Title: Lillah's Story
Author: Fianna Leighton
Rating: R
Disclaimer: All elves of LOTR belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien and are used with respect and deep appreciation.
LILLAH'S STORY
CHAPTER ONE: The depths of pain.
The horse's steady plodding gait should have been soothing instead of mind-numbingly painful. Soothing, had not the arrow shaft lodged between two ribs jolted with each step, sending white hot flashes of pain into her brain. The pain made her shudder with each step of the horse, a sweeping flood of pure agony.
It wasn't the horse's fault. Lillah could not have found harsh words for the animal had she the energy. Loyal and faithful, he had plodded on unerringly, without direction some days, following the road before it with step after painful step.
Did the horse understand the pain she was in? She considered briefly that he did, or else why would he be so gentle. He was trained in war, yet with her on his back, the horse had been as tame as an old nag. Then the horse had always liked her, amazing her husband many times.
The memory of her husband sent a new wave of pain through her, straight into her heart, choking her with an iron band of grief. Those pains brought more pain, too fresh to bear, yet too fresh to put out of her mind.
Mind-numbing? She was far too clear on what had transpired just days ago. Had it only been that long? It seemed like years, the pain never-ending.
She shifted in a vain attempt to ease the wooden shaft caught so tightly in her side. The war was over! Husband and brother had come home in victory only to die at the hands of an enemy thought to be defeated. She caught the sob as it rose to her lips, unwilling to let loose the torrent waiting to be unleashed. She knew she would not stop if those sobs escaped; her heart would be torn asunder if the grief was allowed free.
No, she had to be strong. She was a rod, an iron rod—unbending and stiff.
She weaved slightly off balance, only to jerk upright as agony shot from her ribs. A rod. She gripped the pommel of her saddle, legs dangling from the stirrups, unable to find the strength to lift her feet. A rod . . .
How many steps was it now? How long ago had she unconsciously begun to count them? Forty three thousand and seventy . . . two . . . no three. She closed her eyes, but opened them quickly when she tilted to the left. A steel rod, she reminded herself.
Ahead, the road had become clogged with refugees. Did they flee the danger? Or had they lost everything too, finding that the only road left was one of darkness and grief?
The huge mountain that was a city filled the horizon, seven levels built into the face of the sheer granite. Seven levels of white stone, walls curved elegantly, rising with as much grandeur as the mountain that embraced it.
Minas Tirith.
Lillah blinked slowly. How long had it been in sight? Once tiny as she crested the low hills, when had it moved down and over the plain until it loomed high over her head?
She realized with a barely suppressed groan that her horse had stopped. She lifted her head to see why, the arm pressed tight against her stomach wet with slowly oozing blood, hidden by the folds of her cloak.
People packed the roadway, bedraggled and grim, almost silent in their misery. Many carried small children crying at their sides. Her bleary gaze took in few wagons or horses, only a slowing moving hoard hoping to gain entrance into the city. So many that the gates were barred, allowing only a few inside at a time.
She didn't have time to wait to enter. The days of slow plodding had taken their toll, the blood lost weakening her until she could hardly sit, her side a burning ember waiting to burst into flame.
But she was an iron rod; there was no pain, no weariness, and no grief.
Steel felt nothing, nothing at all.
The King of Gondor stood beside Haldir looking resplendent in a black tunic with the white tree emblazoned on his chest, green eyes calm as he watched the influx of people crowding through the lowest gate of his city. Elessar, Aragorn to most, bent his head to acknowledge yet another grim refugee, welcoming each and every one of the people wearily trudging before him with a heartfelt grip to a shoulder or a touch to a child's head.
How the man could keep it up confounded Haldir. So many refugees . . . how many did the man think he could support? Already the city was near to overflowing, with the visiting dignitaries for his coronation still in attendance, the elven community still encamped on the wide plain beneath the city. And this--a never-ending mob of downtrodden and weary.
Moreover, here the new king sat, day after day, watching the incursion of needy folk.
As if reading Haldir's thoughts, Aragorn glanced his way with a grimace. "I cannot turn them away, Haldir."
"Indeed you cannot. But how you will find them all food, clothing and shelter before the snows pile upon the plain, I do not know." Haldir folded his arms over his chest, staring past the flood of humanity in front of him. "So many!" he complained. "You would not know the war is over."
