*winces* Well, I did not mean to take a year and a half hiatus from this story. Talk about fickle muses - I should know by now not to post unfinished works. Long story short? Before my muses could recover, I lost a job, decided to move out of country for a bit, then found a new job, and finally got settled back into reality. But here's over 5,000 words of mostly about Stephen being super-critical of Not 21st Century medical tech. I got really into it. From this point, it's another 2 or 3 chapters before this baby is done. And I am actively working on it!
The scouts returned with news that not two miles to the northeast was a fortress, very clearly fitting the description the stranger had given them about an hour ago. At this, Faramir called the rest of the company to a halt and had them establish a base far enough from the compound so as to not draw undue attention.
Quickly they sought a site for camp. Unfortunately, there was nothing resembling an easily defensible position in this area of the forest — it was more or less flat, and too many of the trees were far enough from each other to allow two men to walk abreast — but they did what they could, settling the horses and staking one of the captains' tents in the center of their new encampment. The other tents the steward had them leave unmade, in case there was need of a hasty retreat. Readying the horses for such an event would already take precious enough time.
Inside the sole tent quickly gathered the steward Faramir, his captain Beregond, Aragorn's captain Galdir, and the two scouts. One of the scouts knelt on the ground, finishing up a rough drawing of the compound in the dirt. Faramir sat on a rolled-up bedroll beside him while the other three stood in a semicircle about them.
"You are certain there is only one entrance?" Galdir asked yet again as he studied the rough map.
The scout nodded. "Yes, sir. We approached as closely as we were able without being spotted by the men on the ramparts before returning."
"All seemed quiet," the other stated. "While the walls were manned, they were not greatly crowded. It seemed the rear wall bore the least amount of activity, with one man crossing in five minute intervals."
"Little activity or no, it would be prudent to wait until nightfall before we make our strike," Beregond muttered. "That would give us the cover of darkness, and the majority of the camp will be asleep."
Galdir frowned. "Full darkness does not approach for another three hours," he answered. "Can we afford to allow King Elessar to wait so long?"
Faramir frowned softly. "I fear we have little choice, Captain," he murmured. "If this Strange spoke accurately, we are outnumbered nearly two to one. He was true about the fortress, so I doubt his number is far off."
"And we are ill-equipped for assailing their walls," Beregond added. "We bear but three grappling hooks."
Galdir sent a displeased look towards the dirt drawing at these unfortunate conclusions. "What of the entrance? Perhaps it can be forced through." It was clear that even as he spoke, he was unconvinced.
"Stealth and surprise are the only advantages we have," said Faramir, then added softly, "I like this as little as you do, Captain Galdir. I wish to see the king safe once more." Galdir's lips thinned, but he nodded once in acknowledgement.
From there there was little to discuss. All they had to go on was their dubious ally's word about the interior of the compound, and it was from that intelligence that they had to make their plans. The scouts were dismissed and after some discussion, they formed a strategy. It was simple enough; the best climbers would ascend first and remain in the shadows to dispose of the moving patrols along the wall. The archers would then come and make their way along the wall with a few swordsmen to help clear their paths. Even as they did so the rest of the men would ascend the wall. Once the archers disabled all of the guard about the ramparts and along the back routes to the entrance of the large building, the main force of a dozen men would sweep in and make their way inside and down the path described by the so-called sorcerer at their meeting. Once Aragorn was recovered, they were to escape quickly, back the way they came if at all possible.
It did not take a strategical expert to see all the places where this plan could go wrong, but they had little choice. Faramir's lips thinned at the thought.
In the end, it was decided that four of the men — the least experienced fighters and a scout well-traversed in the ways of the Wild — would remain at camp and with the horses. They would have strict orders to depart if no one came back by dawn. It was certainly a worst-case scenario, but it was an actuality that had to be planned for.
Beregond stole several looks his way when this point came to discussion. Faramir inwardly sighed. At the beginning of Elessar's reign and while their children were growing up, Aragorn and Faramir had never travelled out of Gondor together. The sole exception to this rule was the wedding of King Eomer to Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil, in Edoras. With both his own son and Aragorn's son now adults, this was the first long journey outside of Gondor Aragorn had been with Faramir in twenty years.
