Morning Singer
By Cúthalion

Ithilien, Spring 1428

"Noerwen, shall I light the oven now?"

The Healer of Ithilien stood in front of the kitchen table, both hands in a huge bowl with dough. She turned around to the boy behind her. He was waiting on the threshold, blonde hair tousled, skin flushed and his arms full of apple wood logs. A fresh breeze carried the scent of the first mown grass into the kitchen where it mingled with the rich aroma of cinnamon, vanilla and raisins.

"Have you stored the axe away safely?"

"I've put it into the shed, on the hook behind the door," the boy said. "Shall I light the oven?"

"Yes. The dough will take another while; but if you stay to rake the grass that your father's gardener scythed yesterday, the bread will be ready." The Healer smiled. "And I have some of your favourite jam left."

The boy shrugged, laughing. "You should've told me earlier; now I must go back to the shed and find the rake!"

"Goodness, I'm sorry!" The woman gave the fragrant dollop in the bowl a hearty thump with her fist and wiped her brow, leaving a long smear of flour. "You may go home any time you want, of course… but didn't Master Olorhel just return from his well deserved holiday in Lebennin?"

Elboron, the future Prince of Ithilien, made a sour face. It was no secret that he honestly loathed his aged and unbearably scholarly Sindarin teacher. She watched the silent fight behind the clear features with amused interest. The cinnamon bread and the prune jam won, of course… exactly as she had foreseen. A few minutes later a merry fire was burning in the oven and she could hear the swishing sound of the rake outside on the meadow.

Noerwen covered the bowl with a clean towel and stretched her back with a groan, spreading both hands on the heavily rounded curve of her belly. One more week, perhaps two… as far as she was able to estimate the advancement of her pregnancy. The midwife of Emyn Arnen was a friendly, elder woman with a reassuring air of experience and profound knowledge, but this would be her very first child, longingly desired for years and conceived beyond all hope or expectation.

Three days ago Damrod had left with a small patrol, heading for the mound of the Morgul Vale. The Rangers of Ithilien didn't like those expeditions; there were few orcs left in the borderland between Gondor and Sauron's former realm, but those who had miraculously survived the fiery chaos of his downfall hid very well in the cracks and caves of the Emyn Muil, and they attacked the forces of the King now and again, with determination and furious hate.

Hopefully he would be back in time to witness the birth of his son or daughter. Any other outcome was something she stubbornly refused to even consider.

The flames in the hearth had burnt down, and Noerwen removed the towel, pressing the soft, sweet dough into two huge baking pans. Then she leaned in, opened the iron shutter and carefully swept the coal and cinder aside with a blackened brush. The baking pans were placed on a wooden peel and slowly vanished in the hot depths of the oven. Noerwen closed the shutter and with a deep sigh of relief returned to an upright position. Her longing gaze swept over to the rocking chair beside the window. Perhaps resting for a while would be a good idea… save that she wasn't entirely sure that she would get out again once she had settled comfortably in it. Still… the last night had been rather unpleasant; her soon-to-be-born offspring had chosen the hours before dawn to toss and turn inside her womb, and she had not slept a wink. Just a few minutes…

When she came back to herself again, the kitchen was filled with the delicious, rich smell of fresh, warm bread. She sighed, inhaling deeply… and suddenly became aware a sound she knew rather well from working in her herbal shed. A knife, hacking down on a wooden board. She opened her eyes, turned her head… and was rewarded with the sight of Éowyn, Princess of Ithilien, standing in front of the table and carefully cutting one of the loaves of cinnamon bread into thick slices.

"Your Highness!" She tried to get up from the chair – and sank back with an undignified Ooof. "Your Highness, I'm sorry…"

"For Eru's sake, stay seated!" the Princess said, smiling amicably and reaching out for a ceramic pot. "Moving around too much can't be healthy in your condition. And I may be a doubtable cook, but I'm able to cope with slicing bread any time."

The beautiful face under the crown of wheaten hair grew a little more serious.

"My son has finished raking the grass outside, by the way. As soon as he's properly fed with bread and jam, I will take him back to the residence and tell his father that you have shooed him through the undergrowth for at least three hours, in search of some rare flower that you need for one of your healing recipes… which was the punishment my husband had in mind after Elboron's ill-mannered behaviour on the day of the King's visit."

She generously slathered two slices of bread with jam from the ceramic pot.

"I personally believe that chipping wood, heating an oven and raking grass is a skill every child should acquire as soon as possible, even a future Steward of Gondor. But even though Elboron's father would agree with me – as would our Lord King – the nobility at the court of Minas Tirith would most certainly be completely horrified."

"They are used to leaving that kind of work to a multitude of servants," Noerwen said, slightly frowning. "And your son was very eager to assist."