Legolas turned his head toward them, his blue eyes glimmering with compassion. "For many the war is not over. Even now, those orcs that were not destroyed play upon the unwary. Word of peace has spread, but too many forget that there is yet an enemy." The young prince grunted in despair. "Too many still die."
Sighing, Aragorn nodded in agreement. "Only too true, my friend. It is yet another reason why I cannot turn them away. I will find a way."
Haldir could understand, yet the king was mortal, even if he did possess the blood of Númenor. "You may find clothing and food," he pointed out, "yet you cannot heal each one. You push yourself too far, Aragorn. Arwen will find her new husband too tired for what she wishes."
Aragorn flashed him a rueful smile. "Did I not know better, I would think you had been in my room last night, Haldir. But again, what can I do? I can make them well. I must do what I can."
Haldir reached out, gripping Aragorn's shoulder. "You do what you can, yes. Yet you must also remember that you are the King."
Legolas swept out his lean hand, encompassing the refugees moving past them. "Indeed, had you the strength you could heal perhaps five or ten, but more than that will weaken you. Already you've been to the healing houses this morning, probably five of them at least. And here you sit, watching more press in. You should go back to your gardens. Allow them to enter, but do not sit and watch."
With a faint smile, Aragorn shook his head. "Good advice. A king should listen to such good advice."
Legolas sighed. "Should, but does not."
Haldir heard them distantly. His gaze had traveled amid the refugees as they spoke, picking out the ill and the injured unerringly. The gates had only one panel open, warded intently by guards asking information before stepping aside to direct the flow of humanity into the city. Some entered dejectedly, uncaring that they arrived while others walked in with faces wreathed in hope. Many stumbled in awe and anticipation upon seeing the elves and Aragorn, unmistakably the King with the fluted crown sitting upon his head. Some gathered what little they had and hurried distractedly past, their minds already set upon their path. And some were turned away before entering the gates, left to gather in the wide field of low tents just below the city, a league from the glittering silk tents of the elves.
He could see the road from where he stood, the hard dirt packed by thousands of feet, the air gritty from the dust. A steady stream marched down that path, wider than five horses abreast, packed from edge to edge with people.
Had there been more horses amid the throng, he might not have noticed her, but few horses or wagons were found among the refugees, so a tall dappled gelding slowly plodding amidst the wealth of bodies drew his attention. His hand reached out to touch Aragorn's shoulder as the woman astride the horse stiffened, hands fluttering to catch the pommel of her saddle before she fell, adjusting herself with a jerk that he could see brought her pain. A lot of pain, plain for anyone to see, yet she was ignored, the throng moving around the now still horse.
Haldir was moving before he even realized it, mocking his own admonition from just moments ago to leave them be. The crowd parted for him, or perhaps more so for Aragorn who matched his stride, or perhaps, because of Legolas and him. The elves always drew people's attention, often stopping to stare in amazement. One would think they had never seen an elf before.
He reached the woman first, with Legolas a step behind to gather the reins she had dropped, although the horse did not seem to need them. Aragorn moved to one side, reaching up to grasp her knee.
Haldir moved to her other side, drawn forward by the glimpse of the sword tucked neatly beneath the saddle girth. The woman's gasp made him look up as she reeled backwards.
"Are you injured . . ." Aragorn began.
The woman's eyes widened, perhaps in recognition. Haldir, however, sensed she was no more aware of them than the horse beneath her as her eyes rolled back in her head. He caught her gently as she fell to the side, his hand sliding around her waist to grip her tightly. He dragged her off the horse and laid her on the grassy area at the side of the road.
A red stain coated his hand. He stared at it for brief moment in concern before cursing in Elvish, standing quickly to push the staring onlookers back. "She is bleeding, Aragorn."
He was thankful that Aragorn did not make a jest about their previous conversation as the King knelt beside her. Legolas held the horse's bridle, eyes curious if calm. He'd seen this all too often.
Haldir knelt back down beside her, drawing aside the sodden cloak that had hidden her injuries. "An orc shaft for certain. One of those unwary souls who thought there was no danger?"
Aragorn ran his hands over the prone form of the woman. "It is the only injury I can sense, but I cannot help her here. You must ride with her into the city. Legolas and I will catch up."