And now it was quite possible they would both end up prisoners or dead. Should both he and Aragorn survive this, it was very likely they would never be let outside of Gondor together again. Faramir huffed softly to himself at the thought.
Galdir slowly exhaled as the silence sat within the tent at the end of their planning. "I should inform the men of our plans and tell those who are staying behind their duty. I do not expect protests from th—"
Loud exclamations from outside the tent cut off his statement. As one, the three men sprang up and exited, hands upon their weapons and tension running through their veins as they prepared for the worst.
The commotion was coming from south side of encampment, which was unexpected to Faramir, and his thoughts ran quickly. Have the Easterlings routed about us to attempt an attack from behind? Was I wrong in my judgment of the sorcerer? Has he betrayed us? Beregond attempted to move in front of him, but the Steward was too quick and remained in the lead as they rounded the horses and had clear view of the disturbance.
About forty yards to the south of the edge of their camp, a great golden spiral of flame had appeared mid air within the trees. Those on guard on that portion of the camp had already drawn their swords, and several other men were beckoned at their shouts, also preparing to do battle. The tension only rose as a figure stepped out of the ring. Faramir tightened the grip upon his sword's hilt; it was too far to see any distinct details, but the blue of the figure's tunic matched that of the sorcerer they had met.
Soon after a second, then finally a third figure made their way through the circle, and once the third man had passed through it quickly shrunk before disappearing entirely. The two men were even less distinct than the first with their more muted colors, but a flare of hope rose sharply within Faramir, for even at such a great distance, one of the man's colors and bearing appeared very familiar. Despite that feeling, he kept his guard up.
The three seemed to exchange a few words, and then he heard a sound that was the sweetest music to his ears: the distinct call of a thrush, a specific sound used by the Ithilien Rangers to indicate that all was safe. He could not help but laugh in surprise and delight; his reaction was not singular, either, for there were many former Rangers that made their party and their own wonder and surprise was obvious. Forgoing propriety, Faramir sheathed his sword and hurried forward to meet the newcomers, only years of instinct subconsciously acknowledging that several men were following his steps.
The distance was shortened between them swiftly, and the steward beamed in delight as it was clear that one of the figures was Aragorn, accompanied by the strange sorcerer and another unfamiliar man. Faramir's joy was tempered by the blood upon the king's brow and the limp in his step, but still he greeted him heartily as they came together with a quick embrace.
"We are glad to see you!" said Faramir. "We had feared the worst for a time."
"It was a rather ill turn of events," Aragorn remarked dryly, "but I was fortunate to find allies amongst me."
Faramir's lips twitched, and instead of continuing in the common tongue, he began to speak in Sindarin to his friend. "We met the one in the red cloak earlier, albeit in a very unusual manner." He noted the two other men, who remained a few feet away, began to speak quietly to one another. The steward continued, "It was he who gave us directions to where you were held, saying he was a fellow prisoner."
"This is true," Aragorn confirmed, also switching to Sindarin. "He is sometimes brash, but he has been a staunch ally and honest in his dealings, regardless of his… abilities."
"Does he know who you are?"
The king's lips quirked. "He does. I believe he overheard one of you mention my title when you believed him to be gone." Faramir frowned slightly, and Aragorn continued, "It is fine; I did not expect to continue the ruse when I met again with you."
He nodded, then asked, "And who is his companion?"
Aragorn smiled. "I will introduce you." He partially turned and gestured for the two — sorcerers? — to join them, and switched back to the common tongue. "Faramir, this is Doctor Stephen Strange and his colleague, Wong, who came to our aid in the last step of our escape. Gentlemen, this is the lord Faramir, son of Denethor, and steward to the realm of Gondor."
The shorter, plainly-dressed man called Wong remained silent and only tipped his chin in greeting, but his companion spoke quickly. "Very good to formally meet you," Stephen answered, "but if we could take this back to your camp, we have injuries that need treatment. I don't suppose you have a doctor— uh, medic, or something of the sort?"
