THE SHOEMAKER'S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: R – not for the faint of heart.

Author's notes: Eubrwrast was inspired by an elderly nun I used to know in my youth. Here is to Sister Anna – may she rest in peace. Also, originally this chapter was supposed to present the Autumn Fair in Halabor, but I have dropped that particular idea for the sake of Edhellond's 2007 Advent Calendar.

My heartfelt thanks to the Wild Iris for taking over the beta work.


(In which some Wandering Elves make a terrible discovery, and Mistress Angharad gets the chance to consult Elven healers.)

The company of Wandering Elves had come a long way when they finally reached the fertile fields of Anórien.

They had started from Mithlond, the Grey Havens, where they had spent the previous winter season. They turned aside for a short pilgrimage to the White Tower of Elostirion, to sing their hymns to the Valar and look into the Seeing Stone that would allow them a glimpse of that which lay beyond the Bent Sea. Then they crossed Eriador, just beyond the northern border of the small country of the Halflings, walked along the Northern Hills and returned to the Road at the Forsaken Inn to follow it to the hidden valley of Imladris, where they spent another winter.

At the beginning of the stirring season, they crossed the Hithaeglir at the Redhorn Pass and followed the Great River to Lothlórien. They spent the following two seasons in the Golden Wood, leaving after Midsummer's Eve, as their leader, Gildor Inglorion, wanted to visit the Autumn Fair in a small town of Men called Halabor.

'Twas a long journey indeed, even on horseback, and more so on foot, the way they usually travelled. But nearly two years is like a blink of an eye for Elves, and for the Wandering Companies, a journey was more than merely getting from one place to another. They were living on the Road. It was their way of life.

Once, long ago, back in the First and Second Ages, many Wandering Companies used to roam the roads. They were the constant connection between Elven settlements, the means of trade and tidings between Elves and Men and other races. Now, in the late Third Age, Gildor's Company was the last one left.

They reached their usual resting place, just beyond the fertile lands tended by the local farmers, two days before the autumn fair held in Halabor. Their trackers checked out the close neighbourhood, as was their wont, for Anórien had become an unsafe place in the past century or two. The others continued their journey in a leisurely pace.

The sun was setting upon the grassy glades of the forest when they came up to the open space in the midst of one of the glades – an ancient and sacred place in the woods, where the Silvan folk once held their rituals, back when they had still lived in great numbers in the valleys of Anduin. Upon the flat top of the hillock, there still stood part of a circle of rough, unhewn stones – the broken remnants of an abandoned sanctum, where the Starlit People had once sung to their beloved stars.

Four of the stones stood upright. Another eight had been dislodged from their original places, maybe due to the superstitious fears of Men, who were wary of what they called Elven magic. Some of those fallen ones lay broken near their former site; others had fallen onto the side of the hill. One large stone, though, had rolled all the way to the bottom. There it lay, stopping the course of the small brook which glided smoothly around the foot of the hill, murmuring gently as it flowed around and over the stone.

"Our resting place is undisturbed," Durithel, the lead tracker – an ancient Nandor Elf and one of the best archers south of Lórien – reported to their Lord, "but I have smelled smoke from the West."

Gildor frowned. "Could it be wandering craftsmen, heading for the fair of Halabor as well?"

"It could be," replied Durithel slowly, "but I do not like the smell of that smoke. There have been more things burned than a small fire, I fear."

Gildor did not like this at all. He knew that Durithel's senses were sharper than those of a hunting lynx, and that his instincts were almost infallible.

"We should take a look," the Elf-Lord decided. "Isfin," he turned to the eldest female member of the company, "have the others unload our beasts and prepare the evening meal. Denilos, Thorndor and Maelor, you come with us."

No-one tried to hold their Lord back from possible peril. Gildor Inglorion was a seasoned warrior, who knew how to take care of himself. Besides, he always did as he pleased; being a scion of Elven kings, he could afford it. Thus everyone obliged without any further words.

Led by Durithel's senses alone, silently like ghosts did the five Elves snake between the ancient trees, with the stealth only the woodland folk – or those who spent much time with them – could manage.

After the first furlong or so, Gildor raised a hand, and they all stopped. Now they were close enough that the Elf-Lord, too, could sense the smoke, and he realized that his chief tracker had been right. This was not simply the smoke of a campfire… this was the hideous stench of burnt flesh. And if the sickeningly sweetish odour was any indication, it had not been a venison hunch left unwatched while cooking.

Gildor pulled up his hood to hide the gleaming of his golden hair – in the waning light, it still could have betrayed them – and gave Durithel the sign to take point. The Nandor archer was the best and the most experienced among them, the least likely to make a mistake. Durithel moved forward so noiselessly that not even Elven ears could have heard him. The others followed in the same manner.

Another fifty yards, and the woods began to grow thinner, signalling that they were now approaching arable lands. Here the red rays of the setting sun broke upon the shattered boughs and mossy trunks of the trees, casting just enough dim light onto the forest floor beneath their feet to see the curling of ugly black smoke between the trees. Whatever might have been burning, it was obviously outside the woods, in the open.

Durithel gave the others a sign to stay behind, then he sprinted up the nearest tree like a squirrel to continue his way on the treetops, in true Silvan fashion. As only Denilos could have followed him on this path, the other Elves remained behind in tense anticipation.

A short time later the chief tracker returned – running lightly on the ground and with no apparent concern for their safety.

"You can come now," he said, his eyes full of sorrow. "We are too late. There is no-one alive, and their murderers are gone."

