Author's Note: This is an immediate chronological follow on from "War Games" (Chapter Two) where Daeron was a "prisoner of war" after being captured during the Gondorian version of SERE training. For those interested in my personal image of Boromir: he looks and sounds like Sean Bean from Peter Jackson's films, but has the black hair from the books.
Dedicated to my friends in the armed services with love and respect. You know who you are.
WARNING: The following chapter contains relatively graphic descriptions of nightmares suffered by an individual suffering from post traumatic stress disorder from his experiences as a prisoner of war. The nightmare sequences will be readily identifiable so those who choose not to read them can skip to the next part of the narrative. I didn't put these in the story just to be graphic, there is a plot-driven purpose for their presence.
Through Daeron's Eyes: Recovery – Part One
By Dancingkatz
T.A. 3013 - November
The surgeon's declaration that he'd be returning Daeron to duty in the morning was forgotten as soon as he'd made his morning rounds. The horseplay that had led to the comment had torn the stitches closing a gash in the cadet's shoulder and there were already signs of infection appearing.
Daeron was silent through the cleaning, re-stitching, and dressing of the wound. He should probably be regretting the ill-advised tackle of his friend Grethen, but it had felt good to do something like roughhousing with his fellow cadets. It felt normal. He probably should have told the surgeon the night before that the stitches had torn but he'd been reluctant to do so since it would just bring the events that led to the wound to the front of his mind again.
In all honesty, he was having trouble thinking about the three days he'd been in the hands of the "enemy" with any sort of equanimity. The problem was that the memories intruded constantly. Sleep was nearly impossible without one of the surgeon's draughts because it seemed as soon as he closed his eyes, he was back in the enemy camp at the mercy of his captors.
He'd wanted to pretend that it hadn't happened when Halmir, Grethen, and Val visited him; that his injuries were due to something as relatively innocuous as falling from a rain-slick trail down a ravine as Halmir had done five days ago. He'd changed the subject purposefully so he wouldn't have to tell his friends what had actually been done to him… by others in the Gondorian army.
His brain understood that it was all in the name of training. He was perfectly aware that a war was coming. He hadn't grown up the son of Lord Laedren, Captain of the Guard of the Citadel and Aide to Captain-General Boromir for nothing. Men were captured in wartime, and the Enemy and his allies had no compunction about using torture in order to get current military intelligence. But behind the intellectual acceptance of the necessity for such training, his emotions insisted that he'd been betrayed.
Why had the commandant waited three days before sending in the other cadets to rescue the captives? Surely, the lesson about what a soldier could face in an enemy's hands had been demonstrated well before the end of the first day of his captivity? The memories overwhelmed him again…
"Cadet!"
Daeron jumped and blinked at the sharp-voiced word and looked up, disoriented. The surgeon was offering a horn cup of what looked like the same vile brew as he had been given the day of the debriefing. He took the cup in a trembling hand and choked the contents down. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Lie down, Cadet, and let that do its work. You'll be going back to Minas Tirith in one of the carts."
"Yes, sir." Lying down seemed like a very good idea all of a sudden. He settled on his side and stared at the tent wall, afraid to close his eyes, not trusting the draught to keep the nightmares away. Eventually, however, he slipped into a fevered sleep.
He woke up to find himself strapped face down on a stretcher in the back of a wagon. Half asleep and not quite free of the dream he'd been caught in, he thought he was back in the hands of his captors. His panicked shouts and struggles brought the corpsman to his side and roused the other injured cadets who shared the wagon.
"Daeron! It's all right!" Halmir had the stretcher opposite him and was practically falling off it while reaching out to reassure his friend. "Oh, gods! Daeron, listen to me!"
Blood was seeping through the bandages on Daeron's back and shoulder and it seemed that he didn't know that Halmir was there.
The corpsman unfastened the straps holding Daeron to the stretcher and rolled him onto his side. As Halmir grabbed and held one of Daeron's flailing hands the corpsman bit the top off of an ampoule and thrust it between Daeron's teeth. The terrified cadet choked on the dose and swallowed it. Within minutes he was unconscious.
When he next awoke, he felt a familiar hand carding his hair and heard Halmir singing a ballad about the Lord of Lossarnach's daughter and the Ranger of Ithilien. He could hear the sound of rain falling on the tarpaulin above their heads over the words of the song. Daeron was still groggy from the sedative and it took some minutes before he realized his head was pillowed not on his cloak but on someone's thigh. Instead of the rough canvas of the stretcher, he could feel the softness of brushed doeskin against his chest.
He tried to push himself upright and the singing stopped. "Shhh. Stay where you are, Daeron. I've got you." Halmir was sitting with his back against the side of the wagon and his injured leg propped up on the empty stretcher opposite, and was holding Daeron in place as the wagon jolted over the rutted roadway. Rather than have a repeat of the incident when Daeron had emerged from the sedative the first time Halmir had insisted on holding his friend in place instead. His ankle was giving him hell, but he could live with it if it kept Daeron calm and still.
"S-s-sorry." Daeron found it was difficult to speak, or to even put two thoughts together. He vaguely recalled a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare because Halmir hadn't been there when his captors had held him down and applied the hot iron to his back…
"What for?" Halmir's voice was curious above him. "You didn't try to deck me when you woke up and you didn't steal my rations."
Daeron sighed, closing his eyes against the re-emerging pain as the draught wore off. "They didn't hurt you... thank the gods…"
"Daeron? You're not making any sense. What are you…?" Halmir didn't complete the sentence because the corpsman came back wanting to give Daeron another dose of the sedative.
Halmir grabbed the corpsman's wrist with his right hand preventing the man from giving Daeron the sedative. "No! He doesn't need that. He needs water and food."
"My orders are to keep him sedated, cadet. Let go of me or you'll be facing a courts martial for assault," the corpsman growled.
Halmir tightened his grip on the corpsman's arm. "If you don't want a broken wrist, you'll put that away and bring him some water. He hasn't had any since before we left the camp this morning." He kept up the pressure and the ampoule dropped from the corpsman's suddenly nerveless fingers. "I'm an archer, so don't think that I can't do it."
"All right, he'll get his water and rations and I won't give him the sedative until after he eats. But I'm reporting you to the commandant when we get to Minas Tirith," the corpsman conceded and rubbed his wrist when Halmir released it.
"Fine. Go ahead. But you're not going to neglect my squad mate." Halmir watched as the corpsman returned to the front of the wagon and rummaged in the boot that was directly behind the driver's bench. Once he was sure the corpsman was going to do as he said, Halmir turned his attention to Daeron and getting him upright enough to eat. "Daer, you're going to have to help me. I need you to roll onto your side. You need to sit up."