Faramir nodded. "Yes, of course." He eyed over Aragorn's form with a frown, and said more loudly, for the benefit of the onlookers that hung nearby, "Come, my lord, and we will see you and your companions' wounds tended to before we discuss what course you would like to proceed with from here."
Aragorn inclined his head in agreement and took the lead back to the encampment, his stride long despite the wound upon his leg. Faramir fell behind him, and he felt the presence of Aragorn's strange companions just behind him, while the rest of the group that had followed him fell in an orderly circle about them.
While the two at his back remained silent during their quick journey back to camp, Captain Galdir quickly took his place beside Aragorn and fell into a soft conversation all but muted by the sound of the others about them. Beregond's earlier suspicions about this Doctor Strange had soon pierced the other captain's mind, despite his beliefs that they had no choice but to trust him. Now that the king was safe, though, Faramir could easily imagine that Galdir was bringing up his doubts now; he had not missed the looks both the captains sent each other and the two sorcerers while Faramir and Aragorn conversed.
"I am glad to see you here and walking under your own power, my lord," the captain of the king's guard said in greeting. "How badly are you wounded?"
"I have had much worse," he reassured Galdir. "I fear I have a slight concussion, but the nausea has lessened significantly since I awoke and I do not fear any long-term repercussions."
"Your leg?"
"A flesh wound; a few stitches should suffice. Thankfully the cut did not hit an artery."
Galdir nodded and fell silent for a brief moment, as if gathering himself. He began slowly, even lower than before, "And you are certain, my lord, that your companions are to be trusted?"
Aragorn looked sidelong at him. "One of them was a prisoner, just like I, and without the other we may very well not have escaped."
"What if they were planted in those very spots to lower your guard? That you of all of us were taken, my lord, only to come to be within the same cell as this sorcerer? It is suspicious, and never have we known a sorcerer who did not serve the Nameless One."
The king shook his head. "It has been almost three decades since the war was won, Galdir. What fervent allies of Sauron remained after have been all but routed out years ago." Before the captain can interject, he continued, "While your theory is possible, it is unlikely that a spy meant to infiltrate our ranks would reveal his powers so openly, for they would know of our prejudices due to what we have experienced in the past." His lips twitch in brief amusement as he continues, "Furthermore, his speech would have been fairer in our interactions if he was working to endear himself to me. His… blunt manner does not make sense in your theory. And in the end, I read no lie in his tone or his eyes. You will have to trust me, Captain."
Galdir exhaled slowly but silenced his concerns, knowing well when the king was decided. "I do, my lord, and I will defer to your judgement."
Aragorn nodded, and their conversation came to a natural end as they entered the camp, where the king greeted the rest of the men with good cheer even as he was escorted to the tent within the center to see his wounds tended to.
As they entered the camp, Stephen's dread increased as he looked around. This only caused his headache— which had begun to prick at his head when the throbbing in his shoulder began to increase— to flare up once more, but his rising anxiety was as inevitable as the sun rising in the east. They had bows and arrows. More swords. More horses. Leather and chain mail. He had seen this group before, of course, but it was not until he saw them at rest that he really realized that the germ theory was probably an unknown in this universe.
"What do you think their medic will prescribe for the pain in my head and shoulder? A leech?" he grumbled quietly at Wong.
"If we're lucky," Wong deadpanned back at him. He then continued, "Many of our cultures used herbal teas with pain-relieving properties in the past. Some still do."
Stephen grimaced. "I am well aware of that," he muttered back. "And before modern medicine, they used the same tea for thirty other varying ailments. Some people still do."
Wong did not look particularly impressed by his complaints and did not bother to respond to him. They followed Aragorn, Faramir, and Galdir inside a large tent where a man waited for him. On a large pallet upon the ground were several archaic versions of healing instruments, as well as several small pouches and some tin containers and small vials. There was also a tea kettle, though its presence did not really relieve Stephen. He looked upon the accoutrements with a discerning eye.