He led them to the outskirts of the forest, where they found what a day earlier must have been the resting place of a small family of Men. The dead body of a pony lay near the charred remnants of a two-wheeled cart – the sort on which wandering craftsmen transported their meagre belongings, while travelling on foot themselves with their family.

Next to a stone ring, laid already for the campfire, lay a pair of small, hand-held forge-bellows, almost intact, and a small grinding wheel, its strap burnt and torn. A broken body – according to what remained from a long, brown homespun gown after it had caught fire, most likely that of a woman – lay near the fireplace, the face charred beyond recognition, the hands shrivelled and blackened in the fire like the claws of a dead bird. She must have been the source of the horrible burnt stench.

"This must have been the camp of a travelling ironsmith or a cutler," Thorndor, a tall, willowy Noldo, said softly. "Bruithir used to know one here – I hope 'tis not the same one."

"I fear it might be," Durithel shook his head. "There is not enough work for two to make a living, wandering from farmstead to farmstead. I fear that Bruithir has lost an acquaintance today."

"But who could have done it?" asked Denilos. "And where is the smith himself?"

"It could not have been yrch," said Durithel thoughtfully, "as neither the woman, nor the pony has been eaten. Also, yrch do not travel or kill during daylight, and this…" he made a vague gesture, "this could not have happened any more than a few hours ago."

"That leaves Men," said Gildor grimly. "Either raiding bands from Dunland, or Easterlings, who crossed the Anduin south from Nindalf to plunder the farmsteads of Anórien. In any case, we should track their trail carefully. We cannot know how many of them are there, and I am not taking any risks. Durithel, Denilos, look for any traces; you are best suited to read them. If needs must be, we shall continue on to Halabor without a rest."

The two trackers nodded and began to examine every square inch of earth thoroughly, starting at the fireplace itself. Gildor, not wanting to hinder them, walked over to the dead pony and took a good look at it. The poor beast did not look particularly well fed, it was scruffy and rather bony, but Gildor knew that these ponies were usually tough and had great endurance. Which was why the common folk, who could rarely afford to have the stronger, bigger mules, kept them. Of course, no amount of resilience could have helped the pony against the short, heavy arrow protruding from its throat.

Gildor grabbed the arrow and pulled it out of the wound, swatting away the flies in disgust. The arrow was short, even for Mannish fashion – barely two feet – fletched with crow-feathers, and it had an uncommonly broad point of black iron.

"What do you think?" he asked Thorndor. The archer eyed the arrow expertly.

"Looks like Khimmerian handiwork," he decided. "They have more iron than wood in their rocky caves."

Gildor nodded in agreement. "Raiding party from Rhûn, then. Who would have thought that they had grown brave enough to set foot into Gondor again?"

"Brave enough… or desperate enough," said Thorndor. "They suffered a severe beating by the Horse-lords of Rohan, not too long ago, 'tis said. Perhaps they are looking for less… alert prey."

At this very moment Maelor called out to them. "My Lord! We have found the smith!"

Gildor hurried over to him, with Thorndor following. Behind the scorched planks of a simple shelter, they found the body of a short and stocky man, round-faced, brown-haired and bearded, his broken eyes open. He obviously belonged to the Old Folk – the people who had inhabited Gondor long before the Númenóreans came, and still populated a great part of these lands, under Dúnadan rule. He seemed fairly young, even for the lesser Men, who had a short lifespan, compared with that of the Dúnedain.

"I know him," said Thorndor in quiet sorrow, "though he was barely more than a lad when we last met. This is Tenent, the son of Bruithir's friend. It seems he took over his father's business some time ago. He must have been between thirty and forty years old, if memory serves me well. Such a short life… and what a horrible end."

"The woman must have been his wife, then," added Gildor thoughtfully. "We should look out for any children. Maybe they could have hidden… children are good at hiding."

"I can look in the shelter," offered Thorndor, and stepped in already – only to back off at once. "Ai Elbereth!"

"What is it?" asked Gildor sharply. "What have you found?"

"I have found a child," replied Thorndor, pale like those faces in the Dead Marshes, "or what is left of her…"

Gildor shoved the shaking archer aside and ducked to enter the shelter himself. The sight that awaited him was not for the faint of heart indeed.

The girl, whose bloody and battered body was barely covered with the rags of her torn clothes, could not be older than thirteen or fourteen years. Barely more than a baby in Elven terms, even though Gildor knew that daughters of the common folk often married at this tender age already. Still, her shape was more that of a child than that of a maiden, and there could be no doubt that she had been severely – and repeatedly – violated. And yet, she seemed to breathe still, albeit barely. Her limbs were badly bruised, one arm probably broken, and she was lying in a pool of her own blood.

The sight was truly appalling, and Gildor felt the cold rage rise in his breast, that people – not Orcs but ordinary Men – could do this to such a young girl. Elves died when violated. The daughters of Men were often not that lucky. He knew not how this girl – should she survive – would be able to live with the memories. But he knew he would not let the Men who did this get away unpunished.

He tore the cloak from his shoulder and wrapped the girl carefully in the soft cloth. Then he scooped the almost weightless body up in his arms and stepped out of the shelter.

"Durithel!" he called out.

The other Elves jerked to immediate attention from the tone of his voice. It was a tone rarely heard. A tone reserved for battle – or bloody vengeance.

"What have you found?" he asked, shaking with the cold rage that threatened to overwhelm him completely.