Haldir clenched his teeth. Aragorn's habit of requiring his aid had resulted in painful consequences. He caught the King's arm. "A long ride at the pace she needs, a painful one if not fatal at a faster one."
Aragorn smiled grimly. "Perhaps, unless you intervene."
Haldir's chin rose before he could prevent it. "Is that an order from the King?"
Aragorn grinned openly. "Does it need to be?"
Haldir leaped effortlessly into the saddle, bending back down to accept the woman Aragorn held up to him. "I will go as fast as I can. But do not take long to catch up; I do not know where you intend to take her."
Aragorn nodded even as he turned away, striding back through the crowd. Haldir sighed, gently adjusting the woman so she lay in the curve of his arm. She was shuddering slightly, on the edge of consciousness, mumbling incoherently. He brushed his fingers over her brow, his lips tight as he urged the horse forward with his knees. A hard ride, if not as fast as he would like. He had his doubts she would survive the elvish spell he had placed on her.
Nevertheless, Aragorn was not a force to be denied, as he knew all too well. A gentle kick and the horse surged forward, hooves clattering on the paved stones of the city streets as he bounded through the gates. Haldir bent over the woman, shielding her as much as he could from the horse's galloping gait, hair streaming behind him as they rode swiftly through the city streets.
Lillith had thought the pain she knew before was agony but found it was not even close. She clenched the soft folds of cloth found within her grasp, teeth clamped so hard together her jaw ached, eyes squeezed tightly shut as if doing so could block the horrible sensations, refusing to release the pent up fury of pain. Somehow, her horse had gained a rider, for some reason galloping with her in an echoing clatter that told her she was inside the city.
Where were they going? It was a fleeting question drowned by the waves of torture. An abrupt stop flung her hard against what she dimly knew was a chest, with attached arms gripping her tightly, yet not so hard that he added to the pain already consuming her chest. A deep voice singing words faintly into her ear made the pain recede, leaving her only gasping for breath, rather than dying from lack of it.
The strong arms picked her up or was it down? Confused, she could do nothing, so weak lifting her arms was too much trouble. She briefly caught sight of buildings, a shadowed hall, sudden worried faces that disappeared as fast as they appeared amid a dull cacophony of voices, sounds that blended into a bleary jumble inside her head.
And strands of silver that caught the light beside her head.
She grunted when they laid her on something hard, hands gripping her ankles to wrap her skirts around her legs. She couldn't move for the hand gripping her shoulder as well as the ones at her feet. The immobility brought a wave of fear into the back of her mind.
They rolled her onto her side, with her helpless to stop them. She flung her head back, trying to complain that they were hurting her only to cry out in a low wail as fresh pain engulfed her, searing white hot flames that licked at her side, her mind.
"We have to remove the arrow."
She could not suck in enough air, inhaling hurt, exhaling hurt worse. A knee was behind her back, a pair of hands held her tightly on her side. A face appeared, upside down, before her, grey eyes staring piercingly into her own, demanding her attention.
"We have to remove the arrow."
She blinked as the realization of just what they planned to do dawned on her. "Noooo . . ." the denial turned into a scream of agony.
**
Haldir gripped the woman's shoulder, his hair sliding over his shoulder as he turned abruptly toward Aragorn. "She will not accept the pain. It will kill her."
Elessar shook his head. "She has no choice, Haldir. I have no doubt she is stronger than she looks. She has ridden at least two days with that arrow in her side. A bit more pain will not kill her."
Aragorn's stubborn gaze locked with his for several moments before Haldir conceded, dropping his gaze to the weakly struggling form held hard against his knees. Perhaps she might survive, perhaps not. He would do what needed to be done. It was the will of the Valar.
"You have to pull the arrow out, Haldir. You are stronger than I. I can give her some relief from the pain while you do."
Haldir nodded absently, sliding his dagger through the grimy folds of her dress to slice away the cloth around her side. The black shaft sank deeply into her ribs, the skin raw and bloody around the cylinder, grey and bruised as he gently pulled the cloth away.