After a quiet word with Aragorn, both Faramir and Galdir left, and the medic began examining the king as soon as he was seated. Stephen eyed the medic's ungloved hands critically as he brushed his fingers through Aragorn's blood-matted hair to unveil the wound. And now there was blood on his fingers, and if he touched it any further his dirty hands would probably infect Aragorn's cut, and they did not likely have anything resembling antibiotics— perhaps he should intervene, step in and examine the cut itself before the so-called medic touched him further, but no, he could not, his own hands were bloody, covered in the dried blood of the soldier that was just doing his job and was now probably dead—
"Stephen."
His eyes shot open — when had they closed? — at his name. Wong was looking at him with his inscrutable look, but there was something different about it. It could have been concern, but Stephen was too sore to bother to try and figure it out. His eyes moved away from his colleague and— oh. The medic was done with Aragorn and giving him a weird look.
"Please sit down, Stephen, and allow my healer to assess you," said Aragorn.
At his bidding, he sunk down, but before the healer could so much as start, Stephen rambled off, "Anterior shoulder dislocation, left side, set in place with the Ko— never mind, you wouldn't know that. It was set in place properly and it will need a sling. Small concussion; it did not give me much trouble while we fought, but it is making itself known now. I still have a faint tinnitus in my ears and occasional bouts of nausea, though I haven't vomited. The headache is, at the moment, the worst part of that, though my shoulder is worse off and if you have something for the pain I would be grateful." He held a brief pause, and then added, "I also need to wash my hands."
The healer blinked and glanced at the king for guidance. Aragorn pressed his lips together, but said, "I warrant his assessment is accurate. If you would oblige his requests, Nethion." The other man bowed and took his kettle before leaving the tent. Outside he heard the man start calling out requests for water, but the ringing in his ears soon drowned out the rest. Funny, he thought, how I did not notice that until after the adrenaline wore off. Or maybe Aragorn's magic healing spell wore off. That is something I need to look into. Maybe Wong knows something about it. Perhaps I can find some sort of spell that works similar to lidocaine to somehow alter the signal conduction in neurons as it does...
He was drawn out of his thoughts by Aragorn's soft voice. "He will prepare willow bark tea and should be back with it shortly."
Stephen's brow furrowed a bit in thought. "Willow bark, willow bark… oh, yeah. Ye Olde Aspirin." When not only Aragorn, but also Wong, failed to react to his quip, he sighed quietly. "Fine. I hope he's quick. Your magical healing bloodline has worn off and it feels like someone is trying to rotate my arm off."
He gently massaged his head in lieu of touching his shoulder, and moved his gaze beyond the healer's toolkit (which had, admittedly, caught all his attention when they entered) to look at the rest of the tent's interior. He sat down adjacent to Aragorn on what— he confirmed with a quick look— seemed to be a rolled up bed mat, all but identical to the one that the king was sitting upon. Wong stood upon his other side, quite content to mimic a mute within this mixed company. Beyond the healer's tools, there were only a few weather-worn bags in the far corner near Aragorn and some sort of flame-lit lantern secured snugly on the center post of the tent, only just illuminating the interior. Overall, the tent was rather bare for its size and did not give the impression of wealth or any sort of kingliness.
"I was imagining a bit more… pomp and flair," he admitted to Aragorn.
"Well," the king started slowly, "we are not travelling in an official capacity."
Stephen lifted his brows. "So… they," he gestured widely with his good arm to the 'beyond', "do not know you, a king, are here."
"Correct."
"Huh. Why?"
"As I said back in the cell, I heard rumors of trouble in this part of Rhûn. Trade between Gondor and the East was being disrupted enough to the point that it reached my ears. I believe we did find the cause of the trouble in the fortress," he added wryly.
"Yes, I get that, but why are you investigating it? Don't you have armies to do that?"