"'Twas a small band," answered Durithel. "Ten, maybe twelve Men. Khimmerians from Rhûn, most likely. Some of them may be wounded – there is blood on the tongs the smith is still holding."

"Can we track them down ere they cross the river?" asked Gildor.

Durithel thought about it for a moment. "Perhaps not ere they cross it, but most certainly after that. The Nindalf is a ground that favours us and disfavours them. And they cannot have more than half a day's advantage on us."

"Good," said Gildor coldly. "I want them dead. All of them. Bury the dead – I shall take the girl to the healers. The Company will move on to Halabor as soon as they can. We shall take the archers and hunt this vermin down."


th day of Halimath(1), in the year 2998, Third Age

Mistress Angharad was content with the turn her life had taken. In the four moons since her return from Lossarnach, she had managed – with the considerable help of Mistress Dorlas and old Mistress Crodergh, of course – to make the Infirmary what it had been meant to be: a place where the sick and the ailing could find shelter and help. Due to the support of Lord Orchald, who was eternally grateful for the saving of his only son, the long hospice hall that occupied the entire ground floor of the building was renewed, to the joy and satisfaction of the town's carpenters and stone-masons, and now all eighteen beds were ready for patients that might need them. There was still a lot to do with the first floor, where the sleeping quarters and storerooms were situated, and Angharad's own house was barely habitable, but the most important part could be used again, and that was what counted.

The Infirmary of Halabor was another one of the important things built during the better years of the town. It was a long, two-storey building, built in typical Halabor style: the ground floor was made of stone, the upper floor of solid oak beams. The red-canopied and curtained beds stood in rows along the walls, and behind each of them a small niche was hidden: storeroom for the patients' belongings and for the chamberpots that were cleverly installed into frames that looked like armchairs, making it easy for the old and the ailing to sit on them. Due to this privacy, in which each patient could take care – or have taken care – of their needs, men and womn lay in the same room. They could not see each other from the bed curtains anyway. Angharad herself needed to sit on the low stools placed next to each bed to see what shape a patient was in.

Currently, only seven of the beds were occupied, and not all the patients were actually ill or injured. Some of them were permanent residents, like poor old Eubrwrast: a small, bird-like woman of almost seventy summers, nearly deaf, yet still quick-witted and hard-working, who spent her days in the kitchen, helping the widow Lendar to cut vegetables, clean bones for the soup and other small but needful tasks. She talked almost as much as she worked – and she was quite loud, too, as she could barely hear her own voice – but Angharad liked her nonetheless, as she had a wonderfully dry wit and not a single mean bone in that small, rotund body of hers.

The same could not be said about Etterna, almost twenty years Eubrwrast's junior. While Eubrwrast had no kin left, being the only survivor from a farmstead raided by Hill-men, Etterna was the widow of Thaigh, a fallen soldier. She had a daughter named Tiabhal, who was married to the fisherman Brannoc and lived in the Old Port. Unfortunately, Etterna was quite mad, and when having one of her frequent outbursts, she could be also dangerous. In fear for his small children, Brannoc had asked if his mother-in-law could be taken in by the healers, for whatever small fee he could afford to pay, and Angharad had agreed. Here they could give Etterna one of Old Mistress Crodergh's syrups that made her sleepy and peaceful; and they could keep an eye on her all the time, something that a young fisherman's wife, raising small children, could not.

Cynan, a short, small-boned man of an uncertain age between sixty and seventy years, had been sent to the Infirmary by Lord Orchald himself. For the greatest part of his life, he had served in the buttery, 'til the tearing in his joints and bones had all but rendered him unable to do any work that required strength or skills of any sort. Lord Orchald did not want to throw him out after all those years of faithful service, but they had no healer in the Castle, and Cynan had no family of his own to take care of him. So he came to the Infirmary, where he got company, food and good treatment, and he seemed content enough with that. On better days, he visited the Castle in Meurig's company, to see his old friends again, and with Meurig, no harm could befall him.

Meurig and his little nephew, one-year-old Edwy, were the latest addition to the Infirmary's permanent dwellers. No-one knew much about them, although Meurig – a big, mild-mannered young man of about Angharad's age – was a grand-nephew once removed of Old Mistress Crodergh's late husband… or something like that. In any case, he had lived on a farmstead with his uncle's family, up 'til two moons ago, when the farmstead had been raided by a band of Orcs and everyone in sight slaughtered. How Meurig himself had survived, no-one could tell, as he refused to speak about it, and Edwy was too little to speak yet.

Old Mistress Crodergh, who had only met him once or twice before, remembered that Meurig had always been a bit slow to speak but hard-working on the fields and as strong as an ox… mayhap even a bit dim-witted, unless that was a result of the terrible things he had witnessed during the Orc attack. His… slowness of mind was not very obvious, though. He was a vigorous young fellow, sturdily built and strong, dark-haired and brown-eyed like most of the Old Folk. His square, good-natured face was brown and weathered from having laboured in the fields all his life, well-boned and handsome, with thick brows. It was a good, honest face; most people liked him immediately, and Angharad was no exception. Besides, it was good to have a strong, able man in the house in these perilous times, the only other being Galhir, the beggar – a former soldier from Osgiliath, who had lost both his legs in battle and been brought to Halabor by Henderch, the Chief Warden, to be taken care of.

