This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.
Title - The Muster
Chapter 1: Petrac
Petrac is sitting on the steps leading up onto the city walls, checking his scrip for the second time since he arrived in the square. The tools of his trade nestle within; needles, scissors and skeins of fine black thread. Just like my sewing box, his wife said as she watched him pack before he left the house. But amongst these basic tools are items no seamstress nor tailor would need; sharp tipped knives in a wooden box, precious phials of pure alcohol and highly valuable poppy juice swaddled in layers of wool, a bottle of smelling salts, two leather tourniquets, rolled bandages and moss filled swabs. It is these items that betray his trade, not as a man who works with cloth, but as a man of healing.
Five other men have already preceded him to the garrison to prepare two special wagons, men like him who have trained as battlefield healers. However, since the accident that left him lame in one leg and dependant on a stick, Petrac now goes no further than the garrison at Osgiliath. Waiting with him by the healers wagons are the men and women who will relieve the staff at present manning the Houses of Healing based amongst Osgiliath's ruins. As few buildings remain intact in that ancient place, they are not strictly houses but tented rooms attached to the old western Guard Tower, which serve well as a dry, warm refuge for wounded men while they await transport to the far superior Houses in Minas Tirith. When they reach Osgiliath later this day, Petrac's staff will prepare for the Company's eventual return from campaign and battle.
The healers have loaded their carts with vital necessities from the herbalists in the city; unguents sealed in glass jars, bottles of oils plus boxes of dried herbs to add to their own supplies. Piled high are crates of linen sheets, towels and blankets and many lengths of bandaging cut to size and rolled by the patients in the Houses in Minas Tirith, those who are recovered enough to perform such mundane yet vital tasks. Some time ago, Petrac persuaded Captain Boromir that monies must be found to purchase more of the grisly tools required by the frontline healers, cauterising irons and heavy knives, saws and files for when their work extended beyond the routine extraction of arrowheads and spear points to the amputation of limbs. As he wrote out the macabre order, the Captain had grimaced, expressing a wish that no healer would ever have cause to use the items on him; aware of others equal revulsion, Petrac has ensured these carefully wrapped tools have been tactfully hidden from general view.
It is twenty years since Petrac had begun his training as a healer, eight since he accepted the position at Osgiliath after his campaigning days were curtailed. In the Houses in Minas Tirith, the healers walk silent as wraiths, governed by a stern warden and aided by many assistants; some humourless and strict, some frivolous and, to Petrac's mind, most irritating with their constant inane chatter. In the garrison where he holds sway, the wounded find a much cheerier touch for joking, whistling and even singing are actively encouraged, all of which would be severely frowned on in the city Houses. But Petrac likes to see jolliness in his assistant's for the healer's tent is a stressful place where death stalks and where despair and fear linger. The sights and sounds of the wounded can be dreadful for even hardened healers to bear; the unpleasant smells of blood, infection and burnt, cauterised flesh often hang like a shroud. In his view, to turn a man's mind from inevitable grim thoughts is as much a part of a healer's trade as the salves and threads and splints they use.
Deafness is another trait he encourages in his fellow healers and assistants. Many come from an educated background and some from noble families. The soldiery's many and varied profanities can embarrass and offend some of the younger recruits new to the profession and this sensitivity has to be swiftly knocked out of them. If they dislike plain talk and coarse language then they must pretend not to hear it, he tells them bluntly; the men are hurting and afraid. Anything that helps them to cope with their suffering is to be resolutely borne, for the offending of a healers sensibilities is naught compared to a man's anguish on seeing his own muscle and bone laid bare.
It is said often amongst the soldiery, 'if the orcs don't get you, the healers will'. Strange it is to Petrac, but many fear the sting of the healers needle in their flesh far more than the slice of the enemy's sword. He tells them it is because there is no battle fever raging in their blood to dull the pain when they sit in the peace of the healer's tent. Many swoon at the first sight of the healer's implements; hardened warriors, who stand fearless against the vile weapons of the enemy, faint clean away as a healer holds up a needle to the light to thread it. Yet others are made differently, those who can sit straight-backed as bone fragments are pulled free from a wound or watch in morbid fascination as the raw edges of their own flesh are drawn together by the healers sinuous black thread. With nary a hope of fainting to avoid the sight nor the feeling, they suffer far more. 'Pain comes once in the wounding, but doubles in the mending' is another soldier's bitter jest.
The Captain is one of the latter group and Petrac's thoughts turn to the man as he awaits his arrival. He wonders if the weeks of leave have brought some peace to him and whether his wounds have begun to heal; not physical wounds this time but wounds of the heart, those that take far longer to make good. Although he is under the Captain's command, they have forged a solid friendship, which both value highly and his thoughts have rested often with his friend these past weeks.
When newly given charge of Osgiliath, Boromir had been approached by Petrac who asked his permission to turn a derelict area of the garrison into a productive garden. Dubious of the need or the possibility of success of such a scheme, Boromir had been initially dismissive, sending the quiet mannered healer away with a curt refusal. However, both had reckoned without the hand of fate, which intervened just days later. Falling victim to a slash from an orc's dagger, Boromir found himself brought to the healer's tent where Petrac insisted on treating him personally.