Stephen did not know Aragorn particularly well (not well at all, really), but if he did not know any better, he would say that something resembling a sheepish look passed over the man's face before it became neutral again. The sorcerer narrowed his eyes at him, and the king replied (haughtily, in Stephen's opinion), "It has been some time since I have been out in the field and I warranted this situation important enough to look into personally."
He smirked. "So you were bored playing king and wanted some swashbuckling adventure."
"That was hardly the case—"
Aragorn cut his words off when the tent flap opened and the healer stepped inside once more, carrying the kettle and two cups. Following him with a pot of water, a bar of soap, and a washcloth was Aragorn's angry guard captain that Stephen caught shooting him suspicious looks throughout the entire ten minutes he had been acquainted with him— astral form not included.
"Galdir," the king said neutrally.
"I am assisting Nethion," the captain replied, almost too hastily. "He needed another hand with this pot." He lifted said pot of water a few inches higher.
Aragorn narrowed his eyes, but allowed it. Galdir set his burden down in front of Stephen, his gaze now set to a carefully neutral expression. The sorcerer could feel Wong's gaze upon his back as he muttered, "Thank you," and remained mum thereafter. The king's overly-protective captain had already tried to decapitate his astral form; he was not eager to goad him to take out his weapon against his very physical and very mortal form. Not when he was aching so much.
Speaking of, Stephen could smell the tea that was supposed to help with that, but he wanted to clean the blood off his hands before drinking. He carefully rolled up his sleeves, ignoring Galdir's stare as his hands shook with the action. His hands continued to shake as he picked up the bar of soap— unscented, old-fashioned, but thank God, it was actual soap— and gingerly scrubbed his hands and forearms until they were thoroughly covered. He submerged one hand and forearm at a time, as he was so used to doing under flowing sterile water outside the surgical theaters a lifetime ago, and with a few scrubs of each hand, he was done.
Stephen picked up the washcloth and dried his hands, then lifted his gaze up at the encroaching smell of tea. The healer was now in front of him, and just beyond his shoulder he saw Aragorn's approving gaze.
He must have made a face, for as he carefully accepted the cup (not filled to the brim, thankfully, for still his hands shook), Aragorn said, "I do not often see men so thorough in their washing. You know, then, of the importance of clean hands when doing healing work?"
He blinked in surprise. Instead of answering, he first took a slow sip of the piping hot tea (doing his best to ignore the rather bitter taste). After a few sips to get his tongue more acclimated to the heat, he answered, "Of course. I'm honestly surprised that you do." Alongside the heat of the liquid, he could feel the heat of Galdir's stare after that comment.
Aragorn shot him a bland smile. "Númenor made many discoveries before its fall that were remembered in Gondor. It is not known why such cleanliness is important, but there have been enough observations over the years to prove that there is a difference."
Stephen partially opened his mouth, considering to introduce the king to the works of Pasteur, Koch, and Lister, but a soft clearing of the throat behind him killed that thought. He suppressed a sigh with another, longer drink from his cup; Wong would probably lecture him later about some rule of bringing knowledge to the people of one dimension from another. Pity, too; Aragorn was the sort of man who could spread such knowledge effectively.
Instead he fell silent. As if the cloak could feel his annoyance, it stiffened against his back. He forced himself to calm down and sent it a thought to keep 'natural' for now.
The tea was soon gone, and the healer collected their cups. Aragorn ordered his man to treat Stephen first, and the doctor pursed his lips.
"I will take the sling for my shoulder, but I am fine otherwise," he answered.
The king quickly countered with, "You are my guest—"
"The sling," Stephen interrupted. At Aragorn's frown, he admitted with a reluctance he was not completely able to mask, "I would rather see your medic— uh, Nethion's— work first. Please. Not needing to hold the weight of my arm anymore will be more than sufficient for now, once your, eh, tea kicks in."
He held the sorcerer's gaze for a moment longer before nodding his acquiescence. "Very well. Nethion, if you would."
The man at least knows how to make a sling, Strange admitted to himself after his left arm was secured with what was basically a first aid triangular bandage.
"Did you wish for me to clean your face, sir?" Nethion asked politely.