"Of course he was." The Princess wiped her hands with the towel. "The alternative would have been two Sindarin lessons with Master Olorhel. And though many of the genteel of Gondor are beyond any doubt loyal and friendly, some of the ladies at the court are nothing else but a perfumed, malicious brood of vipers." Her lovely face hardened, if only for a short moment. "They are still not willing to forgive the surviving son of the deceased Steward that he did not chose his wife among their daughters."

Noerwen eyed her curiously. "Is that the reason why you avoid Minas Tirith like the plague?"

"Not really. I come from a land of green meadows and wide skies, and I always find that marvellous desert of white marble a bit… stifling." Éowyn sighed. "Now I'll collect my son and give him something to eat. And you - " A stern gaze. " – you stay where you are. I can send one of the maids from our kitchen with a little dinner, if you like."

"That would be lovely." Noerwen smiled. "But you should choose a sturdy woman… for she'll have to help me out of this chair, or I'll have to spend the night in it."

"I will," Éowyn said, "and I'll order her to stay here, in case that your child should decide to be born a few days earlier." Noerwen opened her mouth, but her protest was cut off immediately by a second stern look. "Do you really think that you'll be able to leave your bed, get down the stairs and waddle the two miles up to the residence, once the labour pains have begun?"

"Erh… no, probably not." Noerwen grinned, at the same time amused and horrified by the sheer idea. "Thank you, Your Highness."

The third stern look. "Éowyn."

"Éowyn," Noerwen echoed, her eyes meekly downcast. "Oh, and something else…" She straightened her back, her face suddenly serious. "Is there any news from the men who went to the Morgul Vale?"

"No." Èowyn shook her head. "Not yet. But I am sure they will return soon." She came over to the chair and touched Noerwen's shoulder. "All of them."

vvvvv

Late that night, Noerwen opened her eyes and sat up straight in her bed; she had no idea how many hours had passed since she'd bid the maid good night, but the breeze coming in through a crack of the window frame was cool and damp. Spreading her fingers automatically over her womb, she was rewarded with the sleepy kick of a tiny foot directly beneath her ribs. She scanned the dimly lit room; the candle chose just that moment to go out with a hiss, and she found herself in absolute darkness.

Was it the maid on her way to the privy that had woken her up? But now all was silent, and after a few minutes of waiting Noerwen slowly relaxed and settled back into the pillows.

And then she heard a soft neigh from outside. Steps approached on the gravel path leading to the door, and a voice she loved and knew, speaking in hushed tones:

"The stable is over there, my Lord. Would you kindly care for the horses? I think I'll be able to get him inside."

Noerwen hardly noticed the soft creak of the front door; she swung both legs out of the bed, heartbeat hammering wildly in her throat. Excitement and breathless joy made her nimble-footed as she rushed out of the door, for the moment ignoring her pregnancy and taking two steps at once on her way to the ground floor. She had just arrived downstairs when there was a shrill scream from the kitchen.

"Help! Help, Milady Noerwen, we're being ambushed!"

"Rock and stone, shut up, you silly goose!" A deep voice, like an angry, booming drumroll. "Don't you know your landlord?"

Noerwen hurried around the corner… and ran directly into Imhiriel, the maid from Emyn Arnen. She stood in the entrance, her square-built figure properly packed from neck to toe in a modest nightgown, and she was shaking like an autumn leaf. Noerwen gave her shoulder a reassuring pat and steered around her, greeted by the light of candles in a brass candelabra on the kitchen table…. and the sight of Damrod, coming towards her, a smile in his eyes and one arm reaching out. Only seconds later she held him close and mouth to mouth, both hands buried in his hair. He smelled of sweat and exhaustion, but she didn't care the least, lost in his touch and the unspeakable relief that he had come back.

"I'm sorry, sir… I didn't recognize you!" the maid lamented behind her. "And I didn't expect to wake up and see a dwarf standing in front of my cot!"

"A dwarf?" Noerwen broke the kiss, just as the booming voice she'd heard earlier came from somewhere to her right… and the owner of that voice was clearly annoyed.

"Yes, a dwarf, Mistress." He sat on the cot the maid had been sleeping on. She saw long, frizzy hair of an earthy brown, spilling from under a round helmet that had been dented on one side, perhaps by the heavy blow of a club or mace. Dark eyes, shining like blackberries, met her gaze; a long beard, braided to an intricate pattern of plaits, was neatly tucked away behind a broad leather belt. He wore long breeches, and over the right shin the trouser leg was torn apart, revealing a huge, dark spot discolouring the skin all around a makeshift bandage, and a strange bulge beneath. "A wounded dwarf, if I may add. Your husband insisted on bringing me here – because he didn't think that Prince Faramir's Healer would be able to cope with an… unpleasantness like this. Would you agree with him?"

