Chapter 8 - The Houses of Healing

*LONG CHAPTER WARNING*


7th March, 3007

"I had not seen such a vibrant colour of the hair until I became acquainted with you, milady," Aeglossel remarked. Her voice was sweet-spoken and crisp; Winter never tired of hearing the girl speak as she tended to her toilet.

Today, Winter grinned at the remark. She sat on a padded stool at a dressing table, wrapped in a soft dressing gown of pale green and facing the wide mirror. In this mirror, she could see Aeglossel standing behind her, pretty face alight with pleasure as she fiddled with Winter's hair. Morning sun spilled through from the veranda, reclining like a cat upon the rich carpets and warming the bedroom. It was a crisp spring morning, dew-studded, clear and perfect.

"Red hair is less rare in my homeland, though still unusual. Túiel believes it makes me stand out unnecessarily—I don't think she shall ever forgive me for not being dark."

Aeglossel ran gentle fingers through the thick, ruddy strands. "I think it is beautiful."

The girl began to gather up loose waves and pin them with small, jeweled clips. As Aeglossel worked, Winter's eyes drifted down to her own reflection.

Her face was split by the wide smile that she had inherited from her mother, blue-grey eyes twinkling in amusement. Thinking of the persistent reprimands Túiel had given her over the past week, Winter schooled her features to a more restrained expression of joy.

"And once more, Lady Faenil, your smile extends from the west to the east! Temper yourself, girl."

She couldn't resent her companion and advisor's comments. She often burst into laughter or grinned like a Cheshire cat before she paused to think. Staring at the mirror, she practiced a decorous smile.

"Are you to be in the Houses of Healing all day today, milady?"

"I believe so, Aeglossel. If I attempt to depart before due time, I am sure Ioreth shall find something to occupy me." Winter took the opportunity to practice her smiling. "Do we use 'occupy' in Minas Tirith?" she inquired, after a moment.

Aeglossel's laugh tinkled out. "Yes, milady. Though you might use 'engage'; many ladies of the court have taken to using it."

"So it's a buzzword?"

Aeglossel's brows knitted together in bemusement. "A—buzzword?"

"Oh," Winter grinned, completely forgetting her attempts to rein in her animated expressions. "Forgive me. It means it is a popular word."

"Ah."

Her maid fell silent for a time, lips pursed as she devoted herself to fastening Winter's hair.

"You have been swift to adopt our manner of speaking, Lady Faenil."

"I had a good deal of time to practice," Winter replied, a little vaguely. "And I must, now, else I stand out and expose… things."

Very articulate. Well-put.

Look, just because I speak like a poet aloud doesn't mean my manner of speaking has been completely rewired!

"There, it is done." Aeglossel stepped back and smiled. "Does it please you, milady?"

Winter tilted her head to survey the girl's handiwork. Her hair had been swept up into an elegant wrap at the back of her head, and twinkled slightly with a tasteful adornment of the jeweled clips.

"It is lovely, Aeglossel." She turned on the stool and met her maid's gaze directly. "Thank you."

Aeglossel flushed a becoming pink. She could only have been seventeen or eighteen years, a beautiful slip of a girl with bright eyes and fair skin. Beneath her doe-like appearance was a great deal of intelligence, however. Despite her youth, Aeglossel had been recruited by the Arda Exchange Program as a field-worker, and Winter found her to be an invaluable mine of wisdom. She was ladylike and keenly aware of decorum, as well as possessing a knack for the duties of a lady's maid.

She'll make a great Túiel, someday.

"You ought to dress, milady."

Winter nodded, ceasing her staring and daydreaming. "Yes."

Aeglossel moved to Lady Faenil's wardrobe, and plucked out a simple gown. It was a dress of grey, looser than the more aristocratic garments Winter possessed, and comprised her "uniform" for working in the Houses.

Winter slipped off her pale green robe and allowed Aeglossel to help her into the dress.

"Have you received news of your companions ere their departure, Lady Faenil?"

Busy trying to protect her hair from being mussed, Winter did not reply for a moment. However, her frame stiffened and her lips formed a severe line.