Angharad finished her morning round in the hospice and went out into the gardens, where the small timber hut serving as Mistress Crodergh's workshop stood. The old woman was sitting on a low bench before the hut, showing their apprentice, little nine-year-old Hilla (the daughter of Lord Orchald's horse-master) how to make right-sized bundles of the harvested herbs and how to hang them up to dry. Another little girl, Mistress Dorlas' six-year-old fosterling, was sitting with them, trying to make her own bundles, concentrating so hard that the tip of her tiny tongue was peeking out.

Hearing Angharad's steps, Mistress Crodergh, whose ears were still as sharp at the age of sixty-seven as they had been in her youth, looked up and gave the healer a toothless smile.

"How are our wards today?" she asked.

"As can be expected," replied Angharad with a shrug. She had learned early on that keeping her true feelings to herself helped a lot in her work. Had she given in easily to pity, she would never have been able to do all those – sometimes hurtful – things a healer needed to do, in order to help people and to prevent greater harm.

"Etterna is being quiet, thankfully," she then went on. "Eubrwrast is working in the kitchen already – we shall have herb soup today, and there are onions to be peeled and cut. Cynan says we can expect rain in a day or two, for the tearing in his shoulders is getting worse."

"We should have Meurig rub his shoulders with wolfsbane oil again," suggested Mistress Crodergh. "What about the festering wound of the bone-carver?"

"It has gotten much better," replied Angharad. "It has all but cleared up. Another week and we can release the man, I judge."

"That is good," said the herb-mistress. "He would not bear to be confined to the hospice much longer. Has a bit of a vagus in his blood, that one. Small wonder no woman was willing to marry him."

"As far as we know," commented Angharad. "He may have a wife and a family in any of the towns he visits on his wanderings."

But the old crone shook her head.

"Nay," she said. "These wandering craftsmen are all alike. If they have a family, they drag it along with them, and all perils of the road be damned. Sennen's father was the same. He married on the road, lived on the road, died on the road. Sennen and his siblings were born on the road and grew up like game or weed. They learned their father's craft on the cart that was their home."

"You seem to know them well," said Angharad.

"I used to know Deoch, Sennen's mother," replied the old woman. "My husband and I used to travel a great deal in my youth, looking for new healing methods, collecting herbs, visiting the farmsteads… So we met a lot of people on the road. Deoch hated that sort of life, poor thing, and it seems that Sennen alone inherited his father's wanderlust. Both his siblings married into the family of the local bone and antler workers at first chance. Sennen never forgave them for that, I think."

"Is this the reason why he came here, instead of asking for the help of his own family?" asked Angharad.

Mistress Crodergh shrugged. "Most likely. He is a stubborn one. I cannot blame Ingonger and Trevenna for wanting a more settled life, though. Living on the road is a perilous thing, now more than in earlier times. One day, Sennen will have to see it, too. I just hope it will not be too late for him. How is Durngarth doing, though? That is one ugly burn he has suffered, and him ten years older than me!"

Angharad smiled. "He is a tough old man. He shall recover, although slowly. Had he listened to his children, the whole accident would not have happened. His eyes are not good enough for working with glass, not any more. 'Tis dangerous, but he would not admit it."

"He is an artisan," said Mistress Crodergh, "and artisans are all daft about their art. They would risk everything to finish a piece, be it a perfect glass bead or an entire castle. You cannot persuade them, for they would not listen."

"Nay, they would not," agreed Angharad, "so I do not waste my breath on them any longer. I came to ask if you still have some of that ointment against bed sores, though. You know, the one with Nurria's Mantle in it. Poor old Snechta is in a bad shape again."

"Skin and bones, naught but skin and bones," sighed the herb-mistress, "but who would wonder? She is just three years short of a hundred. 'Tis a miracle she still holds on to life at all."

"Not much longer, though," said Angharad. "She is dying."

"She was dying already when you left for Lossarnach," replied Mistress Crodergh. "In Talek and Wynwoluy's place I would not hurry to order a coffin just yet. She might yet surprise us all by reaching the age of one hundred."

"She shall have a place with us as long as she may live," said Angharad. "The bleacher and the clothes-dryer pay us a handsome fee, and at least here she does not have to lie alone in her dark chamber. However, I fear that she shall not last much longer. It has been days since we could get a little broth into her. She can barely swallow… and she has ceased trying."

"That is a bad sign," admitted Mistress Crodergh. "Still, I shall give you the ointment at once. Why should she be in more pain than which is inevitable?" She stood with some difficulty – her rheumatic limbs tended to stiffen when she sat too long in one place – and brought forth a small clay dish, sealed with a wooden stopper, which she gave to the healer. "Here you are. I think I even got it better than last time. Hilla can help you to apply it."


Angharad thanked the old woman and returned to the hospice, with the scowling yellow-haired girl in tow. Tending to bed sores was not a pleasant task, even less so if the patient had been bed-ridden for years, but if Hilla wanted to become a healer, she needed to learn these tasks – and still remain friendly. There was no excuse for rude bedside manners. Alas, Angharad knew that many healers could not quite manage the task all their lives.

Together with the girl, she lifted the dying old woman – who looked like a fragile child and weighed just as little – cleaned the sores and anointed them with the salve, so that the rough patches would be soothed and new skin could grow over them. Or could have, had the wasted body of Snechta still enough strength left for it. Which it most likely had not. But that was no reason to let her suffer if there was a way to ease her pain.

