Sorcha had lived among the Rohirrim for the most of her years, a redheaded woman, rare among the fairness of the people of the Mark. Short, petite, and pale, she was born of a woman from Erech, and her husband of Dol Amroth. Travelers, they had finally settled in Edoras, and raised their daughter in an odd mixture of their separate cultures. Quiet and demure, she was learnt in healing and cooking. Thus she never said no when her parents arranged her marriage to the one known as Wormtongue, he who advised the King.
Grima treated his wife well, something that no one had expected, and Sorcha grew to renown amongst the people of Edoras as a healer, one who listened and asked no questions. Married at fourteen to a man already thirty, she aged from a carefree youngster and into an adult over a manner of days. At sixteen, she was pregnant, and Eowyn rejoiced, hoping that the man's eye would not wander from his pregnant wife.
Sorcha was called away to one of the villages during her sixth month of pregnancy, and she rode with the Rohirrim contingency that went to its aid. A month she stayed there, helping with the injured, the ill, and then she rode back to Edoras, with two of the Rohirrim.
A week later, she was carried into Edoras on a litter, tied between the two Rohirrim's horses. Grima was there, and he watched as his young wife was brought to the Healers. Going into the hills, he buried the remains of his son, miscarried late in the pregnancy, due to an attack by orcs.
For months Sorcha hovered near death, the healers unable to do anything. Grima watched the woman he had grown to care for suffer. And he left the city. Riding to Orthanc, he asked Saruman to save his wife, and gave his service in exchange for his wife's life. The White Wizard agreed.
For five long years, Grima labored in Saruman's services, his wife falling in love with a man already in love with Eowyn, falling in love with the man called Grima Wormtongue. For five long years she tried valiantly to have children, to call Grima's attention to her, for him to show her the affection that he once did, though he never showed it anymore, though he had never loved her as anything more than a friend.
It was the Second of March, and Sorcha stood in the Great Hall, watching the daily Court sessions, and frowning at the way her Grima looked at the Lady Eowyn. Absentmindedly resting her hand on her stomach, she watched as the strangers entered the Hall of Meduseld. Her green eyes watched the altercation between her husband and the wizard, and began to cry as flashes of her dreams shone in front of her eyes.
It was clear to her from the beginning that her beloved husband was going to lose, and hearing the condemning words, her shriek echoed through the Hall, and then her sobs.
Watching the brawl, watching Theoden King be freed from his bespellment, she wept, her sadness shining through. Grima's eyes left Gandalf's form, and went to hers, watching as his young wife cried, the sobs wracking her frail form as she curled up protectively. A single tear streaked down his cheek, and he swiftly wiped it away before anyone other than his wife saw it.
As Theoden threw Grima down the stairs, Sorcha watched from the area in front of the Hall of Meduseld, crying. As her beloved husband was cast out of Edoras, exiled, she raced towards the stables. their horse, she handed the reins to him as he raced through. Passing him a traveling-bag full of things that he must of prepared months before, she pulled him in tight, hugging him tightly. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to those of her husband, her green eyes boring into his.
"I love you Grima, and I always will. I want you to know that I will stay here, unless you send for me. Remember that I'm pregnant." Grima's head snapped up, his eyes looking down into hers, memorizing the love evident there.
"I know that I have never shown it, or said it, my Sorcha, but I do have love for you, my wife." Swinging up, he spurred the horse, leaving Sorcha there, crying.
Going up into the hayloft, she curled up on a blanket there, her tears soaking into the soft of the cloth.
"Who was the redhead in Meduseld? The one with the beautiful green eyes, who wore the green gown?" Aragorn asked of Eowyn, who smiled grimly.
"The people of Edoras call her Fair Healer, for she settles the smaller disputes in the city, and heals all who ask for her aid, or need it. Her real name is Sorcha, wife of Grima son of Galmod." Aragorn's eyes flashed, and an eyebrow went up. "She is twenty and one years of age this year, and she married Wormtongue when she was fourteen."
"Why would she marry that worm?" Aragorn had to ask. "So fair, so beautiful, wouldn't one of the Eorlingas have asked for her hand?"