"I'll try…" Daeron answered and bit back a cry as he moved. The analgesic effect of the previous dose of sedative had most definitely worn off. The other four cadets, who had been Daeron's fellow prisoners and who shared the wagon with them, watched and whispered to each other but made no attempt to assist. Finally, Daeron was leaning against Halmir's chest shuddering and gasping from pain.
The corpsman returned at that point with a water skin and some strips of dried meat. Halmir held the skin and Daeron gratefully swallowed. He was so thirsty that he could have gulped the entire contents at once but Halmir cautioned him to drink slowly. "Don't rush. If you choke I can't knock the water out of your lungs."
Halmir set the water skin to one side and offered Daeron a piece of the dried meat which was refused. At which point the corpsman picked up the ampoule of sedative and opened it. Halmir took it and put it to Daeron's lips. "Drink this, it should help. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."
Daeron choked on the bitter draught but managed to get it down. Almost immediately his eyes closed and he slumped in Halmir's arms. The corpsman was about to take the water skin but Halmir stopped him with an icy glare. "Leave it. And get another blanket for him."
The corpsman did so and retreated to the driver's box, staying out of sight until the wagon stopped moving about an hour before dusk. Daeron had remained asleep but moaned and cried out periodically from nightmares.
Halmir's throat was sore from talking and singing to his friend in an attempt to calm him. He'd managed to get some more water into Daeron but he knew it wasn't enough. He caught the attention of one of the other cadets--this one with his left arm in a sling and still carrying some bruises and a split lip on his face--as he sidled by to get to the tailgate of the wagon. "You. You're Gharal, right?"
The boy looked wary but answered. "Yes."
"Find the surgeon and ask him to come here, and send someone with some real food and more water."
"Why? He didn't go through anything the rest of us didn't," Gharal asked, in a belligerent tone. "He's just malingering."
"Malingering?" Halmir hissed. I'm sorry about this, Daeron. "Have you any idea what they did to him?" He pulled the blanket from around Daeron's torso and turned him so the other cadet could see the damage to Daeron's back and shoulders. Daeron moaned and rolled his head in protest. "And that's not the half of it. Do you still think he's malingering?"
Gharal had gone white in shock. "N-n-no. I didn't know. We didn't…"
"So, go get the surgeon!" Halmir snapped.
Gharal left the wagon, looking positively sick. Halmir sighed and closed his eyes wearily. His ankle felt like it was on fire and he was hungry and thirsty himself. But he wasn't going to leave Daeron alone. "I should have been there when they captured you instead of miles away with a broken ankle. I'm not leaving you alone now."
He opened his eyes and looked up when he heard a noise at the tailgate of the wagon. It was the surgeon and Gharal. The cadet held a lantern which he hung on the tarpaulin support above Halmir's head. The other three cadets were gathered at the back of the wagon looking in worriedly.
Halmir found himself evicted from Daeron's stretcher and back on his own, his leg elevated, having been ordered to stay put. Gharal looked from Halmir to Daeron and back then seemed to come to a decision. He slipped to the tailgate and whispered something to the other cadets. They scattered and he returned to Halmir.
"I sent the others for the food," he said quietly. "You need to eat, too. Don't argue with me. I saw you today. You haven't had more than a mouthful of that dried meat."
"I'll eat after Daeron eats and not before." Halmir had his eyes on the surgeon who was bent over Daeron looking grim.
Gharal looked from Halmir to Daeron and back. "I'll make sure he eats, I promise. You need to eat and sleep. Look, let me take care of Daeron tonight. I can sleep tomorrow while you watch him during the day. I promise I won't let that turd of a corpsman near him." He paused. "Halmir, I need to do this."
"All right," Halmir finally allowed. "Don't let them strap him down, no matter what!"
The other cadets had returned with bowls of stew, fruit and bread—miraculously not stale—along with fresh water. Halmir ate, and after a warning look at Gharal, succumbed to sleep.
Daeron roused, coughing, as the surgeon passed the smelling salts under his nose.
"That's it. Wake up, lad." The surgeon put the smelling salts back in his case and took Daeron's pulse again. "You have to eat. Afterwards I'll have someone get you cleaned up and more comfortable." He looked carefully into Daeron's face for a moment and then left.
Within minutes Daeron was propped up and Gharal was feeding him the stew. Pain had diminished his appetite and after only a few mouthfuls he refused to take any more. Before Gharal could remonstrate with him, they were interrupted by an argument at the back of the wagon.
"You are all on report for insubordination!"
Halmir stirred slightly at the sound of the corpsman ranting at his erstwhile patients but didn't wake. Gharal carefully lowered Daeron to the stretcher and went to see what was going on. "I'll be right back."
The other three cadets had arrayed themselves so as to block the corpsman's access to the wagon, looking stubborn and likely to resort to laying hands on the belligerent sergeant.
"What do you want, sergeant?" Gharal asked, trying to imitate the tone that Lt. Bedreth used when making inquiries into some misbehavior.
"The corpsman glared at Gharal but answered, "I'm to clean up your misbegotten comrade, not that I want to."
"If you're referring to Lord Laedren's heir, sergeant, you're not going to touch him. Hand up those things and we'll take care of our comrade." Gharal maintained his frown until the sergeant handed over the basket and stomped off.
Daeron managed a weak grin when Gharal returned to his side. "You sounded just like the Lieutenant. Are you after his job?"
"No, I'd have to deal with vermin like that corpsman too much. Lazy bastard. If he had his way he'd drug us so that none of us were awake until a week after we get back to Minas Tirith." Gharal lifted Daeron upright and draped the other cadet's right arm over his shoulder. "Sorry if I hurt you. I think you probably need the necessary after drinking all that water…"
It was embarrassing, but Gharal was tactful and spent the minutes he supported Daeron describing just where he'd like to assign the corpsman and to which miserable duties.
When Daeron was returned to the stretcher he found that the other cadets had been busy. The canvas was covered with blankets and fire-warmed stones had been tucked into them to warm them. A bucket of hot water had appeared along with a couple of flour sacking towels.
After Gharal had cleaned him up Daeron refused to take the sedative that had been in the basket turned over to Gharal by the corpsman. "Gives me nightmares…" he mumbled, turning his face into his folded cloak. "I'd rather hurt."
Gharal tucked the ampoule into his tunic pocket and seated himself on the floor between Halmir and Daeron's stretchers. "Well, if it gets too bad, let me know." He was silent for a few minutes. "Daeron, I want to apologize."
"For what? Saving me from that corpsman? I owe you thanks for that."