Barely had they put the poor old woman at ease – Snechta fell asleep at once from the pain and the exertion – when the clattering of hooves could be heard. A small pony, used by the Castle's errand boys, trotted into the courtyard, with one of the Master Smith's eight-year-old grandsons in the saddle. If it was Kenan or Kenen, no-one but their mother could tell. Even their father, a member of Lord Orchald's House Guard, would mistake the one for the other sometimes. But as the boys both answered to both names, the confusion was bearable.

"Mistress Angharad!" cried the boy in excitement. "You would not believe what just happened! Elves have come to town!"

Angharad would not lose her calm so easily. Like most people in Gondor, she knew that Elves existed – and that they still dwelt somewhere in hidden places of Middle-earth – but she never truly expected to see one with her own eyes.

"That is hard to believe indeed," she said calmly. "Are you certain about it? Or can it be that Lord Ulmondil's family is riding out again?"

Lord Ulmondil was one of Lord Orchald's neighbours, a young nobleman who fancied himself a great mariner like his Númenórean ancestor who had – supposedly – come to Gondor with one of Anárion's ships. His wife, the Lady Galadwen, was even worse. She fancied Elves and everything she considered Elvish, refused to speak any other tongue than Sindarin and was generally the subject of much amusement among both the nobles and the simple folk.

But Kenan (or Kenen) shook his head vigorously.

"Nay," he said, "these are truly Elves. Lord Herumor says they are from Edhellond, their south haven, near Dol Amroth, and their leader is no less a person than Gildor Inglorion, the Lord of Edhellond. Lord Herumor met them while in Dol Amroth; and he sent me with word to you."

"I can see that," replied Angharad, not the least infected by the boy's excitement. "What I cannot see is why Lord Herumor would think that I needed to know about this. Even if some of the Elves are ill or injured, they surely have healers whose knowledge surpasses my modest abilities by far."

"Nay, they are not injured," said the boy, "but they have found someone just outside town who is. A mortal girl, they say; I cannot tell you who it is, but they say she is in bad shape. They are bringing her to you."

That made sense. Even Elven healers needed herbal remedies to work, and after a long journey they would be running low on supplies. Fortunately, the Infirmary had its own herb-mistress and herb gardens. Angharad turned to her apprentice.

"Hilla, go and fetch Mistress Crodergh," she ordered. "Tell her an injured girl will be brought in, soon. She will know what we might need. Help her carry her items. And you, Kenan, or Kenen, or whichever you are, ride back to the Castle and tell Lord Herumor that we shall have everything ready."

The boy rode back, fuelled by his own importance, and Angharad went to find Meurig. They needed more firewood, to heat a large pot of water on the open fireplace in the courtyard. While Meurig was doing those small but important tasks matching his greater strength, Angharad prepared her workshop for the patient.

The workshop was not much more than an empty room, occupying the ground floor of the apothecary's house that joined the Infirmary from the south, and that was now hers, due to Lord Orchald's generosity. She had a large, low table here, on which she usually prepared medicines with Mistress Crodergh's help and following the old woman's instructions. Now she covered the table with a clean, white linen sheet, knowing that the Elven healers would need a place to work on their patient. They could move the girl to the Infirmary through the door at the opposite end of the room, once they were done with the treatment.

Mistress Crodergh came in a great hurry, as fast as her old bones could manage, and Hilla came after her, somewhat slower, balancing in her hands a wooden tray laden with small clay dishes containing various salves, glass flasks with tinctures, bowls for stirring a poultice, grinding bowls and many other tools the healers might need. There were also linen straps for bandaging possible wounds, rolled up neatly, splints for possibly broken bones and other such items as might be necessary to treat an injured person.

They were still ordering the various items on the small cabinet that served as a sideboard when the Elves arrived, led by Lord Herumor in person.

"I thought I would check on old Cynan," he explained. "He likes telling me tales about my parents, from the time they were young – it entertains me, and it makes him feel young again."

"That is very generous of you, my Lord," said Angharad, a bit surprised that he would explain himself at all. He could come and go as he pleased, after all, being the heir of lordship over the whole town and the adjacent lands. In fact, he had spent a great deal of his spare time in the Infirmary lately. "Do your injuries still give you trouble?" she asked. "Shall I take a look, just to be on the safe side?"

"Nay, I am fine; fully healed, thanks to your excellent care," replied Herumor lightly. "We have brought someone who is in dire need of help, though. But first let me introduce you to the Elven healers: these are Erinti and her husband Tinthellon of the Silvan folk. Erinti, Tinthellon, this is our healer, Mistress Angharad; and our apothecary, old Mistress Crodergh."

The two Elves spoke polite words of greeting in their soft, musical voices, but for a moment or two, Angharad was too busy staring at them to even hear the greetings. The sight was not at all what she had ever imagined Elves to be, based on ancient legends. She had always imagined that Elves would be very tall, like young trees, gold-haired and blue-eyed, and would have pale, almost translucent skin. That was how the old songs always described the Fair Folk.

Well, these two were surely a head taller than she was, but again, she was of middle height at best, so that was not exceedingly tall – many of the Rohirrim would have the same height and more. Nor were they gold-haired at all. Their intricately braided hair, adorned with colourful wooden beads, was of a rich, auburn colour, with reddish highlights. Their large, slightly slanted eyes were greenish brown and very bright, like polished chestnuts, under thin, elegantly arched brows and long, feathery lashes; and while their beautiful faces were tanned, as one could expect from people who spent their lives – in the Elves' case who knew how many hundred years – in the great outdoors, it seemed as if they shone with a light from within, a light mere mortals could never hope to see unveiled. They wore the green and brown garb of the woodland folk, and a scrip full of medical remedies.

