m going to try to stop the bleeding.” He pressed as hard as he could, feeling the give of the King’s muscled thigh under his palm. Soon, his breeches, Elrond’s hands, and the ground underneath, were all soaked red. He pressed harder. Gil hissed in pain.

Moments later, the formidable Erestor, dressed in hunting leathers, appeared at his side, looking grim. “Do you have a kit?” he asked.

“Yes, in my saddlebags, hurry!” Elrond pushed his hand harder into the hollow between Gil’s hip and groin, and Gil yelped. “Forgive me, Gil, but it’s necessary. Bear it.”

“How, how bad?” Gil asked, struggling to look.

“Bad, my lord,” Elrond replied. “We’re ministering to it.”

Erestor knelt next to him with the leather bag in his hand. He pulled apart the strings and dumped it out on the leafy ground. “What do you need?”

“First bandages. I need to make a tourniquet. Bend your leg up, Gil.”

Erestor seized the torn edges of the king’s woolen breeches and ripped them apart, exposing the king’s upper leg and white loincloth-covered groin. An ugly wound sliced up the inside of his thigh, from which blood steadily issued. Elrond inhaled sharply. Steady now. Erestor handed him a long strip of linen and a slim metal rod. Elrond wrapped the bandage around the king’s upper thigh, then stuck the rod under it and used it to wind the bandage tight.

“Uhhhhah!” Gil grit his teeth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Elrond said. “I know this hurts.”

“Hurts, yes,” Gil groaned.

“The bleeding seems to be contained,” Erestor said. “It’s not spurting anymore.”

“Mmm,” Elrond said. “This part here is sliced nearly down to the bone. Fortunately, the boar didn’t gore higher into the groin and he missed the main artery, just barely. There’s a lot of tissue damage. See how the blood is seeping. We need first to cleanse it. Use that vial there marked vinegar.”

Erestor pulled the cork with his teeth, and poured the vinegar on the wound, which made Gil gasp and squint. The coursing of blood had slowed due to the tourniquet. Good. “That other vial now. The one labeled ‘yarrow.’ Sprinkle the powder on the wound.” Elrond watched, worried. Yarrow was a good styptic, but would it be enough? The wound still oozed too much.“Now then, fold one of those bandages into a pad. Press it to the wound. Hold it.”

Erestor complied. The pad grew pink, but not as quickly. It seemed the blood was clotting. Slowing. Not enough.

In the distance, the note of the dogs’ baying changed. They had found their quarry. Voices shouted. Among the chorus, Elrond heard someone yell, “Tôl acharn!” and the boar’s angry, squealing response. For a moment, Elrond’s thoughts churned through visions of other battlefields, other disasters.

Yes, definitely their efforts were working. The pad wasn’t getting darker. But when Elrond checked on Gil, his eyes had glazed with pain and he seemed weak. He’d lost a lot of blood in a short space of time.

“The tourniquet can’t stay on for long, or he’ll lose his leg,” Elrond said. “But I can’t stitch him up here. We’ll have to keep the pressure on and loosen it periodically until the blood stops. Here, raise the pad a moment.”

Elrond pulled his roll of spider webbing from the supplies and packed the wound with it, then had Erestor press the pad onto it again, while he tightly wrapped more bandages over it.* Gil grit his teeth the whole time, trying not to cry out, but not wholly succeeding. “We’ve got to get him back to the lodge, Erestor,” Elrond said.

Gildor, along with several of the household galloped up, slid to a stop, as they leapt down. Gildor said, “We managed to slay the boar, not without some injury. By Oromë's horn, what happened?”

Elrond gestured. “The beast gored him. As you see. It’s grievous.”

Sitting back on his haunches, Erestor tossed his single dark braid over his shoulder. “Appears we’ve stanched the blood, due to our healer’s quick actions. It’s touch and go now. We need to get him back to the lodge. Gather the others and cut some branches to construct a stretcher.”

“Mandos! He’s gone white,” Elrond said. “My lord.” He shook Gil’s arm. Gil mumbled something, and his eyelids fluttered. His skin felt cold. Elrond looked at Erestor. “This is not good,” he said. “We must make haste.”