"Well…" Noerwen hesitated. "Erion doesn't exactly like to use a scalpel, that much is true." She turned back to Damrod, and now she noticed why he had only embraced her with his left arm. The right one hung limply down at his side. She took a sharp breath. "Is it broken?"

"Probably yes," Damrod replied, his tone slightly grim. "That was the same orc who tried to tear off Master Gimli's leg. I did my best to change his mind, and during the process he unfortunately did some damage."

"He ended up with my axe stuck in his spine," Gimli remarked. Noerwen swallowed, forcefully refusing to think about the violent images appearing in front of her inner eye. "I need more light," she said. "Imhiriel, would you please bring more candelabras, and all the candles from the topmost drawer in the cupboard?"

"Please, care for Gimli first," Damrod said, sitting down beside the table. "My wound is a simple, clean fracture, and it can wait."

"And you're a Healer exactly since when?" Noerwen retorted, feeling her face soften in a small smile.

"I'm on service - and married to a Healer – long enough not to be completely ignorant," her husband dryly said. Imhiriel scampered about, lighting candle after candle until the area around the table was nearly as bright as day.

"Damrod, I need the candle holders closer to the cot, or I won't see enough." Noerwen turned back to Gimli, and her body was a black silhouette against the golden shine that filled the room. She saw his eyes widen.

"Aulë's loin cloth, you are expecting?" he blurted out. Now his eyes narrowed to slits. "No, you're not only expecting, you're ready to burst! I can't imagine how you intend to shove that dratted bone back into my flesh without dropping your offspring on the floor like a ripe apple from a tree!"

Noerwen felt the movement behind her more than she saw it. "Damrod, my love, stay where you are," she said amicably, "unless you're ready to hand me the candelabras. Master Gimli is injured and slightly beside himself." She smiled sweetly at the dwarf. "It is an open fracture, then?"

"If that means that my silly shin bone sticks out instead of staying inside where it belongs, then yes," Gimli growled. "But I must admit that I'd prefer to be carried on horseback to the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, to see a proper Healer... one that isn't threatening to give birth any moment."

"A man, you mean?" Noerwen felt the blood rise into her cheeks. "Ah well, Master Gimli… I can easily send Imhiriel to the residence now, to bring some sturdy rangers who are able to carry you to my King's City. It may be, however, that a nasty inflammation makes your leg redden, throb and hurt during the transport, until it swells to the size of a filled wine skin… which may happen rather fast, if the wound wasn't cleaned properly. And when you finally reach the sixth level and the care of Master Oroher, it may happen that all he can do for you is to take a bone saw and cut that leg off beneath the knee… or above, if you have really bad luck, you stubborn, deaf mule of a dwarf."

There was a moment of complete silence, and a fierce battle of green and blackberry eyes. Gimli was the first to turn his gaze away.

"Master Oroher will have to do nothing of that sort," a melodious, male voice came from the door, "for Master Gimli will be more than thankful to endure your treatment, and as your husband is slightly disabled right now, Mistress, I am entirely willing to lend a hand wherever it's necessary."

"Thank you," Noerwen said without sparing a glance at the newcomer. "You might begin your assistance by going to my shed. Right opposite the door you'll find a cabinet; please take the strips of wood from the left drawer, the bandage rolls from the right drawer and the huge glass bottle of brandy behind the middle door."

"I'll be right back," the man with the melodious voice said, and a moment later the door fell shut. Gimli opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking, and Noerwen decided to make use of his sudden docility to make him lie down., and to remove the single boot he was still wearing.

Damrod approached her from behind, placing a candelabra beside Gimli's feet and another one close to his knee, and handing her a small, sharp knife. She carefully cut the trouser leg away and began to unwind the makeshift bandage. The grubby cloth sailed down to the floor and revealed a huge area where the skin was discoloured to an ugly purple. A trail of dried blood led down to the ankle, and in the center of the discoloured area, a white, broken off tip pierced the tissue.

"That must hurt," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "But if you allow me to help you, we might very well save the limb." Their eyes met, and suddenly she found herself giving him a comradely smile. "I honestly can't imagine you yelling 'Khazâd ai menu!' while hopping one-legged into the next battle."

She was rewarded with the flashing of white teeth over the enormous beard. "Who taught you to speak Khuzdul?"

"Nobody did," she said airily, carefully feeling around the bone tip and leaning down to inhale the smell of the wound. There was the metallic aroma of blood, but not the sickening odours of festering flesh. No suppuration… not yet. "You should not forget that your deeds are legendary, Gimli Glóinsson. - Damrod?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Would you give me the tincture from the shelf beside the cupboard, please? I will need it to soak the first layer of bandages, as soon as the bone is reset."

The entrance door opened again, and half a dozen bandage rolls, the glass bottle with brandy and a neat stack of wooden strips appeared in her field of vision, held by long, slender hands.