"Sorcha's parents arranged their marriage. That's why she married him, though there is love in their marriage, though it is one sided." She laughed bitterly, her sadness shooting through her voice. "And Grima wasn't always a worm. He was a perfectly kind man when they married, and Sorcha loves him deeply, a love that was wellddeserved in some ways."
"What do you mean by that?" Aragorn questioned.
"She was sixteen, and went to help Liasse, to help with the aftermath of an orc attack. Sorcha was six months pregnant when she left, and on her way back from Liasse, a month later, she was at seven months. The Rohirrim she was with were attacked by orcs, and she had a miscarriage as a result of an orc slicing into her belly. She hovered at the brink of death for months, and Grima disappeared. When he returned, she mysteriously returned to health, and he was like this. No matter what though, he is a good husband, he has never raised a hand to Sorcha, never hurt her with his words, never had an affair. Neglect and pining for another are all that he has done badly for her."
Sorcha walked steadily, treading towards the 'refuge' of Helmsdeep, her mind giving her deep misgivings about the mountain stronghold. It had but one escape route, and that might be blocked.
The healers numbered in ten, the only ten healers or leachcrafters or midwives left alive in Rohan and could get to Helmsdeep, and Sorcha numbered among them. they had claimed a chamber in the inner keep as their ward, and Sorcha was out running errands, telling the various leaders where to send the wounded.
She was in one of the inner courtyards when she heard the horn, and she went towards the noise, going to where the King listened to the Elven commander. Catching the end of Haldir's words, she waited until the ends of the greetings to ask her pressing question of the Elves.
"Did you bring food, medical supplies, or Healers of any skill with you?" Haldir's eyes went to a small woman standing at the top of the stairs, his elven eyes noting the carefully hidden swell of her belly, and raised an eyebrow at the sword buckled on around her hips.
"Who are you to ask such questions?" Theoden asked, his eyes angered at her blatant disobeyal of his orders. "I ordered all the women into the caves!"
"I am Sorcha, wife of Grima, first rank Healer and midwife. I serve the Eorlingas as Healer, and have since I was fifteen!" Sorcha's eyes blazed, and she took on the appearance of a demon with her hair escaping her braid, green eyes lit with the fire of an angered Healer. "You signed my petition to be put on active duty nearly six years ago, Theoden King, and placed me as a roving Healer! When you had your Healers set up, of course I stayed!"
"Yes, we brought a Healer with us." Haldir broke off the brewing quarrel in midstream, amazed at the tenacity of the small woman. Turning towards the troops, a short shout in Elvish and a name sent a tall elf forward. "This is Galen, our Healer."
Sorcha looked the Elf over, before sharpening her voice, making all the soldiers who heard it stand at attention. One did not mess with an angry Healer, rule number one of soldiering in the service of Rohan!
"Galen, follow me. Anyone who can hear me, pass the word on; all injured that can be moved, bring to the Secondary Hall in the Inner Keep. If you have a comrade who is near death, and could be saved, send a runner into the Keep, and if we can spare a Healer, one will be sent out."
One of the captains of the men turned to her, and clasped his fist to his breast, bowing slightly at the waist. He was grizzled, his face a mass of scars, and his body a toned bulk of muscle. The sword that he wore was well used, and the chestplate had clearly been repaired several times.
"Ma'am, They don't call ye the Fair Healer for naught." Theoden raised a bristly eyebrow at the term of address, and the man coughed and went on. "What I'm tryin' t' say it that I was at Liasse-Village during an' after the attack five years ago. You sewed up my face, and kept the sawbones away from my leg with their saws, curin' it wit' something'. I 'member thinking that you were the prettiest woman that I'd ever seen, and you made me 'member my ma, with your pregnancy, an' the way the children were always at you skirts. But you never flinched, you just kept on workin' an' helping, an' I want you to know that we, the soldiers appreciate you, lassie. We 'precciate your loss, and feel sorrow that you've lost your man. If we can be of any service, ma'am?"
Sorcha smiled slightly, then returned the slight bow, dipping her head in lieu of her torso.