**************
It was late afternoon on the third day since they’d brought the wounded king back to his hunting lodge, a quaint stone structure with a peaked roof, gabled dormers, and a tower on one end. A colonnaded porch encircled the first floor with a rough flagstone front and stables in the back. The king was housed in the royal suite on one end of the lodge.

Elrond sat in the large upholstered chair near the bed where Gil lay, moving restlessly. A nearby western window brought the afternoon sunlight into the room, turning the rich furnishings a deceptive rosy-golden color. Through the unshuttered window, he could see Amon Lassen, the highest peak in this southern part of the Ered Luin, still crowned with snow, although it was now late spring. Another window on the eastern side of the room helped fill this suite with light during the day. Located deep in the woods, near a pass through the mountains and the small community of Dínoble, it was a stunning location for the king’s hunting lodge.

Elrond was now intimately familiar with this room and the chair, having kept watch over the king the past two nights. His eyes dearly wanted to close. Across the room on another chair, Erestor drowsed, his head propped on his hand, his dark braid hanging forward over his shoulder. Elrond stirred, rubbed his aching eyes. A fire burned brightly on a large stone-enshrined hearth, but it made little difference: the room still felt cold, damp, and dispiriting.

To say that Elrond and the rest of the household were weary was an understatement. That afternoon, Gil had finally seemed stable, so Erestor pushed Elrond out the door and ordered him to eat and bathe and lie down in his own room adjacent. But he’d had no appetite and did not rest.

Gil shifted, moaned. Elrond rose, went to his side, and took up his hand, which seemed hot. He felt Gil’s sweating forehead. “He’s burning up,” he said to Erestor.

“How can that be?” Erestor said, opening his eyes. “He seemed fine just an hour ago. I watched you clean and suture the wound and he seemed to be improved this morning.”

“Boar’s tusks are rife with poison,” Elrond said. “Which sometimes takes several days to manifest. And I don’t have the right herbs handy to combat it.” He drew back the quilt to reveal Gil’s muscular, bare legs. The king’s left thigh was red and swollen around the bandages. Elrond clicked his tongue. He reached into a basin on a nearby stand, withdrew a cloth, and applied it to Gil’s fevered brow.

“What do you recommend?” Erestor said.

“An infusion of Feverfew, which is a problem as we don’t have any more in the store here,” Elrond said. “And some of the grace of the Belain, which seems in short supply these days as well.”

Erestor rose with his characteristic feline grace, and padded to the door. “Summon Gildor,” he told the guard, then returned. “Elrond, shouldn’t we move him back to the Mithlond household? We have more resources there.”

“I daren’t do it, not while he’s in this condition,” Elrond said.

Shortly thereafter, Gildor strode in, dressed in green suede, golden hair braided back from his delicate face. He inclined his head at each of them. “Elrond, is there no change?”

“There is. The king suffers from ague now, which wasn’t the case before,” Elrond said. “Could you seek an infusion of Feverfew among the villagers here? They often grow it in their gardens, or failing that, find some fresh in the fields near here.”

“Yes,” Gildor replied. “And I have heard of another herb, brought here by ships from Andor. I will inquire.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Elrond said. “They say it has remarkable medicinal properties, but I’ve not had the opportunity to experiment with it myself. I’ll try anything at this point.”

“There’s a woman here in the household named Lisgil who is familiar with it. I will inquire of her and return as soon as I am able.” Gildor retreated with a swirl of his cloak.

Elrond looked at the king and his stomach knotted. Picking up Gil’s hand, he pressed it to his face. The flesh was burning. Elrond began singing a healing song taught him years ago by his foster-father Maglor. A song he had sung frequently these past two days.

“I remember that one,” Erestor said, shaking his head. “I heard it often after the fall of Gondolin. So much sorrow for so many years.”

Erestor had risen from his seat. His shoulders were slumped and his face looked as weary as Elrond felt. “Don’t exhaust yourself,” Erestor said. “You can’t be of help to him if you sap your own vitality.”

Elrond nodded and continued his breathy crooning. Erestor’s expression grew soft, contemplative. “I shall go get some dinner for us, and some broth for the king. It’s important to keep up his strength. Yours as well.” He left, closing the door gently.