Clean his fa— oh. Right, the head wound. It had bled a lot, as head wounds were wont to do, but stopped bleeding ages ago. He had all but forgotten the feeling of dry blood on his face. "Uh, no, it's fine, if you could just get me another towel." He eyed the blood-stained washcloth with a grimace.
Before Nethion could reply, a stern-sounding voice broke through. "Captain." Stephen looked at Aragorn, who was looking at Galdir expectantly. "If you would continue your assistance."
His captain kept his face carefully neutral, but bowed and left the tent without further word. Stephen rolled his eyes.
"He really knows how to make a guy feel welcome."
Aragorn huffed in amusement. "Do not mind him. He is especially cautious with recent circumstances."
Stephen retorted dryly, "I am hardly responsible for his failures." He heard Wong shifting beyond his line of sight; he could imagine the librarian rolling his eyes.
By this time, the healer had begun to clean Aragorn's face, and any response the king may have had was silenced for the need to be still as Nethion carefully washed his skin and what dried blood he could scrub out of his hair about the wound. Stephen strained his own neck to get a better look at the other's head, but the lantern in the center of the tent made it hard to read effectively in here, never mind see someone's medical work.
Of course, he could suture simple cuts with his eyes closed at this point of his career— if he still worked as a surgeon. He looked down at his hands, which did not tremor noticeably all the time anymore, but could never remain fully steady with precise tasks. Certainly nothing like surgery, no matter how simple.
Get your melancholy thoughts out of your head, Strange. To his disconcertion, the self-condemning tone sounded eerily like Wong. He entertained the idea that it was him before immediately disregarding it; he knew the feeling of other sorcerers attempting to penetrate his mind at this point in his learnings.
He stirred out of his thoughts when the tent flap opened again to Galdir. The man took quick strides to him and wordlessly held out the clean towel. Stephen murmured his thanks and dipped one part of the cloth into the water.
The healer had moved onto cleaning the wound on Aragorn's leg while Stephen was lost in his musings. After the cloth was cut away from the area and the outer skin cleaned, Nethion brought up what looked to be an absolutely ancient piston syringe. The former surgeon could not help but pause as he carefully dabbed around his split lip to make a face at the instrument.
I suppose it is enough that they actually bother to irrigate cuts… oh, but what is he filling it with? Stephen frowned. I hope that's saline. That's probably not saline.
The healer paused to give him a bit of a look and Wong muttered, "Strange," and it was then that he realized that he said that last part aloud. Oops. Oh well.
He tried to focus on cleaning his face rather than watch the so-called healing in front of him; that lasted for about thirty seconds before the majority of his attention was back on Nethion. At some point he had shifted closer to Aragorn to better see it.
When the healer placed the syringe down and reached for the needle, Stephen's brows jumped.
"Wait, you sterilized that, right?" He paused, and quickly added, "Do you know what I even mean by that?"
Everyone in the tent stared at him. From the corner of his eyes Stephen caught Galdir quickly schooling his features, and he could feel Wong giving him a look; it was probably something unamused and exasperated. The healer, who had grown more tense at the surgeon's neverending scrutiny, shot him a tight look.
"Of course it is sterilized. Do I look like a Dunlending to you?"
"I wouldn't know what a Dunlending looks like. What do you use? Heat, I suppose, or some sort of alcohol."
The healer pressed his lips together and commenced to focus on his task at hand — treating the king. Now that the wound was clean Nethion began to suture the cut on his leg closed. Naturally, Stephen craned his head closer to get a better look.
"That suture is too tight," he said as the healer finished tying off the first one.
"What— what are you talking about?" Nethion paused to frown at him.
"The skin's blanching. It's too tight."
"It needs to be tight for the wound to heal faster," he argued.
Stephen frowned. "That's completely idiotic. Blanching skin means possibility of less blood supply, thus causing increased risk of infection. Do you really want his leg to get infected out here?" He looked at the tent surrounding them in distaste.
Wong rolled his eyes.
The healer frowned at him again, then looked back at the king, who seemed intrigued by Stephen's words. "My lord?" he asked plaintively.