Gharal dismissed his thanks with a wave of his hand. "You'd have done it for me or any of the others. No, we should have thought about what you had to have gone through and not let him strap you down. You didn't break and you paid for it. A lot more than I did. I didn't last more than a few hours…" Deep shame coloured the cadet's voice.
"Gharal, it wasn't… I did break… I answered their questions…" Daeron was distressed more by the way his companion looked and sounded than he was by his own lingering pain and weakness. "Please, don't talk like that." He reached over and touched Gharal's hand, then when it wasn't pulled away grasped it.
"Daeron, you held out three whole days! We should have been able to do it as well!"
Daeron squeezed Gharal's hand harder. "Don't say that! Do you want to know what my father said when he visited me at the camp afterwards? He said that every man's breaking point is different and that everyone breaks! Everyone!"
Halmir roused at the agitated sound in Daeron's voice. "Daer? You all right?"
"I'm OK. Go back to sleep. Gharal and I are just having a discussion." Daeron waited until Halmir had subsided back to his blankets before turning his attention back to Gharal. "Gharal--"
"I still need to apologize to you. All of us do. We thought you were malingering. Then Halmir showed me what they did to you. I…" Gharal swallowed hard. "No wonder they carried you to the wagon this morning."
"It was that or drag me. I tore the stitches in my shoulder open and the surgeon knocked me out with some gods awful tasting stuff. Gharal, I'm glad you gave in so fast. I wouldn't want anyone to feel the way I do right now."
Gharal didn't respond but just looked miserable.
"Can I tell you a secret, Gharal?" Daeron asked after few minutes of thought.
Interest piqued, Gharal looked up. "A secret? What…"
"Lord Boromir was with my father when he visited. He told me he only lasted one day when it happened to him in training."
"What? But he's…" Gharal looked completely gobsmacked. "He's…"
Daeron laughed and regretted it as his back and chest muscles spasmed again. Gasping, he managed to add, "That was my reaction, too," before squeezing his eyes closed and gritting his teeth. Gods! Can't I do anything normal without…
Gharal forgot about his shame and scrambled to his feet. Raising the tarpaulin he called for one of the other cadets, who had set up bedrolls around a small fire, to find the surgeon.
The surgeon wasn't pleased to find that Daeron had refused the sedative, until Gharal handed him the ampoule. "He says it gives him nightmares."
"This isn't what I prescribed for him—who in the gods names—never mind. Get me a cup of hot water." The surgeon opened his case and withdrew a small packet. When Gharal brought back the water, the contents were dropped into the cup and thoroughly mixed.
Daeron groaned as he was lifted and turned onto his side. "Please…oh, gods!…"
"Drink this," the surgeon ordered holding the cup to his lips. "All of it."
Daeron obeyed and was surprised to find the draught wasn't bitter. It was most certainly effective, the pain melted away without the horrible disorienting feeling that had accompanied the sedative.
The surgeon nodded as Daeron's colour improved and his pulse and breathing normalised. "That's more like it. I'll be back to check on you later." He looked over Gharal and Halmir before leaving the wagon. Daeron heard him stop and talk to the other cadets who were camped outside the wagon but couldn't make out what was being said.
Gharal took his previous seat between Daeron and Halmir. "Feel up to talking some more or do you want to sleep?"
Daeron sighed as he lay his head back down. "Talk. I've done more than enough sleeping today."
"Me, too." Gharal readjusted his sling and shifted so he was leaning against the side of Halmir's stretcher. "I feel like such a failure. I've been thinking that I when we get back I ought to resign from the Academy. How can I expect that anyone would follow my orders? How can anyone trust me? Everyone knows I was the first of us to give in." His voice was as bleak as his expression in the lamplight. "It didn't take that much, just being punched and kicked a few times and having my arm twisted out of its socket, and I was babbling. Who wants that kind of soldier under his command? And no soldier in his right mind wants to be under the orders of someone like that."
Daeron was surprised to hear that the other cadet was having a lot of the same thoughts he was. While lying awake the night before after tearing open the stitches in his shoulder, he'd considered the very same thing. The problem was he had no idea what he would do with his life if he wasn't a soldier. It had been the only career he'd ever considered.
"What would you do if you weren't a soldier?" he asked when it became obvious that Gharal wasn't going to continue.
"I don't know. I could always apprentice under one of my uncles, I guess. Become an armourer, maybe." He grinned crookedly at Daeron. "Or maybe not."
Daeron bit back a laugh. It was a standing joke in the Academy barracks that Gharal always had to have someone else handle the minor repairs on his armour because he was truly hopeless at it.
"I think you should stick to doing something you're actually good at," he said. "Like running through orcs with that sword you got for your fifteenth birthday. Honestly, I'd be glad to have you under my command, assuming I ever earn one."
"B-b-but!…" Gharal sputtered, looking at Daeron with disbelief.
Daeron was serious about it. "So you broke down under torture. And don't tell me they 'only beat you up a little bit' I can tell they did more than that even when I'm doped to the eyeballs with that damned sedative. You lived to fight another day, right?"
"Well, yeah. But…" Gharal was still trying to deal with the idea that Daeron would want him under his command.
"But nothing. I'd prefer to work a man who knows he isn't invulnerable and takes appropriate precautions with his men than some jerk that thinks he's invincible and charges in recklessly. He's going to get himself in trouble and take my men with him. You might still charge in, but now you'd at least think about it first." Where am I getting this from? I sound like…
"You sound like your father," Gharal said, as if reading Daeron's mind. "Did you know he made sure to talk to all of us before he and Lord Boromir left?"
"He did? That's good." Daeron's thoughts drifted off to his final conversation with Lord Laedren before his father left to accompany Lord Boromir to inspect the garrison at Cair Andros.
Laedren ducked through the half closed flap of the surgeon's tent and looked own at his sleeping son. The Captain was back in full uniform, his sword at his side and his helm under his arm.
Daeron stirred and opened his eyes when Laedren ran his gauntleted hand through his son's hair. "What…"
"I'm leaving in a few minutes, Daeron. I wanted to make sure you remembered what we talked about last night and to tell you goodbye." Laedren had knelt next to the cot so he could look into Daeron's eyes. "You did very well; better than anyone had any right to expect. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
Daeron bit his lip and refused to meet his father's eyes. There was a part of him that believed the words that his father and the Captain-General said to him the night before were just polite lies to make him feel better.
"Look, I've got three things I want you to think about, then I have to go. First, would you want to have a man who knows his limits under your command or one that thinks he can stand anything anyone throws at him? I can tell you from experience that the latter usually does more damage to his own unit than any enemy he comes up against, by charging in where the Valar fear to tread. He also loses good men who otherwise would have survived and gone home to their wives and children."