********
Late that night, Elrond heard Gil cry out and struggle with the covers, thrashing, trying to rise. He roused himself from the mattress the household had brought in, sat down on the bed, and laid a restraining hand on the king’s shoulder. “Gil, where are you going? You are in no shape to get up yet.”

“Elrond, are you there? It’s so dark,” Gil whimpered like a scared child—a strange sound coming from someone so strong and capable.

“I am here.” Elrond squeezed his forearm.

“I had a nightmare,” Gil said, trying to sit up. “Horrific. It was dark, but there was fire all about, as if a Balrog had been unleashed. Around me, elves were screaming, dying. Something huge and black was moving towards me.”

“Perhaps you dreamed of the boar, or of the wars.”

Gil shook his head. “Didn’t feel like that. Felt . . . prescient.” He grimaced and tried to throw off the covers. “It’s hot as a bonfire,” he moaned. “My leg throbs so. Feels as if it might split in two. Don’t you have something to ease it?”

Elrond turned up the lamp, then leaned over and probed Gil’s thigh. It was indeed hot and swollen. Gently he peeled back the bandages over the ragged wound, stitched closed in such haste. Dangerous red lines emanated from it. Elrond chewed his lip. “I’m afraid, Gil, that I need to open it back up and drain it.”

Gil groaned. “There’s no need. It’ll improve soon. I heal remarkably quickly. You’ve said so yourself in the past. Remember that wound I received from those orcs we encountered in Emyn Uial?” He held up his arm to show the scar.

“Yes, and as I recall, you moaned considerably about it. You are a terrible patient,” Elrond said fondly.

“We should give it another day,” Gil said with authority. He attempted again to rise.

Elrond put a gentle hand on his chest, feeling the steady throb of his heart under his palm. “You must trust me, my friend,” he said. But he thought, I hope that trust is merited. He should be improving. Could I have erred in my treatment? Gil had said he thought his dream was prescient. Could he be dreaming of . . . no, I shall not even contemplate it!

Gil sagged back against the pillow. “If you must do it, then best get it over quickly. Hopefully, you can drug me better than last time.” He indicated the scar. “Sometimes, Elrond, with your penchant for cutting me open, I wonder why I took you into my household.” He flashed a wry smile.

“At least you still have a sense of humor, Gil. That’s something.”

**********
They laid an oil cloth on a padded table, stocked another one with linen bandages, heated water, sharpened and cleaned small knives, needles, thick thread and suturing tools, and small brass-tipped irons ready, if needed, to cauterize blood vessels. During the preparations, Gil had grown worse, tossing and turning, his touch fiery.

Elrond fretted. “Where is Lady Lisgil with the sedative?”

“They’re coming,” Erestor said. “I’m told it took Gildor considerable effort to locate the herbs you require and they needed to brew an infusion.”

A tentative knock came at the door. At Elrond’s call, a man and a woman entered. The man, Astoren, was the leader of the local village of Dínoble. He was short for an elf, dark-skinned, and wore a brown tunic and breeches. The woman, Lisgil, was a healer from the village, one of those who came to staff the household when the king was in attendance. She had wide grey eyes, blond hair covered by a netted caul, and was dressed in a buff-colored linen kirtle and a green apron. She held a tray carrying a dish of herbs and a silver flask. Behind them crowded nearly a dozen solemn-faced elves, dressed in green and brown; two carried small harps. Elrond recognized them as men and women from the village, largely Nandor in heritage. Last to enter was Gildor, his fair face stern with worry.

Astoren came forward and bowed deeply. “Lord Elrond,” he said. “We’ve come to offer our sincere thanks to Ereinion Gil-galad for aiding us in slaying that murderous beast, and to express our sorrow that he was grievously wounded as a result. Please accept these herbs, the most potent we have available, to help heal him.” He gestured at Lisgil, who came forward.

“Here are the medicines that you requested, Lord Elrond,” she said. “I’ve also brought this herb, which we’ve had dried in our stores. It clears the mind and uplifts the spirit. I’ve found it can have a miraculous healing effect.”

“Thank you, both. Lisgil, this is most welcome,” Elrond said. “So, you have experience with this?”

Lisgil nodded. “We cast the dried leaves in hot water and allow the essence to permeate the room. You’ll see the effect yourself. I’ve never known a patient to react negatively to it.”