"Jak, I thank you for your kind words, and bid you to fight, if not for your lives or your country, but for the women and children in the caves. If you fail defending them, they are lost to a fate worse than death."
Sorcha was cleaning the wound of one of the elven archers when someone came to the door of the ward shouting that one of the Elven commanders had fallen. Looking around at the other Healers, she saw that they were all busy, so she swiftly bandaged the archer's wound, and grabbed her bag and her sword.
Racing to the parapets, she barely noticed the orcs around her, the silver of her blade flashing as she cleared a pathway through the Uruk-hai. Finding the fallen Elf, the only still twitching, still barely alive, she sheathed her sword. Lifting the elf onto her shoulders, she struggled to lift him, his weight straining her shoulders as she half-carried him, half-dragged him into a hidden niche in the parapet. Stuffing his body into the small door way, she pushed herself in after him.
Opening her bag she put out a pillow and a blanket, lifting his head to put the pillow under it, she winced, praying to the Valar to preserve him until she cleaned the stomach wound. Pouring alcohol into the wound, she heard the hiss of it as it cleaned the wound, then took out a needle and thread. Suturing it closed, she slathered a thick salve on it before bandaging it.
Then she looked at the head wound. Some sort of axe had been buried nearly an inch into the back of his head. Parting the hair, she poured more alcohol onto the wound, purifying it as best she could. Suturing it closed, she slathered more of the salve on before bandaging it.
From there, she had a vague idea about what to do. The majority of Healers had some sort of inborn gift, and she had her fair share. Sitting cross-legged, she grasped both of his hands in hers before sinking into a trance.
Pushing her 'self' out of her body and into the Ef's, haldir's body, she traveled the lines of his body to the back of his head. Exerting her Healing Talent, she mended the skull, mended the brain, and coaxed the skin to begin healing. Going into the veins and nerves, she encouraged them to regrow, and then went in search of his spirit.
'Come back to your body, Haldir, Marchwarden!' Her voice was insistent, and after many hours of calling, his spirit returned to his body. His body went from being maintained by Sorcha's spirit and magic, and reverted to him. Sorcha raced back out through his hands and into her body.
Sticking her head through the door way into the nitch, she heard the trumpets sounding retreat. Grabbing her bag and her sword, she tied them to her belt before grasping the Elf around the waist and pulling him out. Dragging the elf, she got into the inner Keep right before the doors were sealed, and hurried them both into the ward before she dropped in a faint.
"She's fainted from sheer exhaustion!" Galen said, looking down at the small human woman who had brought in his commanding officer, before having a good look at his commanding officer. Stifling a gasp, he lifted her and put her on one of the empty beds, pulling a coverlet over her. finished with that, he placed Haldir on a nearby pallet, carefully inspecting the head wound. "The Lady Sorcha used her Healing Gift on the Marchwarden, bringing him near back from the dead. And her in that state too!"
The Healers left standing moved towards the door, standing in a semi-circle to defend the only way in or out of their domain. No Uruk-Hai would hurt their patients while there was still thought in their minds!
"I thought you were dead!" Aragorn exclaimed, sitting next to his dear friend, who was sitting propped up in bed, the Healers bustling around the room. Haldir smiled sadly before answering.
"I was walking in the Halls of Mandos when suddenly I felt a huge tug." His eyes sought out the sleeping form of Sorcha, covered in a deep green coverlet with Galen seeming to take her temperature every five seconds. "From what Galen told me, one of the boys came in here, yelling that an Elven Commander was down, and the lady with the fire red hair packed up her things and went to the already taken parapets. She healed me between there and here, somehow, and then dragged me here. Apparently she then collapsed from sheer exhaustion. He's quite taken with her, young Galen is." Aragorn chuckled.
"She's married."
"So young? She cannot be older than twenty years!" Haldir exclaimed.
"She was married to Grima son of Galmod when she was fourteen, and she is now twenty one, and he is not yet dead."