He paused and continued running his fingers through Daeron's hair, waiting while his son tried to absorb his words.
He continued when Daeron finally looked up into his eyes. "Second, you've been through a lot of trauma in a very short time. You're not going to get over it in just a day or two. I don't expect you to do so and neither will any commander worth his salt. I won't lie, you've got weeks, maybe months of recovery to work through. I'll support you, so will your friends, but you are going to have to do the work to get back to where you were before you were captured. I do, however, expect you to be honest with yourself and others about your readiness to return to active duty. Remember that what you do has an effect on your fellows."
Daeron nodded then winced as pain shot up his neck and pounded behind his eyes. That was a mistake. "I understand…"
Laedren smiled and continued. "Lastly, don't make any hasty decisions right now… about anything. The results of any decision made while in pain or under stress seem to be exponentially more negative the worse you feel when you make them. If you feel overwhelmed ask for help. Talk to someone you trust and get their opinion before you make an irrevocable decision." He leaned forward and kissed Daeron's forehead. "You have my blessing and I'll be thinking about you. I am not ashamed of you. Rather I am very proud. Remember that."
Brushing his fingers through Daeron's hair one last time, he rose and turned to go.
Boromir stood just inside the doorway, waiting for his aide. "Ready?"
Laedren nodded and crossed to the doorway. Boromir looked over at Daeron and paused. "Meet me with the horses. I'll be there in a minute." Laedren took a last look at his son, raised the tent flap, and left.
Boromir knelt in the same place Laedren had just vacated. "Daeron, I told you that you were brave back when you were only eight years old. Trust that bravery. You've got a rough road ahead of you, but you'll make it through. You've got a courageous heart. Just listen to it."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, my Lord," Daeron managed to choke out, overwhelmed that the Steward's son would say such a thing to him.
"I'd better get going before Gyldenlác decides that your father's feet are fair game to be stepped on." Daeron couldn't help a grin at the mention of Boromir's irrepressible Rohirrim stallion.
Boromir stood and placed his hand on Daeron's head in blessing. "I promise I'll bring your father back safely."
"Thank you, my Lord." Daeron watched as Boromir left and stared at the door flap in silence thinking about his father's and Lord Boromir's words.
"Daeron?"
He blinked and looked at Gharal who was looking at him, concern written on his face. "Sorry, I was just thinking about something my father said."
Gharal reached for the water skin and sat on the edge of the stretcher, gently rolling Daeron to his side. "Here. You're sweating again. Do you need…"
Daeron cut him off. "No, I don't hurt right now. You should get some sleep. I'll be all right."
Gharal held the water skin to Daeron's lips and waited while he drank. "As I told Halmir, I can sleep tomorrow. You, however, should sleep. I'll be right here if you need anything."
Daeron settled back on his stomach and watched as Gharal set the water skin aside and turned down the flame on the lamp before settling back to his previous position. He didn't want to sleep. Every time he did he was tormented by nightmares where the information he gave the enemy caused the deaths of his parents, his friends, and everyone he held dear. He couldn't bear closing his eyes and seeing his beautiful mother cut to pieces in her garden or his tall and handsome father trapped and run through by spear after spear until he fell. He didn't want to hear their screams echoing in his ears.
Gharal seemed to have his own demons and Daeron would right now much rather help him than face them than to deal with his own. He reached out with his right arm and laid his hand on Gharal's arm. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No, not really."
"All right." Daeron gave Gharal's arm a gentle squeeze, careful to avoid the bruises. "I'll be here if you need anything."
The two young men sat in the near darkness of the wagon in silence, listening to the sounds of the camp until at last Daeron's eyes, at least, drooped shut of their own accord.
They arrived at the Main Gates of Minas Tirith at midafternoon on the fourth day after leaving the training camp. Daeron hadn't been left alone once. The other three cadets had each taken a turn sitting up with him at night while Halmir slept. The surgeon had replaced the original corpsman with another, older man who seemed to know just when to intervene when pain, stress, and tempers got to be too much for the six young men. Free from the nightmare-aggravating sedative, Daeron didn't get as much sleep but what rest he did get was actually effective.
Halmir had spent the remaining days sitting on the end of the stretcher and holding Daeron as the wagon jolted its way down the rutted roadway, talking and singing to Daeron when he was awake, and stroking his head when he drowsed off. He and the other four had developed a routine so that when they stopped to rest the horses or to camp for the night, one of them could stay with Daeron while the others saw to making a fire, getting dinner, and heating rocks so that none of them slept cold. By the time the City came into sight, the young men had developed a camaraderie that was well nigh unbreakable.
Daeron had fallen asleep shortly after the wagon started moving after the noon rest stop. Gharal and the others had, with the assistance of the grizzle-haired corpsman, rolled up the canvas sides of the tarpaulin to take advantage of heat and light of the late autumn sun.
Halmir gently shook Daeron's good shoulder as they approached the Gates. "Daeron, wake up. We're almost home."
Daeron roused and muttered something under his breath. The pain killer was beginning to wear off and he felt the miserable sickness that told him he was becoming feverish again. Even so he couldn't help feeling his heart lift as the wagon passed under the arch and into the First Circle. Halmir had begun a softly spoken monologue describing what he could see from over the side of the wagon.
"We're in the First Circle, Daer, and almost to the next gate. Remember when you got me out of that well when we were ten years old and exploring? We just passed the tanner's yard where it happened. Why is it that I always seem to end up with broken bones when we go exploring?"
"Don't…know…," Daeron answered through his increasing misery. "Maybe you're lucky…."
"Right. And you're the King of Rohan's consort. I think it's all a plot, personally." Halmir teased. He felt sweat breaking out on Daeron's forehead again and frowned. He continued speaking in a light voice, hoping to keep Daeron distracted. "We're almost there. We just passed Arlin's shop. Speaking of which, you owe me a new pair of gloves."
"No, I don't… It's not my fault that you just… tucked them into your belt, instead of wearing them… Should I have spent two hours… looking for them after you… fell into that ravine… instead of getting you… back to camp?"
"Well, I suppose you made the right choice. But they were my favourite gloves."
Daeron didn't get a chance to reply because the wagon had finally reached the Academy compound in the Sixth Circle.
The staff of the Academy infirmary efficiently unloaded the injured and checked them over. After a cursory look at the splint on Halmir's leg the Academy's surgeon signed him onto convalescent leave, and sent him to his parents' home until the bones in his ankle finished knitting.