“With your permission,” Astoren continued, “we should like to hold vigil here while he recovers. Just outside in the clearing. Our best singers have come.” He turned and indicated his retinue.

“That would be welcome,” Elrond said. The singers bowed and left the room, leaving Lisgil and Astoren.

“I’m afraid I must operate on the king,” Elrond said. “You may hear cries, which are unavoidable. Please do not let them disturb you.”

Astoren nodded. “We know and are prepared. We have songs to soothe his spirit during the procedure.” He bowed then, and also departed.

Through the open door, Elrond heard the harpists tuning up, then begin a lilting melody. A soft voice joined, then another, until they all sang together in blended harmony: a wood-elves song of healing. It swelled in Elrond’s heart, strengthening him. That song would be good to learn.

He closed the door. Lisgil prepared a basin of hot water, then immersed the herbs in it. The room became permeated with a wonderfully refreshing smell, like lilacs in spring. Elrond breathed it in and fell stronger, clear-headed, calm. “That’s good, Lisgil. Thank you.” He gestured at Gildor. “I need your help to lift him,” he said. “You and Erestor, both.”

**************
An hour later, finally it was done. Gil slept heavily on the bed, curled on his side, his silver hair sprawled out on the pillow. Swaying with exhaustion, Elrond pulled off his blood and pus spattered robe, retaining only his linen shift and braes. He handed his outer robes to one of the household, then washed his hands in the basin provided; the water slowly growing red. Lisgil and the others moved quietly about, cleaning the floor, bundling up the oil cloth, stained linens and bandages to take to the wash.

Erestor sat nearby, head in his hands, looking positively grey. “That was rough,” he muttered.

Elrond took the clean robe Lisgil handed him, slipped it on, then sat with a thump in the upholstered chair by the bed. “I . . . yes, horrendous. I thought the sedative would work better. Thank you both, for . . . um, holding him down.”

Gildor nodded and bowed. “I expect you need to rest. I can stay with him.”

Elrond shook his head. “No, my friends. I need to be here in case . . . in case.”

Erestor rose, came over and patted Elrond’s shoulder. “I understand. We all love him, you know and you, above all, have been most diligent. Be reassured, our Gil is stubborn and strong and I know he’ll come through. Call if you need us. We will be near to hand. Come,” he beckoned to Lisgil and her attendants, “let the king rest, now.” They padded quietly out of the room. Lisgil stood for a long moment, staring at the king sorrowfully, then her eyes flicked to Elrond. She nodded and followed the others. Elrond propped a pillow under Gil’s afflicted thigh, then sat down next to him in the upholstered chair.

It was past midnight. The fire flickered on the hearth. Vacantly Elrond stared at the rough-hewn wooden shelf over the hearth’s arched stonework. On the shelf were candles, colored stones, dried holly, and pine cones that he and Gil had gathered sometime in the past. Elrond found his eyes closing of themselves. He pulled a blanket up over his shoulders. Gil stirred, murmured.

**********
Abruptly Elrond awoke and caught himself before falling to the floor. Gil lay on his side, curled on himself. He’d thrown off the covers and his body shook with tremors. “Elrond,” Gil cried out, “Where are you?”

“Here, old friend, right here,” Elrond said. He sat next to him on the bed, felt his forehead. Still so hot. And now he had the shakes. Not good at all. As attuned to Gil as he was, Elrond felt the shivers crackle through him. “Hold on, I’ll get the Feverfew, what’s left anyhow.”

“No.” Gil clasped his hand, held it, his teeth chattered. “Stay here, please. Stay with me. I’m so cold.”

“Here, drink this,” Elrond said, giving him the last of the infusion. Gil could barely swallow down the liquid without it spilling.

Elrond lifted the covers, examined the bandages in the flickering fire-light. The swelling had gone down. Why in all Arda was Gil still sweating and cold? It was almost as if something evil had taken over him. Was it the boar? Was he something more than just a wild beast? He needed to examine the animal’s body tomorrow. But for now, Elrond clasped Gil’s face in his hands and kissed his fevered brow. “Please, my lord, my king, my dearest friend,” he whispered. “Summon that magnificent spirit and fight the poison in your veins.”