"Who is he?" Galen stood there, a tall elf with long blond hair and startling green eyes. He had broad shoulders, and a passing resemblance to Celeborn. Relatively young, he was only about a thousand years old. Dressed in green, it was obvious in some ways that he was a healer and not an archer, though it was clear that he could hold his own in combat.
"Grima Wormtongue, the former chief advisor of Theoden King. His silvered tongue and service to Saruman brought Rohan to a near ruin." Eomer's words as he entered the room, going among the beds over to near where Aragorn was before sitting. "I assume that you are talking about our Fair Healer?"
"Aye. She spirit-healed Haldir, alone!" Galen's words, his eyes filled with appreciation. "Why're you here? You aren't injured or visiting the injured." His eyes scanned the war-clad Rohirrim.
"Gandalf Greyhame wishes for her to ride with us to Orthanc. He seems to think that her presence will pressure Grima to leave the Tower." He was interrupted by Sorcha getting up, and going over to a nearby water pitcher.
"That's nice, Eomer. Now sit down on the bed." Eomer's head snapped 'round to face then sat down, following her directions. Sorcha came back, holding a cloth dripping with water, and she swiped it over Eomer's head, wiping off the dirt and grime.
Laying her hand on the now clean head of the Third Marshal, she concentrated, pushing her energy through Eomer's body. Withdrawing the hand, she smiled at him. "No injuries, Marshal. You are lucky." She smiled down at him, then went over to her pack, picking it up. "Deran!" One of the male Healers turned around and tilted his head. "Where is the women's freshening room?" he smirked, and pointed. Sorcha nodded, and went into the room, closing the door. Stripping out of her blood stained skirts and shirt, she wiped down with a pitcher of water and a cloth.
Carefully she pulled on a shift, then a pair of pantalets, then turned to look at her silhouette in the mirror. Overly slim, that was obvious by the way her bones poked out of her skin. The bulge of her stomach wasn't as large as it should be, for she was in the seventh month of her pregnancy. Turning away, she pulled on the first two of her petticoats, then a corset. Over that went the final two petticoats, the overskirt, and the bodice. Riding boots were pulled on underneath the skirts, over the thick socks that she had originally knit for Grima, so they were several sizes too big. A dagger was sheathed at her waist, next to the pouch that held her herbs.
Undoing her hair, she dragged the brush through it, undoing the tangles, then dividing her hair into three sections. Braiding her hair, she tied the end off with a leather thong. Letting it swing to her back, it lay the length of her spine.
Sorcha sat on the back of a placid mare that the King had found for her, a small piebald whose rider had died during the Battle for Helms Deep. The mare's name was Leofa, a tribute to a beloved King of Rohan. Together, they were winding their way through the trees towards Orthanc.
In front of her was her King, Eomer, Hama, Aragorn, and the wizard. Behind her was a scout, and as the reached the boundaries of the forest, the scout melted away into the trees. Those who had remained fanned out, to see a remarkable sight.
"Welcome, my Lords; to Isengard!" A small being was there, standing on a stone mound, next to another of its same time, and Sorcha hid her gasp of surprise. "Treebeard has taken over management, and he bids you welcome!"
Five minutes later, they were on their way into the ruins of Isengard, Pippin riding behind Aragorn, and Merry behind Hama. Sorcha tagged along the back, staying silent until Grima showed himself.
"Grima, come down." Grima's eyes went to the small form of his wife on the ground, heard her voice pleading. Saruman reached his arm out, placing his hand on Grima's shoulder, holding him in place.
"You go down, and your lady, she dies." Sorcha heard the remark, and she snapped. She couldn't stand this man, who had stolen her husband from her. Gandalf turned his head towards her, and made gestures for the others to move away from her as she dropped to the ground, her skirts hiked to mid thigh.
"Let him go, Deceiver!" Sorcha's voice took on a second tone, as if something else was speaking through her voice, as well as her voice. "Let him go, now!" Saruman did not relinquish his hold on the former advisor, though Grima's eyes had widened in terror and recognition.
"Why should I, hedgewitch?" The slimy voice of Saruman slithered into Sorcha's ears, and Sorcha breathed in, pushed her horse away, and centered herself. A hum came from her throat, a primal noise that made the horses shift in fear, and the hair on the back of the mortals' necks raise. Grima winced, and hunkered down as far as possible.