The surgeon sorted out the remaining more or less ambulatory patients before turning to deal with Daeron, only to find that Halmir, Gharal and the other three cadets had gathered round Daeron's stretcher.
He frowned irritably at them and told them to follow their orders and get themselves off to their respective billets.
Halmir and Gharal looked at each other and sent the other three off to the barracks. "We'll let you know where Daeron is," Halmir promised, then turned back towards the surgeon. "We'll go once we know where you're sending Daeron, sir."
"Insubordinate…" The surgeon glared at the two cadets and finally conceded when neither of them would back down. "Fine! Move back over to that bench and stay out of the way." Once Gharal had assisted Halmir to hobble on his crutches from the stretcher, he knelt down and pulled the blanket off Daeron, who was now shivering with fever and rigid from pain.
"What in…" The surgeon bit off a curse and proceeded to examine Daeron, cataloguing the litany of injuries and looking grimmer and grimmer. When he finished, he draped the blanket over the youth and ordered two corpsmen to take him directly to the Houses of Healing. The Academy infirmary was set up for dealing with general training injuries such as broken bones, simple cuts and strained muscles, not this kind of trauma.
Halmir and Gharal looked at each other and began to follow the corpsmen, only to be restrained by the surgeon. "No. You won't be able to see him until tomorrow at the earliest, and maybe not even then. I applaud your loyalty, but you are both under orders." He glanced to the side. "Corpsman! Escort Cadet Halmir and Cadet Gharal to their homes."
Daeron was only partly aware of the argument going on over his head between Adoan, the Healer who had been assigned to his case, and the officer from the Academy who had arrived just as he'd been dosed with something for the pain, and at this point just relished the fact that he didn't feel much of anything at all. It was bliss just to be lying on something that wasn't made of rough canvas and wasn't jolting him until he thought his teeth would shatter.
"I cannot tell you when the boy will be fit to return to duty, Lieutenant Kergil," Healer Adoan snapped. "He's been in my hands less than fifteen minutes. It obviously took far longer than that to put him in this condition! You'll get a report in the morning. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a patient to tend!"
Daeron stirred at the sound of the Lieutenant's name. Kergil? He was back in the City? Did that mean Grethen and Val were back, too?
The Healer frowned after the departing officer for a moment then turned his attention back to Daeron. The cadet was spiking a fever again and most of his wounds, including several burns, were obviously infected. He told his assistant to give Daeron a sedative, washed his hands, and reached for a scalpel. At the least those stitches would have to come out. He waited until the boy's breathing had slowed and the fist that had clenched around a handful of linen sheet had relaxed, then bent to his work.
Daeron spent most of the next two days either unconscious or wishing he was, as Adoan worked to repair the damages inflicted by Lt. Kergil's enemy troops when he'd been captured during the training exercise. The stress of the four day trip back to the City had only exacerbated the situation and his body was slow to physically heal.
When he developed pneumonia at the end of the week his mother, the Lady Meriel, went to the Steward himself to request the immediate return of her husband from Cair Andros. Daeron wasn't in any state to appreciate it but when she had been told that her son had been injured in the field and seen the extent of those injuries, she had been beside herself with outrage and had let the Commandant of the Academy know of it in no uncertain terms.
To the worry of Halmir and Gharal, and also Grethen and Val, who had returned with the remaining cadets from the field exercise four days later, Daeron wasn't permitted visitors. After tripping over them in the corridor outside Daeron's room for the third time in one morning, Adoan evicted them from the premises of the Houses of Healing. "I promise you will be notified when Daeron can have visitors but until then I don't want to see hide nor hair of any of you."
The four cadets left reluctantly and didn't see Lt. Kergil receive the same response from the Healer.
Daeron was drowning again…choking…unable to breathe. Delirious from the recurring fever, he believed he was back in the hands of his captors being held down in icy water. He coughed, gasping for air, and struggled in the hands that held him.
No...no...no...Oh, gods! Let me up! I can't...I can't...please...No more...please...I'll talk...I'll tell you everything...just let me breathe!
Adoan poured another dose of the tincture down Daeron's throat. He was running out of options for treating the youth. When he finally got the whole story of the ordeal the cadet had suffered from the Academy surgeon who'd tended him in the field, the Healer was more than ready to abandon his oath to do no harm and inflict some serious damage to those responsible for the boy's condition. If that damned Lieutenant showed his face again Adoan wasn't going to be responsible for his actions.
There was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal one of the Healer apprentices with a covered tray followed by the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Adoan was relieved to see his superior. The situation was reaching a crisis and he wouldn't give odds in either direction concerning Daeron's survival at this point.
Daeron moaned again but his attempts to struggle had grown progressively weaker and his lips had an unwelcome bluish tinge. The Warden made his own examination and glanced at the covered tray before meeting Adoan's eyes.
The only option left was to try to drain the fluid from Daeron's lungs, a procedure that, while mentioned in several ancient Numenorian texts, was seldom done because of the risks.
Adoan closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead. Nothing else had worked. The boy was already dying by inches. "Are his parents here?"
"Lady Meriel awaits outside the door. Lord Laedren has been summoned from Cair Andros. The Steward's courier left yesterday morning. I will..."
"No, sir," the younger man said, "He's my patient. I should talk to his mother. If his father isn't here in a quarter of an hour..." Adoan would honestly have liked to have turned this duty over to his superior but he'd never yet handed off responsibility for a patient, and he wasn't going to start now. Gods, the boy was the woman's only child...
As Adoan stepped through the door, Lord Laedren arrived, his uniform mud-spattered and wet, worry writ large upon his face. Lady Meriel rose from the bench where she had held vigil, torn between going to her husband and wanting to know what the Healer had to say. Laedren ended her dilemma by putting his arm around her and turning to Adoan. "My son?..."
Adoan wished he had good news and could remove the fear that resided in the Captain's gray-green eyes. "A crisis is approaching. We've been unable to stop the build up of fluid in Daeron's lungs. There is one last procedure we can do that might turn things around but it is very risky. Unfortunately, at this point it appears to offer the only chance for his survival."
Lady Meriel paled, and stricken, she buried her face against her husband's shoulder, clutching his cloak as she wept. Laedren raised his free hand to stroke her hair but kept his gaze on the healer. "What do you intend to do?"
Adoan explained the procedure: they would drain the fluid from Daeron's lungs by inserting tubes through his chest wall. If it worked he should recover quickly.
"And if it doesn't work, he'll die anyway." Laedren's voice was leaden with resignation. "Can we see him?"
"Yes. It will take a quarter hour to prepare him for the procedure. If you will go with Apprentice Erilan, she'll show you where you can clean up."