Whilst attending to the deep cut on the Captain's leg, he cannily took the opportunity to broach the subject of a garden once more. And this time, unable to move as his wound was carefully cleaned, stitched, poulticed and bandaged, Boromir was doomed to listen as Petrac, his ministrations deliberately extremely slow, outlined his plans and the reasons behind them. This time he made a favourable impression and, when the operation was complete, Boromir limped from the tent already making his own plans.
He granted Petrac his small patch of Osgiliath in which to make his garden, a sunny spot by the broken western wall, full of rubble and discarded, rusting weaponry. Ten men were taken from their normal duties, detailed to dig out the space and surround it with low walls made from ancient stone lintels. Next the positions for the beds were marked out and edged with reclaimed timber from the old city's ruined buildings. Boromir then organised four cartloads of soil and manure to be delivered from a farmstead on the Pelennor and, within a week of the request being granted, Petrac began his planting.
Now Osgiliath's small band of healers is self sufficient in feverfew, thyme, chamomile and rue, bright calendula, marjoram, comfrey and fragrant hyssop. Purple and green leaved sages grow, their leaves made into tea against delirium in feverish patients and their oil distilled to use against infections of the lungs. Rosemary also flourishes, its blue flowers a welcome splash of colour, its perfume soothing. The healers use the oil to treat headaches and add it to liniments. Yellow loosestrife has colonised a shady corner, a doubly valuable herb; distilled in water it is excellent for cleansing and when boiled and squeezed dry into a poultice, it helps stop bleeding. Framing each bed is low growing alchemilla, its fresh leaves when scalded are used as a compress to assist in the healing of wounds.
On the tiled roof of the old stable where Petrac now has his workshop, sempervivums prosper, the juice from their bruised leaves used on ulcers and burns. In a damp corner, where the rain drips from the roof high above, peppermint thrives, its leaves brewed into tea to both soothe and revive while around its feet grows borage, another patch of brilliant blue flowers, used to treat rashes. Garlic and chives are also grown, a syrup of the former given to those with breathing problems while the latter, used fresh, stimulates the appetite of those too wearied by their injuries to eat. Petrac has even planted a fig and two apricot trees, which cling to the sunny sheltered walls. The Captain is wont to raid these when he seeks a moment's sanctuary in the peaceful haven his chief healer has created where, tended daily by Petrac and his assistants, the precious plants are nursed with as much care as their patients.
Petrac's resourceful nature is evident everywhere; rusting and dented helms, useless for the soldier's use, are nailed upside down onto the wall and planted with lavenders. Old ale barrels are sawn in half to provide yet more growing space. He even makes use of splintered spear shafts and broken orcish swords, using them as supports for his taller plants against the rain and wind, their metal too coarse to be reused by the blacksmiths. An upturned shield, long ago abandoned, serves as a bath for the few birds that still grace the old city. One of his assistants looks after two very active beehives; another has turned his hand to building wooden benches for the patient's use. And to everyone's delight, in the second year of the gardens creation, a pair of ducks flew in from the Anduin to set up their home, laying six blue eggs. When the family had hatched, Captain Boromir had brought his brother to the garden to proudly show off the new arrivals and to point out the two ducklings that bore their names.
As Petrac waits for his orders, he sees his Captain enter the square. Striding boldly in, he is sharing a joke with his esquire who walks at his side, their laughter echoing from the walls. While his esquire carries armour and a travel bag across to the stables, Petrac sees Boromir head over to the Rangers cart to hand over another travel bag to the orderlies on duty there. He notes the man looks well-rested, full of energy and clearly ready for the rigours of the coming campaign. Yet the last time Petrac had seen him in Osgiliath he had been a vastly different man; wearied by sorrow and loss, forcing his own grief inwards as he commanded a garrison fallen to a quiet despondency as all mourned the passing of one much admired and respected.
Captain Leomir, close friend of Captain Boromir's from their military academy days, had suffered a spear thrust deep into his back during combat and his distraught lieutenant returned him to the garrison semi-conscious and barely alive. Forewarned, Boromir had raced to meet them at the Gate and helped carry his friend to the healer where he had been laid in a quiet area, his bed curtained off for privacy. Yet despite Petrac's best efforts, the damage was too great and there was little he could do but administer opiates to dull the man's suffering.
Through a harrowing few hours, Boromir barely left his friend's side for a moment. If willpower alone had the ability to heal then Leomir would have awoken and walked, Petrac thought as he watched from the shadows, so fervent was the look on Boromir's face for his friend to live. As he cradled the dying man in his arms, his shirt soaked up the blood that oozed through the bandages. He held his hands, calming him when he cried out and struggled against the pain. On Leomir's passing, Boromir had wept, head down, shoulders juddering as he tried in vain to control his distress. Petrac stood silently by until the man eventually mastered his emotions; saw him gently stroke the sweat-matted hair back from Leomir's face, close his eyes, then bend to leave a lingering kiss of farewell on his brow.