She was still struggling, feebly trying to fend off his hand. He caught it easily, holding it against her side as he traced the arrow shaft down to her skin. At least three inches sank deep into her side, how it missed a lung killing her instantly, or even slowly as she rode, was impossible. His injuries at Helm's deep and his subsequent healing had been impossible. He had learned to believe in fate.
He gripped the smooth haft of the arrow sticking out of her side, just barely long enough for him to grasp with any strength and then he bent over the woman again, hair falling to shield them within its length.
"I have to remove the arrow. You must surrender to the pain, all of your pain. Or you will die."
She twisted her wrist frantically, locked under his hand at her hip. She flung her head back, lip clamped between her teeth. She took a shallow breath, whimpering as he slid his fingers over the arrow.
"Please, let me die. I do not want to live." Her words were a jumble of gasps, whispered hoarsely, her eyes wide yet unfocused.
"I cannot let you die."
She moaned, flinging her head back again and Haldir reached up to grasp her chin, leaving a bloody print on her skin. "Surrender," he demanded softly, aware that Aragorn had moved to his side. "Surrender or we cannot heal you."
She relaxed somewhat, lying her cheek on the table beneath her as she sobbed. Aragorn pressed Haldir's arm, but some things could not be rushed. Haldir was well aware of what she had to let go. He bent over her, his lips near her ear.
His words were elvish. He doubted she would have understood him even had he spoken in common. Nevertheless, they had the effect he wanted as she relaxed further, her hand going still beneath his on her hip. Tears slid silently down her cheek to seep into the strands of his hair that pooled beside her head.
He could do no more. He straightened, gripping the arrow shaft with a glance toward Aragorn, and pulled.
**
Excruciating, unbearable, piercing. . . numbly her mind tried to fit words to the pain that was suddenly less. She inhaled, finding the action still painful but not so bad as it had been. She understood dimly that the arrow was gone, tossed aside with a curse that she clearly recognized. Orcs.
There had been too many, surprising Lillah and her family when they had thought the danger past. Her holding, small yet protected by a seven foot stone wall, had fallen far too easily with what was left of her inhabitants out in the fields in a vain attempt to harvest some kind of crop that remained after the war.
Helpless as well as unaware of the danger approaching.
They had been fools to believe the enemy completely destroyed. She shuddered at the memory, weeping. The creatures had flooded out of the surrounding hills, instantly overwhelming those in the fields, arrows dropping most of her kin. The few left alive died screaming.
Then they had approached the village. Walls manned with too few to do much good, the gates had been locked and barred with whatever they could find in the precious few moments they had.
It was all in vain. The orcs had scaled the walls far too easily, slipping in between children trying to be men, only to die as children. Lillith wept as the memories coursed through her mind, the grief too stark, the ache too much to bear. The orcs had destroyed everything while she had backed away, defending herself with only a long kitchen knife. The leering eyes of the enemy still glared at her, the red gleam of death brought renewed fear. She gasped for air, scrambling backwards to evade the black iron blade swinging toward her and then pain, crushing her, knocking her down to pin her against the ground. And then there had been laughter, fading horrible laughter until she knew nothing more.
Tears had slid down her face, mingling with the dirt and blood. She had shuddered with the force of her grief, tearing at her hair, her clothes. Why had she been spared? At least unconscious, buried under the collapsed wall that had fallen over her, she had not heard the screams of the dying.
The fire had forced her back so far the barn was just a glare of light. A pyre of dead, dragged inside, each and everyone she could find. There would be nothing left for scavengers to pick clean. She had been the scavenger. She had watched it burn too numb, finally, to weep. The arrow had come unexpectedly, sprawling her onto her back with a gasp to stare up into the diamond dotted sky with shock.
The orc flinging that last bolt did not deem it necessary to make sure she was dead, leaving her once again alive to face her demons.
The morning sun had forced her awake, the pain in her ribs now only a memory.
The grief was still there, the pain of her loss wrapping her heart in a smothering grip, threatening to destroy her if only she were to let go, let it take her away . . .
"She is not surrendering, Haldir. You are losing your touch."
Aragorn's muttering did not sit well. "She wants to die," Haldir muttered crossly, irritably lifting his gaze to the Gondorian King.
Aragorn looked up from where he sat next to the woman, hands bloody from her wound, his face granite. He would not give in. Who would be the stronger?