Laedren nodded, kissed his wife gently, and followed the apprentice down the hallway. Lady Meriel twisted her handkerchief in her hands and watched him out of sight before turning to Adoan. "Is there really a chance that this will work?"
"I've seen this work when everything else has failed, my Lady," he told her. "But I can make no guarantees. It would be wise to be prepared in case the gods decide to take your son through the veil tonight."
Adoan hated having to tell anyone those words but especially to a woman who looked to lose her only child. "I must return to Daeron. I'll open the door when you and your husband can see him."
He returned to the room to find that the Warden had already started preparing Daeron for the surgery. The smell of alcohol spirits filled the air of the small room and the lamps had been turned up to throw as bright a light as possible on the bed.
The fire in the stove that sat in the corner of the room had been stoked up and already a pan of water was beginning to boil. The apprentice moved about silently, setting out bandages, linen pads, and various other items that would be necessary. As the minutes passed Daeron's breathing grew more laboured.
When all was ready, Adoan opened the door and gestured for the couple to enter. He busied himself at the stove watching the instruments that were lying in the boiling water as they kissed their son and whispered to him. He gave them ten minutes then turned, catching Laedren's eye. The Captain whispered something in his wife's ear, placed his hand on Daeron's hair and bowed his head for a moment. He then led his weeping wife out to the hallway. Before the door closed behind them Adoan glimpsed the unmistakable form of Lord Boromir enfolding the two of them into an embrace.
The Warden entered the room through the second door that led to staff only area of the building, his official robes replaced by a plain tunic and apron. Adoan changed into a similar outfit and scrubbed his hands and arms before picking up the scalpel. He nodded to the apprentice who readied himself to hold Daeron still and made the initial incision.
An hour later Adoan checked Daeron's pulse and breathing and sighed with relief. As soon as the first tube had been placed a goodly amount of fluid had drained from Daeron's chest and his condition had started to improve. The blue tinge had left his lips and he was breathing more easily. The procedure appeared to have helped; now they needed to monitor the boy for infection and to make sure that his lungs didn't collapse. The apprentice carried out the hamper of bloodstained aprons and sheets while the Warden double checked the incision sites.
When the Healer stepped out into the hallway he found Lady Meriel sitting on the bench between her husband and Lord Boromir. Kneeling before her he took her hands and smiled gently. "Your son lives, my Lady. He's not out of the woods just yet, but he lives."
He looked up at Lord Laedren and wasn't surprised at the expression of naked relief on the man's face. However, Daeron's father was pale with exhaustion following the 65-mile ride from Cair Andros. "You can see Daeron tomorrow. I don't expect him to wake before midmorning. In the meantime, both of you should rest. I will send a messenger if there is any change." He placed Lady Meriel's hands in her husband's and rose to his feet.
Lord Boromir rose from the bench, placed his hand on Adoan's shoulder, and quietly said, "Thank you," before turning to Daeron's parents and gently steering them down the hallway.
Adoan returned to Daeron's room and took the chair which had been moved to sit near the head of the bed after checking Daeron's breathing again. So far so good. If the boy made it through the night he should make a full recovery.
Daeron woke up to the unfamiliar scent of alcohol spirits in his nose. He ached all over, an almost comforting feeling given his familiarity with it over the past number of days, but the crushing feeling in his chest was gone. He blinked in the dim lamplight and turned his head. It took a few moments for him to realize he was lying on his back, his torso propped up with pillows. Something soft cushioned his injured back and after a few more moments he identified it as a sheepskin.
There was a rustling sound and the clink of metal somewhere to his right. Before he could try to look to see the source of the sound, a rugged-faced man in Healer's robes stepped into his line of sight, holding a pewter cup in his hand.
"If you're not thirsty, I'll be very surprised," he said in a gentle voice. "I'm Adoan." He held the cup to Daeron's lips. "Small sips only, lad."
When Daeron had finished the water, for he had been thirsty, Adoan smiled and turned away to place the cup on a table that was just out of Daeron's sight. The table held an emergency surgery kit and there was no point in upsetting the fragile young man with the sight of it.
Daeron found that his eyes wouldn't stay open. Just drinking the water had exhausted him. He felt gentle hands stroking his temples as he fell asleep again.
The scent of roses and sandalwood filled his nostrils when he roused next and the hand holding his was soft and familiar. "Mother…" He opened his eyes long enough to see her smiling through her tears then his body's exhaustion dragged him back into sleep. The next several days passed in the same manner. He woke for a few minutes then slept for hours. Gradually, he spent more time awake but as his body recovered his sleep was invaded once more by nightmares.
"Go away! I don't want you here!"
Adoan frowned as he approached Daeron's room and heard the boy's angry outburst. This was the tenth time in three days that he'd raged at a visitor. Additionally, he'd become recaltricant about eating and following instructions in regards to his recovery. The outbursts would be followed by a disassociative withdrawal and the cycle would repeat. The boy had already run off his mother and best friend this morning. The healer opened the door and saw that Daeron had rolled onto his side and turned away from his father.
Laedren folded his arms across his chest. "What you want makes no difference, Daeron. You owe your mother a profound apology. Let me know when you're ready to give it and I'll bring her to see you." He looked down at the rigid figure on the bed and sighed before turning to meet Adoan's eyes. "May I have a moment of your time, Healer Adoan?"
"Certainly, my Lord. If you'll come to my office?" Adoan gestured towards the door and turned towards it.
Adoan's office was small, to all intents and purposes no more than a redecorated closet, but it was large enough to hold a desk, two mismatched chairs and an overflowing bookshelf. He offered Laedren the sturdier of the two seats and sat down in the other. "I am assuming you want to talk about Daeron's latest…shall we call it attitude?"
"Yes," Laedren paused as he gathered his thoughts together. He seemed to come to a decision then continued speaking. "What experience have you had with returning prisoners of war?"
"Some. Usually, I handle repairing the physical damage and immediately turn them back over to the army surgeons. But I've had a few patients like Daeron, whose recovery is taking a significant amount of time. I'm honestly not surprised that he's behaving this way." Adoan grimaced. "I have to admit though, that those patients were grown men, not adolescents."
"That does make things more difficult, does it not?" Laedren grinned for a moment before sobering. "Post-trauma stress isn't something they teach you about at the Academy, by the way, although I think they should. I had to learn about it the hard way. I trust you to do what you need to do to get Daeron through this. I'll back what ever you think is necessary."
"Thank you." Adoan was grateful to hear that. "Can you tell me what you believe he's thinking that's causing him to push everyone he cares about away? I have a suspicion, but as a soldier I think you can provide an expert opinion."