"Is it this what you need, Mistress?"

"Exactly, thank you." Noerwen's gaze was still fixed on Gimli's leg. "Do you think you are capable of holding Master Gimli down while I fix the bone?"

"Oh, I think so." The voice beside her was tinged with amusement. "There's never been the need for such drastic measures so far, but I'm fairly certain that I'll rise to the occasion."

A rumbling snort came from Gimli, and finally Noerwen raised her head and saw the face of the man she'd been ordering about without even looking at him. Clear features of a staggeringly pure symmetry, dark eyes, filled with the distant glitter of ages long past and a silky, pale golden mane of hair, tamed and held back by small braids and leather straps. She gave a horrified gasp, came to her feet and was incredibly thankful for Damrod's sudden, steadying grip around her elbow. The fact that his hand was shaking with barely suppressed laughter didn't help at all.

"Forgive me, Lord Legolas," she stammered. "I simply didn't realize… I fear I was a bit rude."

"Not at all," the Elf Prince blithely replied. "And I must say that I find your lack of courteous behaviour rather… refreshing."

"Of course." Gimli snorted again. "You haven't been entitled stubborn and deaf, have you?"

"Because I was helpful and compliant instead," Legolas answered, mirth ringing in his beautiful voice like a bright cascade of birdsong. "And would you now tell me what exactly I have to do, Mistress?"

"Noerwen," she said, still feeling more than a little bit dizzy. "My name is Noerwen. – I will now give Master Gimli a certain dose of poppy syrup." She quickly continued before the dwarf was able to object. "Oh, I know you'll probably want to endure the procedure without anything against the pain, but your body might decide otherwise without asking your head first."

Damrod silently handed her the proper flask and a big spoon, and Gimli swallowed the dose she administered him without any further protest. Noerwen took a small, flat basin from the cupboard and filled it with her field horsetail-tincture. She took two of the bandage rolls, unwinding them and soaking them in the greenish fluid. Then she washed her hands in the sink, moistened a clean towel with the brandy and carefully dabbed the discoloured area of Gimli's leg with it. She went back to the sink and poured a generous amount of the alcohol over her fingers, shaking them until they were dry again.

Meanwhile the dwarf had fallen into a gentle daze; his eyes were closed and she looked down at him without speaking.

"Damrod? I have a better idea… would you hold Gimli's upper body down? I fear I need Lord Legolas' assistance for something else."

Her husband stepped beside her. "But I can't hold him; I can only use my left arm."

"You won't have to; just put your full weight on his stomach and hips… and better be prepared that he might flail…"

"…and curse," Legolas added. "Perhaps you should fix his arms on both sides and keep them down, too… or you might break something else while he tries to shake you off."

"If he does at all," Noerwen said. "That was a very hefty dose of poppy syrup. – Lord Legolas, I would like you to sit down at his foot, grab the ankle of the injured leg with both hands and pull until I tell you to stop."

"Pull?" The Elf Prince asked, frowning. "What for?"

"It will help to readjust the bone; if everything goes well, the broken tip will slide back inside. And Master Gimli was right in one particular regard; I have to be careful when it comes to bodily efforts. I fear I must rely on your strength for now. Just pull as soon as I tell you… not abruptly, but gently and slowly. I will watch the wound and tell you to stop as soon as we've reached our aim."

The elf moved down to Gimli's foot and sat down on the floor. He carefully peeled the thick, knitted sock from his friend's foot before his hands closed firmly around the ankle. Noerwen knelt down beside the cot, her gaze fixed on the injury. She felt Damrod brushing past her when he leaned over the dwarf, and then the wooden frame creaked under his weight. She felt the child stir inside her womb, and a short, white-hot sting of pain in her spine. Not yet, little one. Just wait a little longer, will you?

"Now, Lord Legolas… pull."

The injured limb stretched in the elf's grip. Gimli gave a drowsy, irritated murmur, and his pelvis rose briefly from the cot.

"Hold him down, love." Noerwen's voice was soft but sharp. She turned her head and saw Damrod's reassuring smile as he pressed his good shoulder against Gimli's hip.

"Continue pulling… but slowly now. Careful…"

She laid her palm against the leg, feeling the growing tension underneath the skin. Still nothing happened, save a few drops of blood appearing on the rim of the small wound and trickling down on the thin mattress. And then… there… now… the bone grew distinctly smaller. She watched in triumphant fascination as the broken tip vanished beneath the injured skin.

"Stop!"

She felt along the tibia, up to the knee and down to the foot… no, they were not there yet.

"Pull a little further, will you? Just a little bit… yes… enough!"

Ah. Now the two ends of the bone were in the right position. The wound was not very large, but she would have to suture it – as soon as she was sure that there was no inflammation whatsoever.