"No."

"I am sure they shall compose letters to thee soon. Lord Lachlan, in particular, appeared sorrowful in parting."

Notwithstanding the vein of teasing in Aeglossel's voice, Winter's face hardened and she snapped.

"Lord Lachlan is—" an idiot, she finished internally.

Aeglossel's countenance fell a little. Caught between guilt and anger, Winter turned her back to the maid and pretended to busy herself with something on the dressing table.

Confound Lachie, ruining my morning…


"Got everything?"

Lachie glanced up from his orderly packs and smiled half-heartedly. "I believe so."

Winter nodded, lacking words. The pair stood in the library, which had been requisitioned as a group sleeping area whilst Lady Faenil's retinue remained in Minas Tirith. The rest of the contingent were busy over luncheon when Winter had slipped away in search of her absent friend. She'd found him fiddling mindlessly with his bags.

Bewildered by the churning in her stomach, Winter seated herself in one of the library's reading chairs with a near-flawless façade of indifference. Lachie's blue eyes touched hers. She began to inspect her fingernails with pointed avoidance.

"Win—"

Not glancing up, Winter replied, "Yes?"

Lachie's firm tread crossed the library carpet until he stood directly before her. She continued to fiddle with her hands, emphatically eluding eye contact.

What… what on earth are you doing, Winter Newhall?

A moment later, Lachie's hand reached out to stop Winter's distracted movements. His hand clasped hers. Involuntarily, she glanced up.

Cautiously, as if testing the waters, Lachie drew her to her feet. Winter obliged, thoughts silenced and her breathing tremulous. Once on her feet, she found herself standing almost chest-to-chest with the young man. Her mind moved lethargically.

Winter had slowly lost her ability to articulate her feelings concerning Lachie. Half the time, his guileless expression communicated nothing more than platonic friendship; in other moments, the care and longing which punctured his gaze caused her heart to thud.

When was the last time you fell for a guy like this one? an internal critic had scoffed.

Not helpful!

You should—

The thoughts ground to a halt.

Things had only gotten worse over the past few days in Minas Tirith. Lachie was polite, never overstepping bounds. A little clingy, yes, but always thoughtful.

And now, you're falling for him.

"May I kiss you, Win?"

She'd nodded. She'd nodded.

All her carefully-laid plans and aspirations for her foray into Middle-earth, her cultivated emotional distance, her largely-undisclosed past… everything crumbled.

This was not part of the game plan, Winter!

Relief inscribed on his features, Lachie had pulled her even closer then. She was pressed flush against him. One hand rested on her lower back, securing her, whilst the other wrapped around the side of her jaw and into her hair.

Lightly stubbled lips pressed themselves onto hers with growing boldness. Coming to herself a little, Winter was amazed to find herself plastered to Lachie's chest with his mouth exploring hers. It was, admittedly, rather pleasant.

Leaning closer, Winter responded with enthusiasm.

Why does this feel right?

You're an idiot, Winter.

They parted for a moment as Winter readjusted herself, arms looping upwards around Lachie's neck to draw him closer. Then the taste of his lips once more, scorching breath mingling as his mouth opened onto hers. She lost track of where his hands were, travelling around her back and waist. His kisses moved from her lips across her jaw and down onto her neck. Winter moaned softly, intoxicated. Her body was held tight to his, and she felt the heat seeping from him as he continued to trail kisses around her neck.

As he returned to her lips, Winter's pulse thudded uncontrollably.

Oh gosh, this is dangerous…

He did not cease until Winter's knees were weak and she knew the feel of his mouth as well as her own. Then his passion subsided until they stood, forehead to forehead, their lips barely parted.

Well.

Lachie gave a laugh as tenuous as Winter felt. "Sorry."

Flabbergasted, she'd pressed her mouth to his again. "Sorry? You don't kiss a girl that well and then apologise, idiot."

"Right," he grinned, withdrawing a little further. "Well."

"Mm." Winter found that she could not meet his eyes after that—that… did one call it a make-out in Middle-earth?