"I'll do my best. Ask away."
Alone in his room, Daeron was trying to keep hold of the detached, numb feeling he'd found after he blew up at his father but failing. He felt ashamed of himself, not only for the current incident but for sending his mother away in tears. The trouble was that as soon as he started feeling anything, the fear would come back; fear that was fed by far too vivid nightmares when he let himself sleep.
He'd had another nightmare last night when he finally succumbed to exhaustion.
His captors had left him alone after he finally had broken and answered their questions. He'd lost track of time when he was hauled to his feet and dragged outside. He could smell crushed grass, burning wood, and the sickly-sour odor of blood over it all.
Someone grabbed his jaw in their hand and hissed in his ear, "Such a good little soldier, to tell us everything." His jaw was released and the voice ordered the blindfold removed from the prisoner. "Let him see the results of his babbling."
The blindfold was pulled away and the first sight that met his eyes was the lurid light of fires burning throughout the City. He choked on the suddenly ash-filed, smoky air and fell to his knees as he saw the atrocities committed by his captor's men. The smell of blood and burning flesh sickened him. Then he screamed as he saw his mother's dead body dragged from the ruins of their house, her skin flayed and her bones shattered, her face a rictus of terror under a netting of bloody cuts.
That wasn't the end of it. One by one, everyone he loved was paraded before him: his father, his Great-Uncle Forlong, his friends Halmir, Grethen, Val, and Gharal, all dead after suffering degradation and torture. Even Jorell, the Citadel's saddler, was dragged before him, his clever hands reduced to shreds of flesh over white bones. Only after they made him witness the hanging and quartering of the Steward and his family was he released from the hold of his guards. He fell face first to the ground, retching violently. He was pulled upright again and his captor turned his attention back to Daeron.
"Such a good little traitor." The hissing voice said, the hand petting his head as if Daeron was a prized hound, then gripping the black locks to force him to look into the sightless eyes of Lord Boromir's corpse…
The ugly dream had invaded his sleep the first night after being rescued and returned about a week after the surgery that saved his life. Each time he'd slept since then it had been repeated, growing more graphic and horrifying each time.
He was exhausted but feared to sleep and refused to swallow the sedatives offered by Adoan. He was hungry but couldn't eat more than a mouthful of food without losing it shortly thereafter. He hurt and wanted the pain to go away but refused the pain medication because it seemed that the nightmares were worse after taking it. He hated being alone and wanted his family and friends nearby, yet he chased them away when they visited. He wanted to heal so he could return to the Academy and earn his commission but dreaded the thought of returning there at the same time.
He knew that Adoan would come in any minute with another dose to swallow or to ask questions that he couldn't—didn't want to—answer.I can't stay here. I just can't. I can't go home. I can't go back to the Academy…
In desperation, he rolled to lie on his back and started cataloguing the imperfections in the plaster ceiling of the room in yet another attempt to stop the panicked litany in his mind. There, that's where I left off. There's a rust coloured spot next to the third beam that looks like a cat's paw. There's four cracks that spread out from it. The one to the right is spidery. It splits off like the five rivers of Lebennin…
Adoan dropped the pen and grimaced as he shook a cramp out of his hand. "I should write a treatise on post-trauma recovery and give you credit for most of it, Laedren."
Laedren shook his head. "No, all I did was give you my opinions based on my experience. What are we going to do about my son?"
"I am going to move him out of that chamber and put him in one of the open wards with other recovering soldiers," Adoan answered. "Isolation was a good idea when he was dealing with the pneumonia, but it won't answer for dealing with what's going on in his mind. I think it's time that he'll has to deal with other people will he, nil he. You are going to go home and reassure your lady wife that her son does still love her, in spite of the way he's been acting."
Laedren smiled crookedly. "I'll take that as a hint and leave you to your work. As I said before, if Daeron gives you any problem, do what you think necessary. Let me know about it afterwards if something has to be done on the spot."
"I will. Good day, my Lord."
Daeron's examination of the ceiling was interrupted by the arrival of Adoan and two apprentices carrying a stretcher. The Healer gave no explanations but told the apprentices to move Daeron to the stretcher and take him to the west wing's ground level ward. "I'll see you during my rounds later today, Daeron."
Daeron's confusion was obvious, as was his discomfort when his healing back made contact with the canvas of the stretcher, but Adoan just observed in silence. Once Daeron was on his way to his new bed, Adoan summoned a page and sent him to deliver several messages. Then he took himself off to check on his other patients.
The ground level ward in the west wing of the houses of healing was one of several dedicated to the care of Gondor's soldiers who were injured on active duty. It was overseen by two Healers who had once been in the army themselves who ran the ward and it's patients under military discipline.
By the time Adoan arrived at Daeron's bedside later in the afternoon, the cadet was quiet and subdued, but wasn't in the near catatonic, disassociative state he'd been going into over the past few days. He was also lying on his stomach as the thick sheepskin hadn't transferred to the ward with him and the linen sheets scratched against his still unhealed cuts and burns.
It was the burns that had Adoan concerned now. They had been debrided when Daeron was first brought in but the procedure needed to be repeated, especially on Daeron's feet and lower legs, to prevent necrosis and further infection. He gave several quietly voiced orders and shortly, Daeron found himself the focus of two healers and three apprentices.
The following hour was harrowing, in spite of the pain deadening draught he'd been given, as the burns on his feet and back were alternately soaked in salt water and scraped clean. He'd been given a thick leather strap to bite down on but it hadn't muffled his groans and cries as the healers worked.
Screens had been put around his bed to provide a modicum of privacy but halfway through the procedure the one to the right of his bed was moved aside and the soldier who had the next bed reached over and enclosed Daeron's hand in his own.
"It's all right, lad. No need to feel shamed for crying out," the grizzle-haired man told him. "There isn't a one of us that hasn't done so."
Daeron released his grip on the edge of his mattress and turned his hand to squeeze the soldier's. The part of his brain that wasn't gibbering that his torturers had him again was grateful for the small kindness.
Adoan tossed the scalpel into a bowl, washed his hands, and instructed the other healer to apply a salve and fresh dressings. Then he traded his stained apron for a clean one before moving around the bed to take the leather strap from Daeron's mouth. He took a few minutes to massage the cadet's jaw to ease the pain of the locked muscles, meeting the eyes of the older soldier with a look of thanks. He hadn't missed the kindly gesture.
"Sure, and these healers ought to find something better tasting for us to bite on than some mouldy piece of harness. They'd come up with something better in a minute if they were the ones tasting their saddle for the next three meals, they would."