"I call upon Arda!" Her voice was soft, but all for leagues heard her, as the earth sang, a part of her voice. "I speak for Arda!" Golden light surrounded her, then spread up, to encase Saruman, and turn a sickly yellow color. She raised a hand, and snapped her fingers. Saruman fell forward, tumbling over the edge of his Tower, and onto the spikes of a water wheel. Grima fell beside him, still alive, and Sorcha followed his fall with her eyes. The hand flattened out, and Grima's fall slowed, and moved, tilting her hand, so he fell into a neat pile at her feet. Struggling to his feet, he reached out to steady himself with his wife's frail form, only to find himself with an armful of redhaired female as she collapsed.
"Gandalf, what's a hedgewitch?" Pippin asked. Gandalf smiled slightly as he directed Shadowfax towards Leofa. Picking up her reins, he led her to Grima.
"Grima, you might want to get her out of the water." Grima's eyes snapped up.
"Yes, Yes, should keep her dry and warm. Water only good in her." he said, mumbling. Placing her onto the saddle, he held her in place while mounting up behind her. Going into her saddlebags, he withdrew a thick blanket, pulling it over her. "What have I forgotten? What have I forgotten?" Grima's voice was panicky, and he was surprised when a small frail hand reached out of the blanket to caress his cheek.
"You've forgotten Freodo, leofa." Grima's eyes opened fully, and he whistled. Soon enough a chubby horse trotted up from out of the forest, black with a dished head and perky white ears. "You should not lose him, leofa. We will need him to teach our sons to ride." Grima's eyes widened, and he hugged her closer to him. Humming quietly, he lured her to sleep.
"Sleep well, and rest well."
"Where shall I go, my King?" Grima's eyes were on his king as they rode towards Meduseld, his arms full of his sleeping wife, his legs guiding the horse. "You banished me from Edoras." Theoden paused, clearly thinking. A minute later he spoke, having gestured Hama and Eomer close enough to hear him.
"That depends, Grima. Why did you go to Saruman?" Grima winced, then brushed his hand over Sorcha's cheekbone.
"Sorcha would not wake up. For months she would not wake up. I could not lose her. Saruman said that h e could save her, if I swore him my service."
"Why not just get rid of me, instead of mentally crippling me?"
"Have you ever seen a pissed off Hedgewitch? One of Sorcha's strength? What you saw her do was use the power of Arda against Saruman. She can do worse with her own power, and I may be a Hedgewizard, but my power lies in farseeing and weaving illusions. She would have called me out, into a trial by combat, and I would have been quite dead." He paused, feeling her hair again. "But knowing her, she would have turned me into something unpleasant and long lived. She hates to kill, and killing means that I would be gone permanently. She would want to be able to turn me back."
"If I were to allow you to attend the victory celebrations only, because your wife is to be honored, then assign you both to the Third Eored, underneath Eomer's command."
"Assign us as what?"
"Your wife as a healer, you as either her assistant or as the accountant. Eomer's book keeping skills are awful. I'd give you both the horse that you are riding on as a second mount."
"Could we eventually find a place to set up a permanent residence? Or at least let us return to my family's holding on the border?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Sorcha wants children." Grima knew his wife was pregnant, however, he didn't know how far along she was.
Sorcha was riding on Leofa, Grima on Freodo, towards the back of the Eored as they rode swiftly across the plains towards Dunharrow. Grima was dressed in dusty black trousers and tunic, boiled leather armor, and the requisite boots. His hair had been scrubbed clean, along with his body, at his wife's orders, delivered in such a tone as that none would disobey her. a good three inches had been removed from his hair, Sorcha having deemed them irreparable. Now, his hair fell to about an inch past his shoulder, but was pulled back with a thick leather thong, and a sword was strapped to his saddle. He hadn't worn one since his father taught him how to use it.