"And now that I've discomfited the chaste Lady Faenil," Lachie teased, taking a step back and moving to her side so he could sit on the couch, "may we talk a little?"

Winter nodded mutely, flopping down beside him. She knew she ought to feel acutely uncomfortable, or wildly joyful, or—something. Instead, she felt slow and numb and rather dazed. Lachie seemed to have no reservations, however. His hand sought hers, and he began to play with her fingers.

"I shall miss you, Win."

"I'll miss you too," came the automatic reply.

"You know we can write, while we're here?"

She nodded again, factual information helping to reinvigorate her thoughts. "Yeah. Apparently letters should only take like a week to go back and forth because they use the teleportation stations."

Pause.

"You'll write, then?"

"'Course."

Lachie squeezed her hand.

"Thank you."

For a few minutes they sat in silence. Winter could not shake the sluggishness in her mind, though it had lessened somewhat. She knew she ought to be doing something entirely different, rather than sitting like a lovesick princess and allowing Lachie to make all the conversation. To her disgust, she simply couldn't formulate thoughts well enough to take charge. So she let him continue to ramble about all they would both do and see over the coming months.

"I know I've asked you this before, Win, but I just—well… is everything all right?"

The question cut through the fogginess in her mind like a razor.

"Huh?"

Lachie shifted in his seat so that his body was angled toward her. His gaze raked her face. "Why is it that I never know what you're thinking? You always seem to look angry underneath. It's hard to see, and you hide it, but there are moments where I just can't tell. Someone will make a remark and suddenly you're—colder than a stone. Will—will you tell—I mean… I wouldn't—why must—you obviously care—you can't kiss me like that and say you—well, you… I mean…" Winter watched him with an icy stare as he continued. He began to falter under her gaze. "Why do you try and convince the world you just don't care?"

It was as if a siren began to shriek in her mind.

Why on earth do you think I warned you against this, Winter Martha Elizabeth Newhall?!

Look, you can say I told you so later.

Horror engulfed her like a wave. He was close—close—close, too close, far too close. Anger mingled with her fear at letting him enter.

How could you?!

It was not anger at Lachie—he didn't know any better—but, rather, anger at herself. Fury. Rage. Wrath. She could barely give name to the vehemence she felt towards her own careless behaviour. She'd been bowled over by the flood of feeling she discovered in her move to Middle-earth. Her brain had rationalised it, reminding her that it was merely because she "cared". Apparently, opening her heart to this Arda experience had brought with it a deluge of other feelings Winter had no desire for—memories of her childhood had become like nightmares. She'd been forced to keep a tight leash on her mind, preventing herself from wandering into those painful memories that had been so easy to restrain when she'd wrapped herself in apathy. Whenever they slipped past her guard, she defended herself with iron force.

And, somehow, Lachie had slipped past her guard. Physical passion and girlish infatiuation had numbed her to his advances as he'd coaxed her outwards with kisses.

And now, you've let yourself fall completely into this silly emotional state you've always professed to despise! Well done, idiot.

Geez, Lachie. Couldn't have just left it at the kiss, could you?
That made her irate, too.

Oh, goodness, how did it take me this long to notice?

Annoyance burning on her face, Winter looked back to Lachie. He was watching with something akin to fear.

"Win, I'm sorry—"

She didn't want to hurt him, not really. But he wouldn't get closer. He was already dangerously near. She'd been blind.

"It's fine." Her words were clipped. "There is nothing wrong with me."

Lachie treated the lie with the contempt it deserved.

"Win, you can't expect me to—"

"Yes, I can." Regathering her steely composure, Winter smiled with dangerous control. "There is nothing to discuss. I'll miss you, but we'll write. Now, I better go say goodbye to the others, or people will start suspecting." She leaned close to him, brushing her lips on his, and moved directly to the door. As she lingered on the threshold, Lachie's eyes followed her.

Reproachful. Disappointed.

"I know you're lying," his look said.

She wouldn't deny it. Nor would she spurn his friendship, for he mattered to her. There would be no more kissing, that was for sure—it rattled her, stopped her from realising what was truly going on.