"For shame, Sergeant Arnagond. I'll have you know that we use only the best saddles and not a one of them is mouldy in the least," Adoan retorted. "Though I will allow the taste could be improved."
"Ha!" The Master-Sergeant was tickled by Adoan's response. He gave Daeron's hand a last squeeze and released it. "You've drew a good healer, lad. Best to stay on his good side."
"Flatterer!" Adoan kept his eyes on his patient but continued the banter with Arnagond while sliding his hand down Daeron's neck to check his pulse. It was still elevated but was gradually slowing.
"Not a bit of it. That butcher in Cair Andros would've taken my entire leg if you hadn't been there. Speaking of which, we have to do some negotiating regarding when you're going to let me out of this bed." The Master-Sergeant's eyes danced and Daeron realized that this was an ongoing discussion between the older man and the Healer.
"Negotiating? I don't negotiate, Sergeant. You know that…" The ensuing "argument" distracted Daeron from the discomfort of being turned onto his side as the last of the dressings were secured by bandages around his torso.
By the time the Healer and Sergeant concluded their banter, the screens had been taken away from around Daeron's bed, all evidence of the treatment had been removed, and he'd relaxed under Adoan's hands.
"I'll consider letting you out of bed at the end of the week, and that's final." Adoan concluded.
Arnagond made a show of reluctant acceptance and shrugged as he settled back against his pillow. "Can't blame a man for trying, can you?"
"Are you still trying to convince 'Adamant Adoan' to let you out of bed?" another soldier from a bed across the aisle inquired. "I knew you were stubborn, but this is ridiculous."
Most of the other men in the ward got involved in the discussion, comparing Adoan to other healers and whether stubbornness was a requirement to enter the profession.
Adoan smiled as he felt Daeron relax completely and fall asleep. This was why he chose to tend the military patients. Every one of the men who'd participated in the "argument" had been where this boy was at one time or another and had played the "army versus the physicians" game to distract him from the unavoidable pain. It had worked well enough that he'd not needed to dose Daeron with a sedative for once.
Laedren's suggestion of putting Daeron in with other soldiers—enlisted men rather than officers—instead of leaving him isolated was already bearing fruit. Not that the officers ever went into a group ward unless things were so dire there was nowhere else to put them; they were tended in private rooms or, if they had personal physicians, in their own homes.
Daeron slept the rest of the afternoon away. He was roused by one of the apprentices long enough to eat and attend to certain necessities then fell back into slumber, still drained by the painful treatment he'd suffered through earlier in the day. He was so disoriented with fatigue and pain that he didn't argue about the indignity of being fed and cared for like a babe.
The hot iron fell against his back again but he was past responding with more than a rasping moan. His throat was as raw as his wounds. The one who asked all the questions seized his hair and jerked his head back, hissing into his ear. "This will end if you cooperate. Answer my questions and I'll even heal you."
"No."
"Ah, you don't believe me." Something softly stroked along the last burn leaving a blessed numbness behind it. "See? It need not all be pain."
"No." But this time he could hear uncertainty in his voice.
"So be it," the voice hissed and the irons fell on him once more.
The agony was too much, he couldn't bear anymore. "S-s-s-stop. P-p-please…" he croaked…
Daeron woke suddenly, drenched with sweat, and the agony of the dream was echoed by the very real pain that had overwhelmed his sleeping mind. The healer on duty heard his cry and dosed him with something that sent him into sleep again within minutes, the pain vanishing to nothing.
They returned him to the tent and left him alone in the darkness. He shuddered as his mind replayed the horrendous images of death and destruction on the backs of his eyelids. Unable to bear it he opened his eyes.
He was unable to move or scream as the shades stepped before him, pale glowing wraiths, wearing the marks of the atrocities inflicted upon them at the time of their deaths.
The first to stand over him were the three cadets who had helped tend him during the journey back to the City, their uniforms and flesh torn and bloodied, disgust and hatred in their eyes.
"Let me sit heavy in thy soul always, I that died at hands strengthened by thy treason!"
"Think upon me, that fell in forlorn hope and let thy soul ever despair!"
"Think upon me, trampled beneath the bloody hooves of thy treachery, and with guilty fear let fall thy spear to stab yourself!"
They vanished to be replaced by Gharal, in whose chest gaped a dreadful wound.
"Let my death sit heavy on thy soul! Think how your weakness stabbed me in my prime of youth!"
Halmir, his best friend since he could walk, was next, covered with blood and his throat torn open.
"Let me sit heavy in your soul. I that was drowned to death in my own blood, by thy guile betrayed to death! Think on me, and fall thy honourless sword on thy own neck!"
Jorell stared down at him, displaying the bloodied and fleshless claws that had once been his hands, anger and betrayal in his face, before speaking.
"Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake, and with hands burned black by blood end thy days! Think on me and may thy sleep ever be filled with perturbations!"
Daeron was frozen where he lay, unable to close his eyes again and each word stabbed and burned worse than any of the blows or burns he'd taken from the enemy. Bitterness poured from the shade who stood over him once Jorell had faded away, her gown in rags, her once lovely face a mask of bloody cuts.
"Think of me dishonoured and slain in my garden, my blood nourishing the flowers I loved. Let me be lead within thy bosom, and weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death! I rue the day I put thee to my breast! Thy mother's soul bids thee to despair."
He whimpered with the despair she'd summoned as she left, and knowing whose shade would appear next, pleaded for escape.
"Father…"
Laedren stood over him in the ruins of his uniform of the Guard of the Citadel, his sword hanging broken in his hand, bearing the marks of many wounds.
"The first I was that helped thee stand, to walk, to lift thy first blade; the last but one was I that fell by thy word. I felt my heart itself torn out with thy hands, now ever bloodied by treason. Oh, that I had never fathered you! Forever think on me and live always in terror of thy guiltiness, for in thy treachery thou hast destroyed all of worth!"
Daeron sobbed in grief and fought to move to clutch at the fading shade, to beg for forgiveness, but he was still paralyzed and bound. The last shade stepped forward and he wailed in horror for the Lord Boromir now stood over him, the marks of the noose about his neck and bloody evidence of the other tortures plain to see. Worst of all was the disdain, and coldness in his face.
"When I was mortal, I was strangled by thy cowardice, my body by thy treason punched full of deadly holes then torn apart by thy faithlessness. Thy words broke and blackened these walls of white stone, thy fear opened the gutters to run with innocent blood, thy puling weakness hast given up all to the Enemy! Think on the fall of the Citadel and me and despair!"
Daeron howled as Boromir's shade vanished…
Continued in Chapter 5: Through Daeron's Eyes: Recovery – Part Two