Sorcha was garbed in dusty brown, long skirts and tunic that were large enough for her to ride astride Leofa without any of her pantlets showing, or even anything but the tips of her boots. She wore a set of chain mail underneath her tunic, over her chemise, and a sword was strapped to her saddle, a perfect match to Grima's. it had been Galmod's gift to his daughter in law upon their wedding. Both had the crest of their family upon it, the sign of the small holding that Grima held on the Dunlending border. Her hair was in her customary braid, but wrapped 'round with boiled leather and pinned to her head.
Approaching the camp at Dunharrow, they found a site to camp, Grima setting up their tent, and Sorcha went up towards the King's Camp, the area up near the middle of the mountain.
"Heyla!" She shouted as she approached on foot, giving ample warning to the unseen watchers surrounding the camp.
"Who goes there?" A voice rang out from one of the trees, and Sorcha smiled. "Answer swiftly or you can go no further!"
"Sorcha wife of Grima, first rank Healer. I look for where to report!"
"You may pass!" The voice spoke again, and the trees rustled. Sorcha smiled, and continued into the main area. She saw Eowyn immediately, and bowed to her, before approaching.
"My lady!" Eowyn turned around, and saw the familiar face of the Healer. Smiling, she nodded to the redhead.
"Healer Sorcha! It has been awhile, hasn't it? I suppose that you are riding with the Eored."
"Aye. I do not know to whom I should report, or where the Healers' camp is to be set up. Do you know?"
"We are not setting up a Healers' Camp here at Dunharrow, we are leaving the Healers stationed with their Eored. However, we want a map of where every tent will be. Each Healer's tent, that is, so we can tell the Marshals tonight at the meeting. Then tomorrow, there will be a rally in each Eored, with the Marshal leading it. Do not expect any major injuries, however, there may be some brawls. Do you know what else to be worried about?"
"Yes, I know the female Healers' precautions. Always wear long, full skirts, to show that you are female, and a healer, so wear the pin visibly. Always have a large dagger or sword on my person. Make sure that there is always someone else in the tent with you while you're healing. If I go near the ale tents, have someone with me. Sleep with a sword near me, or in my partner's arms." Sorcha smiled grimly. The camp procedure for female Healers was an important protection. There had been rapes in the past, of the female Healers by members of the Eorlingas, and though the rapists always received the punishment for rape; execution, the women had at times lost their gift, or they had suicided. Even the some of the male Healers took the same precautions as the women, not the skirts, but everything else. They, the Healers, took the threat of rape very seriously.
"So where is your tent?" Eowyn asked, and Sorcha pointed it out on the map posted on a nearby tree.
"Could I have a dance?" Grima and Sorcha had gone up to the King's Camp for the meeting that the Leaders were holding, at Eomer's orders, and the meeting was long over, having dissolved into a bit of singing and playing. The eating was long over, and the ale was already soaking through the men of Rohan, their rhythmic singing quite loud.
"Sorcha, could I have a dance?" Grima's question surprised Sorcha, but she turned towards him and smiled, nodded.
"Of course." Grima stood, and held his left hand out to Sorcha, who slipped her right hand into it and levered herself up. Slipping their other hands together, they went to the center of the circle. Grima bowed to her, Sorcha curtsied, and they began to dance to the music, a Court dance from Gondor that Sorcha's father had taught her, and that she had taught to Grima before their wedding.
The Mel'le'dil was from Dol Amroth, a dance that was traditionally danced at a wedding, as a physical symbol of their vows. Intricate and quick, it took two who had practiced it together for months to get it right, and in itself it was very intricate, at times, one partner relied wholly on the other partner.
"It is beautiful, isn't it, the Mellydil?" Eomer commented to Aragorn, phonetically pronouncing the Elvish name. "I was there, at their wedding. They were wedded by my father, and then Sorcha's father had the guests begin to take up the beat for the dance. Sorcha is a natural at it, and Grima learnt it well."
"It's a traditional dance at a Dol Amroth wedding."
"Alder son of Lone was from Dol Amroth, and he married Piola of Erech. No one liked Piola, and not even Alder made any pretense other wise. She was ostracized by the majority of Edoras after it came out that she sold her daughter in marriage."