Haldir sighed and leaned over her again, tracing a line along her brow, his words too low for even Legolas to hear, standing yet at her feet, holding her ankles. Even were she to surrender, the wound itself might kill her, even with the magic of both elven and Númenor healing.
"If she wanted to die she would have thrown herself into that fire with the rest of her family." Legolas's voice was low, his eyes drifting between both Haldir and Aragorn.
The woman's gasping words had left them all stunned, delirious or not, they had the ring of truth. Haldir had to agree. He laid a hand over Aragorn's, concentrating on the woman beneath. Her trembling had eased as the pain had lessoned, but she was weak, very weak. She whimpered faintly, tossing her head again. Surrendering was not easy.
**
Aragorn's face was drawn, pale with weariness that Haldir felt all too well. The woman was sleeping so deeply that Haldir was worried she would not wake from it. She had finally let go, with weak struggles that they controlled easily, falling into near unconsciousness. The King sat back staring absently at his bloody hands. Haldir slid off the table, legs numb from leaning over her, his hands red to the wrists.
A bustling woman strode into the room, her hair a glistening gray that was so unfamiliar to the elves, her green eyes flitting around the room, taking in everything. She looked determined, crossing the room towards Aragorn, holding a basin of steaming water.
"Wash, and then go and eat, my lord." The woman bowed slightly as Aragorn flinched, drawn from his study of his hands to look up at her.
"Anna, I don't know if it worked?" The King was almost forlorn, but the woman merely scowled, thrusting the bowl toward Aragorn.
"You did what you could. It is up to her now." Her glance encompassed Haldir with the same measure of forcefulness. "Both of you have. Stop looking like puppies locked out of the house. The woman made it here from the Valar knows where with an orc arrow in her ribs. She will not wake up smiling, now or in a few hours, nor will she need your long faces staring at her when she does."
Aragorn laughed weakly and rose to his feet. He started to reach toward the woman, ostensibly to hug her, but she grimaced and shoved the basin into his hands.
"Wash. Eat. The Lady Arwen is worried about you."
Haldir suppressed a smile at Aragorn's expression. Married life had many sides, even for a King, especially married to an elven princess used to having her way. Haldir allowed the smile to curve one corner of his mouth as he met Legolas's gaze. He would not fall prey to such things. The Mirkwood prince seemed to agree as he grinned back.
Another basin was shoved into his hands with more clean water. Haldir looked up from the steaming bowl to find the woman glaring at him! "You think you are any different? Clean up and eat. You might be an elf but you still need to eat. It has been hours since you came in." She sniffed as he took the basin. "The girl needs some peace now, clean clothes and a real bed."
She bustled around the room, picking up the few pieces of bloody cloth with a snort. Haldir washed his hands quickly, drying them on a towel she pulled from her shoulder.
"Take off that tunic and I will see if we can clean it for you. Sad to see it is silk, such a fine material but difficult to clean." She plucked at the front of his chest, standing several inches below his chin as he reeled back from her touch.
"I am fine; I can clean it."
She snorted rudely, along with a raised brow. "You? I dare say you have not cleaned your small clothes since you were my height. "Give it to me, now. You have another on underneath. Such modesty from men, I just don't understand it." She sent him another glare, somehow making him feel like a small elfling under that unflinching gaze even though he stood over her.
Legolas's chuckle was unnecessary. Haldir knew when to surrender. He bowed his head to the woman and reached up to unfasten the hooks that held the gold silk closed. She smiled, folding her arms to wait, watching him avidly. Modest was he? He grinned at her, sliding the silk over his head to drop it into her hands. Her eyes met his for a moment with another lift of her brow.
"You have blood on that too."
He looked down to find the black under-tunic was damp with blood as well. He sighed, with a glare to Legolas who was snickering openly now. "I have no other."
She sniffed again. It was odd how women did that, so much language in such a small sound. Disappointment, disproval, irritation, all were suggested strongly with the noise. "I will bring you something to put on then. I suppose you cannot walk about with bare skin. You would have my ladies fainting dead away." She grinned suddenly, wickedly, her eyes sparkling. "Although I cannot say I would have minded so much."
Haldir folded his arms over his chest stubbornly while she laughed with a wink to him as she left the room. Modesty indeed!
tbc