Gil moaned again. His sculptured face appeared grey and gaunt in Ithil’s blue light. His teeth chattered. At a loss for what else to do, Elrond slipped under the covers and took him in his arms. Felt his muscular body curl against him, legs twining together. Felt the unnatural heat of his flesh. Elrond had a moment of deep despair. He had lost so many others dear to him, friends and loved ones: his parents when he was barely old enough to remember; his brother, now gone forever; his lover from Harlond, who drowned in a storm. Please, not this one. He was not wont to appeal to the Belain for anything, as in his opinion, they had so often ignored his people’s anguish, but now he was moved to pray: Hear me, Shapers of Arda, who spared my father and mother and launched them into the sky to give us light and hope; who tend the First Born; and most of all, I beg of you, Eru Ilúvatar, who made us all. Please, don’t take the fine and noble Ereinion Gil-galad, last of all the Noldorin kings. He has done nothing to earn this suffering. Don’t let him die. I could not bear it.

Holding Gil in his arms, he began to croon his foster-father’s song of healing, while sending thoughts of mending, warmth, and love, feeding him strength. On through the night, he held his lord and sang to him. It would be so good to sleep, but he dared not, not until Gil’s fever broke. He bit the inside of his mouth to stay awake.

A thud, then breathy cooing came from outside. Elrond looked up through bleary eyes. A large bird hovered just outside the window. Sleek feathers glowed white in the moonlight. Elrond sat up and the bird cried, ‘Elrond, Elrond,’ as she beat wings softly against the glass. Transfixed, Elrond stared. A dove at night? Speaking his name? What magic was this?

Gil ceased shivering, his body relaxed, and his breathing eased. Sighing, he nuzzled Elrond’s shoulder and shortly thereafter, began softly snoring. A tear coursed down Elrond’s cheek, trickling into the corner of his mouth. Thank you, he murmured, looking for the bird. But she had gone.

*******************

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Chapter End Notes

Amon Lassen (S) Snow Mountain. An elf-scribe invented name.
Arda (Q) the world. I’m using the Quenya word as, to me, it sounds better and is better known than the Sindarin version, Ardhon. Translator’s prerogative. :-D
Astoren (S) loyal one. Thanks to Chestnut_pod’s Elvish Name List.
Dínoble (S) village of the gap or pass. Another elfscribe invented name with help from the SWG Discord gurus who are way more knowledgeable than I. Thanks!
Craban (S) Raven. Gil-galad’s black stallion.
Filig (S) Little bird. Elrond’s bay mare.
Lisgil (S) reed/star woman from Chestnut_pod’s Elvish name list. Thanks!
Telum vorn (S) black mushrooms. Thanks Shihali! (I modeled these mushrooms after a type called Inky Caps, which, after discharging spores, do in fact disintegrate into a black, gooey mess.)
Tôl acharn! (S) Vengeance comes!

*About the depicted methods of wound treatment: Elrond may be onto something. Apparently using vinegar to disinfect a wound and spider webs to stop bleeding was a real thing, documented a number of times and places in history. I’ve now found references to using webs to treat wounds in ancient Ireland, Greece, Rome, other parts of Europe and in the U.S. If interested, here are a few sources you can go to, and then, if you like, research further to find the original sources:
According to “Medicine in the Crusades: Warfare, Wounds and the Medieval Surgeon,” by Piers D. Mitchell, the surgeons knew to prevent “wound fever” with use of antiseptics such as vinegar and wine and the use of tourniquets was known. https://www.quora.com/How-did-they-treat-wounds-in-medieval-times-Such-as-a-stab-wound-or-a-slash-from-a-dagger
There is some research indicating that spider webs have antiseptic properties, although other research says not. They say to pick the dead bugs out first. Euwww. But it seems to have worked.
https://www.quora.com/In-medieval-times-spiderweb-was-used-as-dressing-for-wounds-Was-this-a-real-practice-If-so-how-would-that-work-in-practice

*Regarding the image of the hunting lodge. After I wrote some of the description, I googled 'fantasy hunting lodge' to find inspiration, and the image posted at the beginning of the fic from Bright Studio online came up. (It may well be AI) I was astonished, as it so nearly matched what was in my head! So, thought I’d share with you all.