"To Grima?"
"No. Galmod set up the wedding, introducing the two. apparently he saw Sorcha as a good potential for the next Lady of Riancah, on the Dunlend border." Eomer smirked.
"What is Grima's heritage?" Aragorn had to ask. "He doesn't look Rohirrim."
"Galmod never told us about Grima's mother, and he never had a wife. It is rumored that Grima is half Dunlending, but no one has ever cared to ask. It would account for the hair and the build."
"Talking about my husband behind his back?" The dancing had finished, and Grima had gone to fetch a mug of water and another of ale for his wife and himself. Sorcha sat down next to Aragorn, her body sagging, and her voice weary. "You know that isn't polite, young Eomer."
Eomer's eyes took on a look of terror, the look of a deer about to be killed by a bowman. His mind panicked, the voice of an annoyed Healer was enough to send any sound-minded man of Rohan into convulsions.
"Calm down, Eomer." Sorcha's hand went to his shoulder, drawing Eomer out of his panic. She swiftly removed her hand. "I was not annoyed with you, only annoyed that you would gossip. One would think that you would have learnt manners by now."
"I apologize, ma'am."
Grima lay curled around his wife, on their bedroll, in their shared tent, smelling the familiar scent of Sorcha's hair, the crushed mint that scented her hair soap. She was curled into him, her belly pressing against him, her face pressed against his chest. Neither were asleep, as they had been talking for the last half hour.
"What do you want to name our child?" Grima asked, his fingers playing with Sorcha's hair.
"I'm not sure. I thought that Griwine for a son, or Alkara for a daughter, perhaps Luara, for a daughter, though."
"After?"
"After your mother, yes, Grima. And Griwine is from Grim; fierce, and wine; friend. Fierce friend, as well as after you, leofa."
"Why do you call me beloved?"
"Because you have always been mine."
"But I have done things so evil, I do not deserve such a title!"
"Think of your reasoning for it, Leofa." Grima followed her line of reasoning, and he kissed her forehead, comprehending. "You are my beloved, my husband, the father of my child."
Sorcha knelt beside Eowyn, inside the walls of Minas Tirith, her hands fast at work, checking wounds before moving out of the room to the next fallen warrior, trying to heal them all before she collapsed. Eowyn had woken almost a week before, and was nbow sleeping peacefully in a private room.
Grima watched her from across the room, his worry evident to those who saw him, and it was well caused as his wife slumped to the floor, in a faint.
Grima was at her side in an instant, checking for a pulse and breathing, then lifting her into his arms, taking her back into their shared 'rooms' a bit of the floor in Healers with lengths of cloth tied to the ceiling to hide it from view.
He placed her on their pallet as she woke, her eyes going wide and clutching her stomach. Eyes darting speedily around, she saw her husband kneeling at her side. Grima looked her straight in the eyes, and reached out his hands, pulling up her tunic to have a close look at her distended belly.
Sorcha gasped, and her stomach rippled with a contraction, a gush of water soaking her inner skirt. Grima's eyes opened wide, and started to dart around the room as his jaw began to work emptily, chewing air. She caught his eyes in hers, and looked into them. the glare broke through his panic, and he gathered himself together, ripping off her innermost skirt, balling it up. Going to their packs, he took out a thin night shift.
Carefully undressing his wife, h e slipped her into the shift, rolling several spare pieces of clothing up, placing them underneath her back before going for help.
Aragorn was doing paperwork when he heard a heavy knock on his door, followed by someone sticking his head into the room.
"Grima? What is it?" Aragorn could see drops of nervous sweat on Grima's brow, and his hand went inadvertently to his dagger, hidden beneath the huge desk.
It took Grima a few seconds to voice his worries.
"Sorcha's having her baby. And I thought that since both she and I are hedgemagicians, and she's already lost a child that you should be there." Aragorn stood, startled, grabbing a clean white shirt, ripping off his old shirt, and pulling the new shirt over his bare chest. Leaving the room, he began to question Grima.
"Why wasn't I informed that one of the Healers was pregnant?" Grima winced.