And when his Captain eased himself to his feet, Petrac had not turned his head and their eyes had met. Immediately a scowl spread across Boromir's face, changing swiftly to fear to be seen so exposed, but Petrac pre-emptied him before he could speak.
"Captain Leomir was a very worthy man, my lord." He said, placing a comforting hand on Boromir's shoulder. "His loss is a great tragedy for us all."
Boromir swallowed his pride to allow his humanity to resurface. "Aye," he murmured. "He was a true and loyal friend, as dear as a brother to me. I never thought to see this day."
"Then you should feel no shame to be seen mourning his death, sir."
If he was annoyed by Petrac's presumption, Boromir did not show it. "Yet, Petrac, I would be grateful if you told no-one of my… my…"
"Of your tears, my lord?" the healer interrupted, going straight to the point. "What is there to tell? I saw naught just now but a man sorely distressed by the death of a much-loved comrade. Surely t'is only proper to shed tears at such a grievous time?"
Further wretchedness filled the Captain's face. "Tears are a sign of weakness, I have often been told."
"Then forgive me, but I must disagree with whoever holds that belief. To my mind, tears are the sign of a caring heart, not a weak one. I know many tears will be shed in this garrison and far beyond for such a Captain as Leomir. And you must have no fear I should say aught to discomfit you, my lord." Petrac assured him. "We healers are by nature tight-lipped."
"I beg your pardon. Of course, you speak truly and I…I thank you for it." Boromir made a poor attempt at a smile. "And I thank you also for the care you gave to Leomir. His family's grief will be eased knowing he died in peace and dignity." His eyes strayed behind him to the man who lay in apparent sleep, tears once more brimming though he bit his lower lip hard in an effort to prevent them doing so.
The healer bowed his head in acceptance of his words. "I wish all those who come to me in such straits could likewise have a peaceful end, my lord. Sadly, 'tis often beyond my capabilities." His hand moved to the Captain's elbow to steer him away from the dead man. "Pray come and find some rest in my room, sir. I have wine there which will warm and soothe you, then you must find sleep."
Boromir shook his head. "I wish not for sleep, Petrac. I know too well of what I will dream."
"Fear of our dreams belongs to us all, my lord," came the frank reply, "but sleep we must all the same. 'Tis the only way to repair both body and mind." And too exhausted to protest further, the Captain allowed himself to be led to the peace of the healer's small workroom where a welcoming fire burned in the brazier. He sank into Petrac's old leather armchair, accepted and drank gratefully a mug of warm mulled wine, to which the healer added a generous amount of brandy. In the soft glow of lavender scented candles and to the sound of his healer's quiet humming as he went carefully about his business, tinkering with his jars and pots, Boromir surrendered to a restless slumber.
Barely a month has passed since that night and now the return to Osgiliath is imminent. Petrac winces as he pushes himself to his feet, one hand steadying the heavy scrip, the other gripping his stick for balance as Boromir approaches him, a man in full charge of himself, a Captain ready for command, a warrior at ease, self-assured and confident.
"Greetings to you, Petrac. You have all you need? Your new purchases are safely stowed?"
"They are, sir. I wish I could say they will stay that way."
"I too." Boromir echoes his healer's grim smile. He scans the laden wagons before meeting Petrac's waiting gaze. "I dined with Leomir's father last night, Petrac. He sends you his best regards."
"Thank you, my lord. I trust the family are coming to terms with their loss?"
"They are, as we all must do in time. And I was given the news that Leomir's widow is with child again. That he died not knowing of it is a further torment for those of us who loved him, but equally, to know yet another child will bear his name…." his voice tails off.
"That is joyful news, sir, for a child will bring great comfort. And a new life is always cause for rejoicing, is it not?"
"It is, aye." Boromir agrees. "In his children Leomir has left Gondor great gifts for the future."
"Indeed so, my lord." Petrac smiles, and then springs his surprise. "Sir, with your agreement, I should like to plant a tree in the garrison garden to commemorate Captain Leomir's life. I thought an apple would be an apt choice for, alike to him, 'tis both hard working and generous. It gives both flower and fruit and, eventually, will also give shade and shelter." Though Boromir looks taken aback, undeterred, Petrac continues, "Should the idea please you, will you assist in the planting, my lord?"
He waits while his Captain seeks for words. "I think it a fine idea," he says finally, "and one which would also please Leomir greatly. I cannot think of a better way for any man to be remembered. You have my permission gladly and I will be honoured to assist. In fact, Petrac, should you be all prepared then best you set off to Osgiliath now. Your time will be better spent there than waiting for the rest of the Company to form muster." Boromir's hand tightens around a sheathed dagger that Petrac knows was a gift from his friend. "For the garrison's part, this campaign will be fought, and won, in Leomir's name. Many of his own unit will fight alongside Osgiliath's men and I am fortunate to have so many hardy soldiers with me."
"Let us hope you bring them back, sir."
"Oh, I shall do my best, healer." Boromir glances behind him as the first group of soldiers noisily enter the square. Touching his hand to his heart, he vows, "I promise you, I shall do my best."
Petrac mimics his action, bowing his head respectfully as he takes his leave. "I have never known you do anything less, Captain." he says.