They were followed by another male Elf of their own kin. This Elf was carrying a motionless bundle in his arms, a bundle made of light grey blankets that might be hiding an unconscious person – a fairly small one.

"This is Silivros, whose name means glimmering rain," said Erinti, the female healer. "He offered to carry our patient, if you would take her in."

The mentioning of their patient finally woke Angharad from her enchantment.

"But of course, Lady Erinti," she said apologetically. "Forgive me; for a moment, I was truly overwhelmed. No-one has seen the Fair Folk in our town since my great-grandfather's time. You can place the patient on this table; we have already prepared everything we have for the treatment of injuries. I hope it will be enough."

"There is no need for honorary titles among us," said Silivros, carefully lowering his burden onto the table. "We are fairly ordinary people as Elves go… save our Lord, Gildor, and his niece, the Lady Aquiel, that is. Call us by our names, and we shall do the same."

Angharad smiled a little at that. "Give me time to get used to that," she replied. Then she turned to her apprentice. "Hilla, child, go back to Mistress Crodergh's hut and keep an eye on little Godith. She should not be left on her own; some remedies there are quite dangerous, and she is too young to understand that she should not sample them."

Hilla left with obvious reluctance – and who could blame her when Elves were visiting the Infirmary? – but Angharad did not want her there while they were treating the injured girl. In her years as a healer she had seen a few survivors of such raids and knew that women had a lot more to fear from raiding bands than just being beaten up or killed. Hilla was too young to face that particular kind of horror just yet. Even though she was of Rohirric blood and thus tougher than other girls of her age.


With her gone, Angharad could finally turn her attention to their patient, and what she saw made her stomach revolt. The girl was so terribly young – fourteen, mayhap, or not much older – and small even for her tender age, small-boned and of a slight build. The thought of big, burly Khimmerian warriors indecently assaulting such a child to satisfy their base needs made Angharad literally sick in her stomach.

"Oh, my child," she murmured, stroking the girl's matted hair out of her sweaty face, "what have those vile beasts done to you?"

"Awful things," Tinthellon, the male Elven healer replied grimly. "This, I cannot understand. If they had been Orcs… but nay, they were Men! How could they…?"

"Sometimes there is little difference between Orcs and Men, as this very town was forced to learn some time ago," said Angharad. Then she turned to Herumor. "The bailiff must learn about this. The Autumn Fair begins in four days. People will come from afar and from the neighbourhood, too. The roads must be safe."

"Worry not about the raiders, Mistress Healer," said Silivros. "Our Lord has gone after them with our best archers and swordsmen. They shall not come out of the Nindalf alive."

"Still, the bailiff might want to send out patrols," said Herumor. "I shall send word to Emerië Manor while you take care of the girl. Do we know who she is?"

"We know of no name," answered Silivros. "But Bruithir, our swordsmith, used to know her grandsire, a wandering ironsmith and cutler."

"She must be Telent's daughter, then," said Angharad thoughtfully. "I have not seen her for years, but I used to know her mother, and she does have the same face. Her parents are dead, I would imagine?"

Silivros nodded. "The woman was burned beyond recognition, or so the trackers say," he replied. "I have not seen her myself. Two of us stayed behind to give them a decent burial while waiting for Lord Gildor's return. There was naught else to be done for them."

"That was kind of you; they have no close kin in town to do it for them, albeit I doubt not that Lord Orchald would have ordered it done," said Angharad. "Well, if you and Lord Herumor would give us some room here…"

After Herumor and Silivros had left, the healers could finally begin to treat the injured girl in earnest. The two Elves had already cleaned and bandaged her wounds as well as they could in the woods, but now they could do some real work. They asked for a wooden tub with hot water, which they infused with various concoctions to pre-empt infection and wound fever, and to ease the pain. They carefully lowered the still unconscious girl into this bath and let her soak there until the water cooled. When Mistress Crodergh asked for the ingredients of their medicines, they shared their knowledge willingly, complimenting the old woman on her herbal lore, and Mistress Crodergh blushed, for the first time since Angharad had known her.

They had taken the girl out of the bath, anointed and bandaged her wounds and moved her to a bed in the Infirmary when Mistress Dorlas arrived. She had been called to one of the more solitary farmsteads to help deliver a long-overdue baby, and came to fetch little Godith, whom she had left in the healers' care. She had not heard the dire news yet and was now devastated by learning of the little family's fate. As it turned out, she knew them a great deal better than Angharad.

"I have helped this little one to the light of the world," she said, looking down at the pale, silent girl in sorrow. "Her father called her Delbaeth, the fire-maker, for she used to help him with the bellows from early childhood on. I do not remember what her true name was – if she ever had one."

"Was she an only child?" asked Erinti. Dorlas nodded.

"Ingern, her mother, was with child several other times, but she either miscarried, or the babes did not live longer than a few days," she said. "Small wonder it is; life on the road is nothing for a pregnant woman."

"What will now become of the girl, should she live?" asked Tinthellon. "You said she has no close kin in town."

"We shall keep her here, as long as she wants to stay," replied Angharad. "According to custom, 'tis the Master Smith's duty to take care of her, though, as her father was of the same trade. As Master Ludgvan is also the provost of our town, rest assured that she will be treated properly."

"Or she could stay with me," offered Mistress Dorlas. "She might feel more comfortable around Godith and me than all those people in the provost's house."