"I only know because Sorcha told me a few months ago. I assume that one of the midwives knew, her pregnancy would be considered a high risk pregnancy."
"Why?"
"Sorcha lost her first pregnancy to an orc blade that slashed across her stomach. though the Healers were able to heal her stomach and uterus with magic, there is deep scarring. Add that to the amount of magic that she uses on a daily basis, sometimes not even noticing that she gives her own energy to her patients, to me, to Leofa and Freodo, to the other Healers. We're both hedgemagicians, and the child of a hedgemagician usually has at least a fraction of their parent's magic, plus the birth of a hedgemagician is usually hard. According to some of the soldiers who were with Sorcha when she lost our first, the ground rumbled beneath their feet, in tune with her screaming."
"Shit." All Aragorn could think to say an apt sum of the situation. If the birth went badly enough, there was a good chance that the whole of the White City could be swallowed by Arda.
Faramir was searching for Aragorn, who was extremely late for a City Council. Walking through the halls, he heard a loud scream from Healers, and he turned in that direction, wondering what it could be. The combined Gondorian and Rohan forces had arrived back from the Mouth of Mordor a few days before, and the few serious injuries had been taken care of.
Making his way towards the screams, he entered a small 'room' created from blankets tacked to the ceiling. What he saw was a surprise to him. One of the Healers was lying down, leaning into a man with black hair mixing with sweat, whose hands were grasped by hers. His knuckles were turning white, a lack of blood flowing through them. gold sparkles seemed to dance across her distended belly, and leapt from her hands into the man's. Aragorn knelt next to them, checking momentarily for dilation.
"Okay Sorcha. Breathe, breathe, breathe." Faramir realized what was happening, and left for the Council, to tell them that the as yet uncrowned King would not be there for a bit, and that if there was anything that really needed Aragorn's attentions, it would have to wait.
Sorcha screamed again, her stomach muscles protesting as yet another contraction pushed through them. Aragorn checked for dilation again, and looked startled at the crowning head of a baby.
""You can push now, with the next contraction." Grima looked relieved, and he slipped his hand away from Sorcha's, shaking it in an effort to get blood through to his fingers. Sorcha's eyes widened, and her hand snaked out repossessing his errant hand. Grima moaned in a low tone, his abused hands hurting.
Thirty minutes later, a blanketed bundle of baby was placed in his arms, a tuft of black hair surprising over the baby's pale eyes. Aragorn was surprised however, when he saw another head crowning, and Sorcha lowed, a sound similar to a cow's moo, she was unable to really scream anymore, her throat scratchy.
Soon after, a second black haired baby was placed in Grima's already full arms. As Aragorn left the 'room' to fetch another Healer to finish up with them, he saw Grima looking down at his wife, a look of adoration in his eyes.
Epilogue
Sorcha was gowned in a beautiful blue gown that framed her slim form, and the slight thickening at her waist. Her hand was in her husband's crooked arm, her head leaned against his shoulder.
Grima looked down at his wife, the silver hairs threading through his black hair shining in the light, a distinct difference from the black outfit he wore. Their twins stood next to their mother, both at fifteen, Griwine and Theoden had the height of their grandfather from Dol Amroth, and the build of their father, broad shoulders' and thin waist. They were both entering the Eored the next year.
They were all at Edoras for a celebration. Eomer King had decided to honor years of faithful service to Rohan by lifting Grima's ban from Edoras. He had an ulterior motive, Sorcha had refused to reenter the city without her husband. Because she was the most senior of the Eored Healers, he often needed her advice on things concerning the Healers, and he had to journey out to the Dunland border, against his Council's wishes.
They were standing on the balcony of Meduseld, looking out at the lay of the land in Rohan, the twins having wandered off to flirt with the pretty girls. Sorcha stepped up on her tiptoes, leaning into her husband, pressing their lips together. Grima pushed back, heat rushing through the pair.
Pulling apart, Sorcha grasped Grima's hand, pressing it to her lower stomach.
"Leofa, what do you think about the name of Luara?" Grima smiled down at his beloved wife, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Or Alder, if it is a boy."