"Imhiriel? Would you please bring me the basin with the bandages?"

The maid had kept in the background, watching the thrilling events in the kitchen without so much as an indrawn breath. Now she hurried to Noerwen's side, visibly excited to find herself suddenly included in the drama. Noerwen took the first bandage out of the basin, wrung it out, folded it and placed it on the wound. Two additional layers kept the herb poultice in place, and finally she sank back on her heels with a great sight of relief.

"Thank you, Lord Legolas," she said. "Thank you very much… this wouldn't have been possible without your help. You are an adept assistant indeed. And now I fear you'll have to heave me up from the floor… there's still an arm left that I have to splint."

"It will be my pleasure." He reached out; their fingers entwined and he effortlessly pulled her to her feet. They stood face to face while he was still holding her hands, and suddenly the expression of his face changed from kind appreciation to deep dismay.

Noerwen frowned. "Lord Legolas… are you unwell?"

"No. No, I'm…" He broke off, still staring at her with open astonishment and fright. Suddenly he broke the contact and stepped back. When he spoke again, his voice was very soft.

"Who are you?"

Noerwen took a deep breath; she more felt than she saw that Damrod stepped beside her. A steadying hand touched her shoulder and she thankfully covered it with her fingers.

"I am Noerwen of Ithilien, wife of Damrod," she quietly said. "Who do you think I am?"

"I don't know." He slowly shook his head. "You… you are… sweet Eru, what whimsy of the Valar brought you here?"

Noerwen swallowed, the blood suddenly running ice cold in her veins. He knew.

"There has never been any whimsy," she laboriously managed. "And I would suggest that we discuss your… your sudden distrust a bit later, as soon as I had the chance to care for my husband's arm. Perhaps you could ride up to the residence and bring some men with you, to get the cot into my herbal shed… without upsetting the leg, of course. Master Gimli needs a lot of rest now. Good night, Lord Legolas."

She turned away from him, taking up the knife and carefully cutting away the sleeve of Damrod's shirt. With great relief she noticed that her hands were not shaking at all; she managed to splint the fracture, immobilizing the injured arm in a sling and fixing it against his upper body with the rest of the bandage rolls. There was no sound from behind; when she had finished her work and dared to look back, the elf had vanished without a trace.

"Imhiriel?"

"Lady Noerwen?"

"Would you wait for Lord Legolas and the men? I think he will want to watch over his friend; as soon as Master Gimli has been removed into the shed, you may return to the residence together with the rangers."

"As you wish." The maid peered closely at her face. "If you don't mind… you'd better lie down. Your face is as white as sour milk."

"She's right." Damrod's good arm held her close, and she felt his lips in her hair. "You need at least as much rest as our injured guest. Come with me, love… you should sleep."

vvvvv

"Very good!"

Noerwen looked down at the wound with a deep feeling of satisfaction. Still no sign of inflammation, and Gimli had managed to keep still enough on the cot that the bone ends were still in place. After the last, strenuous night a long sleep until midday had worked wonders on her condition, and even though she'd had to waddle from the house to the shed like some heavy-bellied mûmak, she felt remarkably high-spirited.

"Does that smug smile on your face mean that I won't possibly make the acquaintance of a bone saw anytime soon?" the dwarf gruffly asked.

"Things are looking increasingly promising," she assured him, wringing out the next bandage over the basin with tincture. "If you stay where you are for the next three days – or maybe four – I will be able to suture the wound closed, and you may leave this shed. I know there are more comfortable places in Ithilien."

"There are worse places," Gimli said, his face suddenly relaxing. He looked at her, but she understood that his dark eyes under the bushy brows beheld something far away in place and time. "Worse places indeed, and not only in Ithilien. I have tried to sleep in a snowdrift on Baranzinbar, I have curled on the damp, stony floor of a corridor in Khazad-dûm for some fleeting hours of rest, and I have waited on the battlement of a Rohirrim fortress without a moment of slumber while the rain was pouring down, and the air was stinking of fear and desperation."

She placed the poultice on the wound, wrapped a clean, fresh bandage around the shin and carefully placed the leg back on the cot. "The sleepless night took place in Helm's Deep, didn't it?"

"Yes," he growled, "before those filthy Uruk came. The rest of the night we spent fighting them back, and my axe drank their blood."

"And Barazinbar… isn't that the dwarvish word for Caradhras?"

He peered at her with a mixture of interest and sudden sympathy. "Yes, Mistress. Are you really sure that you never studied Khuzdul?"

"I am, Master Dwarf." Noerwen smiled. "I have greatly improved my knowledge in Sindarin, and I even know a few words and phrases in Quenya, but your language is too complicated, even for someone with a great love for the spoken word."