Aragorn eyed Stephen, who in turn gave him his patented 'I am a doctor and know better than you' look. It had been a while since he had used it, and it did not seem to have much effect on him, but it still did the job if the slight nod was anything to go by. "It seems a solid theory that we should look further into at home," he answered diplomatically.
Before Stephen could retort with the 'years of evidence' and 'overall superior medical technology' he had to support his position, Wong grabbed him by the arm — the good arm, thankfully — and hauled him to his feet. "I could do with some fresh air," said the librarian. "If you would excuse us."
"Does Doctor Strange's cut need sutures?" Aragorn asked Nethion.
Before the healer could reply, Stephen answered, "Oh no, I am not letting him near my head with his technique."
"Excuse us," Wong said again, and firmly tugged his fellow sorcerer out of the tent.
"Do not wander beyond the confines of the camp!" Aragorn's angry captain called after them just as they departed.
Stephen rolled his eyes and permitted Wong to walk him towards the horses, where it was relatively uncrowded and they could have something resembling a private conversation. "I didn't say anything wrong," he pointed out. "And God knows if his stitches will have anywhere near the correct intervals between them."
"You were being annoying," Wong answered.
"I was being a responsible doctor."
"You were not," was the immediate reply, and as Stephen opened his mouth to retort once more, Wong cut him off by continuing with, "Your sling ring. You mentioned another sorcerer has taken it?"
Stephen sighed. "Yes; some sort of sorcerer that is a part of this world. The last I saw him, he was still fiddling with it. Even if he's distracted by our escape now, he probably still has it on his person."
Wong eyed his colleague's covered arm with narrowed eyes. "In that case, making a portal to snatch it back will not be a probable solution."
"Probably not. Besides, we also have to go back for the king's sword. It has some sort of Excalibur business going on with it."
"Magical?"
"I don't think so, but it's some sort of 'ancient heirloom'." He brought his free hand up to create finger quotes. One of the nearby horses snorted at him, and he shot the animal a brief look.
Wong pressed his lips together. "Fine. We'll go with this group, get your sling ring and his sword, and then we're leaving."
Stephen twisted his lips up into a smirk. "Easy done. We'll be back in time for dinner."
Wong, for his part, did not smile in return. "We would already be back if you did not lose your sling ring."
"I did not lose it; it was stolen from me! There is a very clear difference between the two."
Another horse nickered, and the librarian eyed it. "Even the animals here are not impressed by your excuses."
"If you are trying to convince me that you can understand horses, you have another thing coming—"
The clearing of a throat interrupted his diatribe, and both Stephen and Wong turned to look at a soldier they had not been introduced to. He eyed them both with barely-veiled suspicion as he said, "The Lord King and Lord Steward ask for your presence in the commander's tent."
"Is that what they're calling it?" Stephen muttered dryly, before adding, "Sure, yes. Coming." They left the horses to follow the man back the way they came; Stephen hoped that they were ready to plan their heist against the fortress to get their stuff back, because at this point, as interesting as all this had been, he was more than ready to go back to his reality again.
Sindarin is one of the Elvish languages, and for those who have only seen the films, the one used in the majority of the Elvish heard on-screen. It is known in some parts of Gondor, especially by people in higher society.
Pasteur, Koch, and Lister were some of the minds that helped move germ theory forward towards common acceptance in the late 19th century. Lister is known as the father of modern surgery.
The specificity of healing knowledge with Gondor and the history behind it is my own theory; there is not enough in canon to make any definite statements, but I extrapolated from the length of the Elves' lifespans and the advancements Númenor (the civilization before Gondor) had supposedly made before its fall. Something like the Roman Empire, only without forgetting all of it for a thousand years.
I would like to thank football's forty-yard dash and its YouTube videos in helping me figure out how tiny people look at forty yards.
I would also like to thank Wikipedia and Google for giving me links to every bit of medical knowledge that I have. I am not a doctor. If you see a glaring error, however, please let me know! I do try to be as accurate as I am able.