"No doubt she would," Angharad nodded in agreement, "yet 'tis not our decision to make. You know the custom – you must speak with Master Ludgvan first."

"I shall," said Mistress Dorlas confidently, "and he will, no doubt, see the reason behind my offer."

"He is a reasonable man," agreed Angharad. She looked down at the still unconscious girl, and then up at the Elves again. "Do you believe she will be able to have children after… after this?" she asked.

"'Tis still too early to tell," answered Erinti thoughtfully. "We shall do our best to heal her fully, but too many aspects of the damage done to her are still unclear. Is that then so important, compared with the chance of saving her life?"

"It might be of lesser importance for Elves," said Angharad grimly. "Your people live for thousands of years, after all. But for Men, a barren woman is all but worthless. 'Tis bad enough that most people here would inevitably learn what has happened to her."

"'Twas not her fault!" exclaimed Erinti, fairly shocked by the sheer possibility of someone blaming that poor girl for her terrible fate. Angharad nodded.

"True; and no-one would say it was. However, she will be considered damaged goods nonetheless, and if given a choice, young men will choose someone who has not been used by other men above her. If she is to remain barren, too, no-one will ever consider her a suitable wife, dowerless as she is and without a craft of her own."

"'Tis not right to punish her for what those vile men have done," murmured the Elf, anger glinting in her slanted eyes.

"Nay, 'tis not," Angharad agreed. "And yet this is what will happen. Men wish for suitable wives and children; according to the customs of the Old Folk, a barren woman has no right to take a possible husband from those who can give the man children."

"'Tis… barbaric," declared the Elf in obvious dismay. Angharad shrugged.

"Mayhap it is. But this is our way, and whether we like it or not, we cannot change it. Not in my lifetime, nor in the girl's," she sighed. "All right then, we should let her rest. I shall look in her every hour; 'tis fortunate that I all but live in the Infirmary."


They returned to her house, where the Elves collected their medical remedies and then accepted old Mistress Crodergh's invitation to visit her manufacture (manufactory) where she made not only her medicines but scented waters and soaps, too. For such fastidious people, soaps and perfumes were of great interest. Shortly thereafter, Hilla came back, bringing little Godith to Mistress Dorlas, and began to clean away the bloodied linens and used bandages. She collected them in a basket to bring everything over to the laundresses of the bath-house, who also worked for the Infirmary.

Mistress Dorlas and Godith left with her, too, and Angharad could finish cleaning up her workroom.

"I truly hope the Elves were able to help the poor girl," she said to Meurig, who had come to remove the heavy wooden tub.

The gentle giant looked up at her with sad, dark eyes, while tugging at the tub to manoeuvre it towards the front door.

"Mayhap she would be better off dead," he said matter-of-factly. "Mayhap it would be better not to survive such things… for all of us."

Being familiar with Meurig's own fate, Angharad could understand the sentiment… to a certain extent. Still, having it spoken so bluntly troubled her a little. She was a healer; her instincts told her to save a patient if they could be saved.

"You wish you were dead?" she asked, repaying bluntness with bluntness, her tone making it clear that she could not approve.

"At first, I did," replied Meurig slowly, giving the tub a hard push, so that it slid out onto the paved courtyard, where it could be emptied into the gutter. "But then I came here. And you took me in, me and Edwy. I like it here. And I like you."

With that, he reached down with his powerful arms and tipped the heavy tub to the side as if it were but a nutshell, so that the dirty water could be swallowed by the gutter. Then he righted it again, leaving it for the womenfolk to wash out, and walked back to the Infirmary fields to continue the autumn ploughing from which he had been called away. Angharad stared after him in amused disbelief.


It was close to sunset when the Infirmary patients had all gotten their evening meal and were tucked in bed. Feeling drained after a long, demanding day, Angharad was sitting at the injured girl's bedside, stitching away on some old clothes that might be suitable for her once she regained consciousness. After all, the poor thing had nothing, not even a single dress left to her.

The Elven healers had come several times to check on her, and so had Mistress Crodergh, who was apparently having the time of her ancient life with them. A time that would, no doubt, be resulting in a whole batch of new medicines, salves, ointments and other remedies for the Infirmary's disposal. Old though the herb-mistress might be, but she was still sharp-witted and eager to learn – something the Elves seemed to value greatly.

All in all, they were fortunate that the Fair Folk had decided to visit their fair after such a long time, Angharad thought. 'Twas a good thing, too, that Mistress Crodergh was lettered and that she delighted in keeping a herb book: a large, heavy leather-bound tome, in which she had written down the use of every new herb she had ever encountered in her long life. Upcoming generations of healers would bless her name for that, no doubt.

A shadow was cast upon her handiwork. Angharad glanced up, slightly startled that someone could have sneaked up on her unnoticed – and froze. Facing her, there stood the most magnificent being she could have imagined… and then some. She seriously doubted that she would ever be able to think up something (or someone) of such exquisite beauty and such incredible power.

If Erinti, Tinthellon and their woodland companions were not what she would have expected Elves to be, this one certainly put the songs and legends to shame. He was tall and slender and long-limbed, but with the powerful arms and shoulders of an experienced archer, wearing travelling clothes of soft, moss-green leather and a hooded cloak of some shadowy grey fabric that shone like pure silver in the sunlight but made him almost invisible in the dimness of the hospice. His long hair, bound in some sort of club with thin leather thongs, gleamed like the purest molten gold and reached down almost to his knee. His face was pale and otherworldly beautiful, with high, sculpted cheekbones and wide, icy blue-grey eyes, and it seemed as if he were glowing from the inside, too, but much more strongly than the Elven healers or their companion. He had a pair of finely-made throwing knives on his belt and a large sword in a crafty scabbard on his back. The intricately-worked hilt, with a large sapphire as its pommel-stone, was at the same height as the top of his head.