He looked down at his fingers. "I forgot to thank you," he said after a long pause, "for healing me. There are not as many battles to fight as there used to be in the Dark Times, but even carving a new palace into my marvellous Glittering Caves requires a master builder with two legs."

She leaned in and patted his gnarled hand.

"It was my duty, and my pleasure," she said with honest warmth. "And now I'll have to leave you alone for a short while; I am sure Lord Legolas will be back from Emyn Arnen any time, but my husband won't be able to prepare any meal only using his left arm, and I must return to my kitchen, to cook his lunch. We will have a stew of rabbits, potatoes and herbs, and I will bring you a portion, as soon as it's ready to serve."

"I'm looking forward to it," Gimli said, a grin splitting the hairy jungle of his beard. "And you'd better take care of yourself in your condition."

Noerwen stood in the door of the shed, looking back at him with a mischievous smile. "Don't worry," she said, "I won't litter my offspring on the meadow. I am fairly certain that I'll make it into my bed in time."

She closed the door, and his bellowing laughter followed her over the lawn while she slowly walked back to the house. When she stepped into the living room, she saw Damrod and one of the younger rangers, sitting beside the window with mugs of beer.

"How is he?" Damrod asked.

"Fine; the wound looks splendidly, and he isn't even feverish. He may not always behave like a mule, but he certainly has the same constitution." She turned to the ranger. "Good morning, Meldon. Are you in a hurry, or would you like to stay for lunch?"

"Thank you, Lady Noerwen, but no," the young man said. "I'm on service this midday; but the Princess Éowyn asked me to notify you that the midwife will come over this afternoon. And the Princess wishes to visit you tomorrow morning, to express her thankfulness for your healing services on behalf of Master Gimli."

"Thank Eru that she's not nearly as pompous as your announcement," Noerwen blithely replied, walking over to the hearth. She'd already cut the rabbit meat and the potatoes into neat cubes, and the iron pot over the fireplace was sending curls of fragrant steam to the ceiling.

She was just about to put meat and vegetables into the broth when a dull pain crawled down her spine and settled in the area of her lower belly. She stood unmoving, with bated breath, waiting for the familiar ache to subside as it had always done during the past few weeks while the babe turned and settled down to its final position. But this was different. Something clenched deep inside her womb, ripping open, and then a formidable surge of warm fluid poured out of her body, running down her legs and soaking the back of her skirt.

"Damrod…!"

With few fast steps he was beside her. "Love? What…"

"My water has just broken," she heard herself say through the droning heartbeat in her ears. How could she sound that calm? She saw the concern and excitement in his beloved face and clung to his hand while she turned back to Meldon.

"We will have to forget the lunch," she stated with a grimace, "unless we find someone else to cook it. Would you please return to the residence immediately and ask the midwife to hurry? I fear I need her now… at once."

vvvvv

It was one of the very first mild days this Spring, with a pale blue sky and sailing clouds, but Damrod of Ithilien barely had the time to enjoy or even notice it. Meldon hurried up to the residence as if being pursued by the Witch King, and he was back in no time, a small entourage in his wake. There was Alassiel the midwife, and with her came Erion, who was allowed to enter the birth room long enough to receive thorough instructions about the proper treatment of a wounded, dwarvish leg. Imhiriel arrived, too, rolling up her sleeves and saving the meal before the boiling broth could evaporate and spoil the pot. And together with Healers and servants came the Princess Éowyn, effortlessly braving the midwife and sitting with Noerwen while Alassiel shooed Imhiriel away from the hearth and prepared a kettle with fresh water.

Erion and Imhiriel finally found the time to eat some of the stew, and Alassiel carried a small bowl upstairs to the mother-to-be. Later that afternoon Lord Legolas arrived, bearing company to his injured friend, and Éowyn herself served the rest of the stew to the elf and the dwarf. That was the moment when Damrod realized that he on his part had had nothing to eat since breakfast, but his stomach was twisted to a tight knot of nerves anyway. At least he was allowed to see his wife for ten precious minutes before the midwife ultimately closed the door to all "menfolk" because the birth was now beginning in earnest, and "we women have to properly finish what began nine months ago with a husband's pleasure."

Time trickled away while the sun slowly sank behind the horizon, and still there were no tidings from upstairs. The Princess had long returned to the palace, and Erion dutifully changed the bandage around Gimli's leg one last time before he, too, bid Damrod Goodbye and left, taking Imhiriel with him. Legolas came up from the shed to the house once, but after a sharp glance at the white, exhausted face of the father-to-be he wisely refrained from trying to start any longer conversation and told him to get some rest. For the first time after the last, turbulent night and this long day Damrod realized that he was truly worn out.

He washed down a buttered slice of Noerwen's cinnamon bread with a glass of cider from the pantry and staggered over to the rocking chair beside the window. He settled in it with a sigh, enjoying the sudden, deep silence after all that ongoing see-saw in his kitchen. Deep silence indeed… there was no sound from their bedroom where Noerwen still gave birth to their first child. Alassiel had appeared downstairs at regular intervals, to reassure him that everything was going as it should, and the last time she had told him that the little one would enter this world before dawn, clucking her tongue and giving his shoulder a comforting pat. Sweet Eru, he thought, guide my beloved safely through this ordeal… and hold your hands over the babe.

His head sank back and he fell asleep.

vvvvv

"Damrod?"

A hand touched his arm, shaking him gently.

"Damrod? Wake up, lad."

Nearly twenty-five years had passed since anyone had called him "lad", and he fought his way back from the depths of a dreamless slumber, floating through a limbo between his childhood and his latter years as a man. Then a face drifted into his mind… green eyes full of tender mischief, pale skin, translucent like a shell and a fiery mane of hair… his wife, his heart, the ultimate blessing of his life. Now he was rooted in time again, feeling the cushions beneath his body, his crinkled shirt and the boots he hadn't bothered to pull off before he succumbed to his bone-deep weariness.

"Damrod? For Eru's sake, wake up now, or do you really want to miss greeting your daughter?"

He sat up with a start, gaping at the smiling face of the midwife like a fool.

"My… my daughter?"

"Yes, your daughter. Beautiful little bird, and all fingers and toes where they should be. And your wife has delivered her splendidly; she's a bit tired right now, but healthy and whole and as happy as a bright day in Spring."

My daughter. And Noerwen is healthy and whole.

With a fast movement he was out of the chair, still a bit unstable on his legs… only his long-trained instincts as a ranger and warrior kept him from running straight into the cupboard. He hurried up the wooden stairs, Alassiel's amused chuckle behind him, and a moment later he burst into his bedroom.

A few candles flickered in a silver holder on the nightstand, casting a dim, golden circle on the bed. Noerwen sat with her back propped against a heap of pillows. Her hair was a mass of tousled strands, the bright copper darkened with sweat, and her face was very pale. But when he knelt down beside the bed and caressed her cheek, she leaned into his touch, her eyes radiant with joy.

"Damrod… " she whispered. "My love, meet your daughter."

Now his gaze left his wife and he looked down at the small bundle she held in her arms. A red, crumpled face with a button-like nose looked out of the fabric, crowned by a jet black shock of hair, with eyes that were squeezed shut and a small mouth, the corners curling in silent protest. He heard himself laugh softly.

"She looks absolutely… displeased."

"Of course she does. We both had an exhausting night. Don't worry… she will get used to us, my heart."

Hesitantly he reached out and ran one finger through the downy-soft hair and across the tiny brow to her cheek. Suddenly the little girl opened pale blue eyes, peering up at her father. Damrod felt his heartbeat stumble as he waited for the first, angry scream. But his daughter decided otherwise; her features softened, and all of a sudden she turned her head and her pursed lips found his fingertip, suckling with surprising force.

"Oh… she's hungry." Noerwen smiled. "I will feed her, and then she will sleep, I hope… as will I." She loosened the cord of her night gown with one hand, shrugged the thin linen from her shoulders and let it slip down over her breasts. Catching his gaze, she gave him a cheeky grin. "I need night shirts that I can unbutton."

"Quite to the contrary!" He leaned in and their lips met in a kiss. "I like the view, my love."

"Do you really?" She drew back, pulling the babe's head against her breast. Damrod watched in deep fascination as his daughter's lips fastened on a dark bud; she gave small sounds of satisfaction, and one small arm escaped the wrappings of fabric, rosy fingers curling against Noerwen's bare skin. Within minutes she had drunk her fill and fell asleep, mouth half open. Damrod felt the growing wish to follow her example, but before he could decide whether to clamber the bed beside his wife or to spread a blanket on the floor, the door opened behind him and the midwife stepped into the room.

"Ah – found her first meal already, the little bird?" She came over to the bed. "Very well! Let's tuck her away in her cradle now, and then I'll help you to dress properly again." A stern glance at Damrod. "You'll have your wife back soon enough, but now she should get the rest she deserves after a long night's labour, shouldn't she?"

"Of course she should, Mistress." Damrod meekly replied, suppressing a grin. While Alassiel took the babe from Noerwen's arms and carefully laid it down in the cradle, he leaned in and quickly stole yet another kiss, feeling Noerwen's mouth smile against his lips.

"Sleep well, dearheart," he whispered. "Thank you for giving us this child."