"Greeting, Mistress Healer," he said in a musical voice that was, nonetheless, deeper than Angharad would have expected from a being of such ethereal beauty. "I am Gildor Inglorion, Lord of the Wandering Elves. I have come to see how the girl is faring."

"Certainly, my Lord." Angharad needed a moment to regain her ability of speech, but she pulled herself together quickly enough. "I thought the Elven healers would give you word about her."

"They have," said the Elf-Lord with an elegant shrug, "but I prefer to see her with my own eyes. I was the one who sent her here. She is my responsibility."

"With all due respect, I think she is mine now," replied Angharad. "Or do you and your Wandering Elves intend to stay put in our little town 'til she gets better? I think not."

She wondered herself how she dared to speak thusly to an Elf who was clearly some kind of great lord among his own people. But she was not going to let anyone meddle with the girl's well-being, not even the King of Elves… assuming they still had one.

To her surprise, Gildor did not get angry at her response.

"You are very perceptive, Mistress Healer," he said with a cold smile. "I like that in a mortal. Nevertheless, I still do feel responsible for this poor creature here, and I insist on seeing what shape she is in – if that is all right with you."

"Certainly, my Lord." Angharad rose from her stool to allow him sight of the bed and the pale, fragile girl in it. "She is doing as well as can be expected; nay, in truth she is doing somewhat better than we could have hoped for. 'Tis the doing of your Elven healers, I would judge. We have learned much from them, even in this short time."

"'Tis the duty of the Firstborn to teach and guide the younger races," replied the Elf-Lord, giving the still unconscious girl a long, searching look. "Her will to live is strong. It shall be as much her doing as ours, if she survives."

"There is still some doubt about that," admitted Angharad. "But save any possible infections or wound fever, we are hopeful."

"Hope is all we have, is it not?" said the Elf-Lord with a strangely bitter smile. "I shall leave her in your hands, then. I understand that your people can take care of her once we leave town?"

"We can and we shall," promised Angharad.

"Then I am well content." the Elf bowed towards her. "Good night, Mistress Healer."

"Good night, my Lord." Angharad waited 'til the Elf left, then she sat back at the girl's bed, setting aside her handiwork (it was getting too dark already), and prepared herself for a long night.


The Master Smith was a reasonable man indeed. When Mistress Dorlas went to see him about the girl on the next day, he listened carefully first, without interrupting her. Then he thought about what he had just heard for a long while.

"Are you truly willing to take the girl in, once she has healed enough to leave the Infirmary?" he finally asked.

Mistress Dorlas nodded. "My house is big enough, and I live there mostly alone with little Godith, as you know, Master Provost. The only man who visits us every day is my father, and I doubt that he would frighten the girl."

"Nay, I do not think so," the Master Smith smiled. Old Craban was the most trust-awakening person one could wish for, with his round, wrinkled face, gentle eyes and silver hair. "But does not Súrion drop by frequently, too?"

"He does," agreed Mistress Dorlas, "but no-one has ever feared Súrion. Big as he might be, even little children and small animals trust him at first sight. I shall ask him to be very careful at first, though."

"That is good," said Master Ludgvan. "But even if the girl lives with you, I shall remain her guardian. You know the custom."

Mistress Dorlas nodded again. "I do. And I cannot wish for a better one. After a while, she will need your support. I just want to give her a home, for the time being. She needs one."

"True enough," said the provost. "Very well, then. Take her with you, once she can be moved. I shall see that she is provided with everything she might need. I owe her that much."

Mistress Dorlas frowned. "Why would you owe her – and what for?"

"For the death of her father opened a chance for Kevern," answered the Master Smith with a rueful smile. "He refuses to make weapons, and thus he has been without a full living of his own for years. Too many years. Now that the town and the farmsteads are without a cutler, he can step into that place – without risking his family on the road. They can stay with us while he travels around. And when there is little or no work outside town, he can keep working with me. I am forever indebted to Tenent's daughter – what is her name?"

"Delbaeth," said the midwife.

"Delbaeth," the Master Smith repeated thoughtfully. "Fire-maker. Strange name for a girl – and yet fitting for the daughter of a smith. What is she like?"

Mistress Dorlas shrugged. "Small. Fragile. Like a little bird. But with enough food and proper clothing, she might clean up nicely – in a year or two. We shall see."

"There is time," the provost agreed. "Thank you for taking her in. Should she – or you – need aught, fear not to ask."

"I will not," the midwife smiled and rose from her seat. "My thanks, Master Provost."

Master Ludgvan nodded and saw her to the door. She thanked him again and left with light, almost dancing steps. Nurria might have refused her children of her own, but the Lady of the fields and pastures also kept sending orphans in her way; orphans who needed her, mayhap more than her own children could have.

And the Lady had sent her Henderch, who had filled the emptiness in her life for the last two years while letting her have the freedom she had grown accustomed to. She was very fortunate indeed. And properly grateful for her good fortune. She intended to earn it, by giving that poor girl a home. A good one.

TBC

End notes:

1) Halimath is the equivalent of our September