"Thank you for being her father," she whispered back. Her eyelids were drooping already, and he allowed Alassiel to help him up from the floor and to gently shoo him out of the room. He slowly walked down the stairs, his face full of joyful wonder and the image of the woman he loved and his new-born child like a warming fire in his heart.

vvvvv

He stepped out of the house, inhaling the fresh air of a clear, early morning. The sky was brightening, the horizon rimmed by a pale, rosy streak; half an hour more and the sun would rise in the east. Following a sudden impulse, he sat down on the bench beside the entrance and with one hand managed to unlace the boots he was still wearing. Clumsily he shook off his socks; he got up again and stepped down from the gravelled path. With a sigh of relief he buried his toes in the dew-damp, freshly mown grass, silently blessing Elboron for his eager helpfulness.

"Good morning, Damrod."

He turned his head; the dim light of dawn gathered in long, unbraided hair, creating an aureole of pale gold around the head of Legolas the Elf. He stood barely two yards away; Damrod stared at him, amazed once more by his ability to move without any sound. He bowed deeply.

"Good morning, sire. How is Master Gimli?"

"Sound asleep," Legolas replied. "Which gives me the chance to seek rest the way my people do; by walking among the fragrant beds in this beautiful garden, and drinking in the scent of herbs and flowers." His piercing gaze scanned Damrod's face. "How is your wife?"

Damrod's face brightened with a huge smile. "Our child is born, and Noerwen is well… as is the babe. It is a daughter."

"May the blessing of the Valar be upon you and your family," the elf said, bowing in return. "Your wife is a remarkable woman… and a good healer. I presume that my friend might have lost his leg without her skills and her… stubbornness."

"Noerwen's stubbornness is one of the things I love and admire about her," Damrod slowly replied. "Without it, she would perhaps not be here with me."

It was an open, well considered challenge. For the fraction of a second the beautiful face of the elf was completely blank; there was a long silence, and finally he sighed.

"I wondered if you knew," he said. "I wondered if you were aware that your wife is not a child of Arda."

"Well, of course I knew," Damrod retorted. "I met her shortly before the War began in earnest; during the siege of Minas Tirith, she worked in the Houses of Healing. It is a long and rather strange story."

"I'm not going anywhere within the next hour," Legolas said, a spark of irony glittering in his deep eyes. "And I want to understand how it came that the borders of Middle Earth were obviously opened to a stranger… it's a rather unsettling thought. To find out about the truth would do much to ease my spirit."

And so the two men walked side by side, up and down the meadow between the house with the cedar shingles and the shed within which Gimli's sonorous snoring could be heard, and along the beds where the air was heavy with the scent of rosemary, sage and chamomile. Damrod unfolded the wondrous tale of his love for Noerwen like a colourful tapestry, and Legolas listened intently, asking a short question from time to time. When the story was finished, dewdrops were glistening like pale jewels in the first light of the sun, and they sat on the bench beside the front door of the house.

"I waited two years for her to return," Damrod softly said. "I knew I had no right to hope, no right to claim her for my own. There were times when I was close to giving up, and in the second Spring after she vanished without a trace, I decided to simply thank the One and the Valar that I had been granted to love her as long as I could, during that one, turbulent summer in the suffering city. And then, one day, I returned from a patrol, and when I came back from the stable, she…"

He broke off, searching for the right words to describe this life-shattering moment.

"She walked across the meadow, right into my arms," he finally continued. "It was a miracle, a gift, absolutely unbelievable… and completely undeserved. She was my answered prayer, and she has never left me since."

They didn't speak for yet another while, but it was a peaceful, companionable silence. Damrod watched Legolas from the corner of his eye, studying the calm, beautiful face and patiently waiting for the elf's judgement. From the branches of the old oak beside the shed a bird rose into the sky, its voice clear and piercingly sweet, like a triumphant fanfare of the morning.

Suddenly Legolas stirred beside him, following the bird with his sharp eyes.

"I have always loved the song of the lark," he said, rising from the bench and stretching his arms and back with easy grace. "Lírulin we call it in the old elven language, ,Morning Singer'… herald of the new day and messenger of hope."

He turned to Damrod with a smile.

"I cannot pretend to understand the purposes of the One in this matter," he said, "but your fate is a wonder and joy to me; it almost makes me feel young again. I am glad to have met you and your wife, Damrod of Ithilien… you are blessed indeed. And may that blessing never fade."

He turned away and walked over the grass, singing softly under his breath. Damrod closed his eyes, the sun warming his face.

Morning Singer, herald of the new day and messenger of hope.

"Lírulin," he murmured, the bright syllables rolling on his tongue like music. "Lírulin…"

The front door opened, and Alassiel stepped out of the house.

"I'm preparing breakfast right now," she said, drying both hands on her big apron. "You must be hungry; and I could need something in my stomach, too. Oh… by the way, have you already found a name for your little bird?"

Damrod eyed her with deep contentment.

"Believe it or not, I have indeed, " he said, smiling. "It's the most beautiful name anyone could think of."

FINIS