But, for the first time in weeks, Winter realised how greatly she had missed that impenetrable shield she wrapped herself in. It lay beneath her bright smiles and cheery looks, screening her from prying. More than that, it cut off those sensitive feelings she so abhorred.

Winter was back.

With a last smile at Lachie, painful in its coolness, she withdrew.


"Milady?"

Winter turned from the dressing table, having selected a pair of simple earrings and slipped them through her lobes. The poignancy in the memory brought forth a flush of anger.

You're not supposed to let that get to you anymore, Win! Focus.

Ok.

"Yes?"

When she met Aeglossel's gaze, her countenance was smooth and bright once more. She'd fought hard to stay afloat since Lachie's departure. Looking back, she realised she'd been out of her depth since her first few days in Middle-earth. For the first time since then, she had regathered herself into the cool, determined Winter she was familiar with. It felt good to be in control again. It was much better to toss aside the moments of weakness.

Better not to care.

And I'll just have to get better at brushing it off when people mention Lachie again. He's nice, but you don't care. You can't. Good kisser. Nice guy. Friend. That's it. You're done with this emotional rubbish.

Aeglossel seemed thankful to see any hints of displeasure swept away from Winter's visage.

"Shall I descend and inquire if your breakfast is ready?"

"Yes please," Winter nodded. "Don't trouble yourself to come back up. You may ring the bell for me, and I shall come on my own."

"As you wish, milady." Aeglossel curtseyed and departed.

Winter occupied herself with a few last checks to her appearance. Aeglossel had done wonders with her hair, and her gown was clean and pressed. Draping a cloak on her bed in readiness for her walk to the Houses, she strode out onto the veranda to admire the morning view with her few moments of free time.

She'd won. And she would keep winning. It didn't matter. She was still rather exasperated with herself for coming to care for him so quickly, letting him past her guard. However, it was done, and he was gone. She wouldn't be subject to such a mistake again. As such, she allowed herself to drink in the view of Pelennor with a light heart.

The fields about Minas Tirith had lost none of their beauty since Winter first arrived. It was easy to enjoy them, though she was not awestruck as she had been earlier. There was admiration for the picturesque landscape, but none of the childlike wonder. Her chest felt… stiff, as if the feeling couldn't quite get past an obstruction.

No, that was absurd. It was exquisite here. Magnificent. Glorious. Outstanding. Yes. It was true, so she must feel it.

She frowned slightly at the possibility that she didn't feel quite as reverential as she should. Before she could explore the thought further, the bell attached to the wall near her door tinkled. Eager to sate her appetite—Winter hadn't quite become accustomed to a long morning toilet before she was allowed to eat—she grabbed her cloak and descended to the breakfast room.

Inside were Túiel, Badhor and Aeglossel. The maidservant took Winter's cloak and withdrew, whilst Badhor seated her in her chair.

"Good morning, Lady Faenil," Túiel said, seating herself primly. "Did you rest well?"

"Very, thank you. And yourselves?" Winter glanced between companion and byrath.

Both nodded as Badhor slipped into his chair.

Badhor was a character Winter longed to know more of. The man was her byrath, a form of traditional Gondorian butler or seneschal. He was responsible for managing Winter's estate, provided an official male escort when the need arose, and was a kind of general advisor in political matters. He was short for a man of Gondor, barely over six feet, with a thin face and a grandfatherly expression despite being sixty at most. Lady Faenil had little need of him as yet, not having attended any social functions. However, he was an experienced member of the Arda Exchange Program, and had already been coaxed to share some stories of previous exchange students. He was very witty and sharp, much to Winter's glee.

"You are ever lost in thought over your meals, milady," half-scolded Túiel, tapping the side of Winter's plate with her fingernail. "You are expected in the Houses in less than a full hour of the sun. Do not tarry."

"Sorry, Túiel." Winter turned to her breakfast plate, picking daintily at the dish before her. It was some kind of crepe filled with vegetables.

"You shall not want for activity in the coming days, Lady Faenil," remarked Badhor, swallowing a mouthful of his usual porridge—he seemed to eat nothing else. "Whilst in your homeland spring begins on the first day of the month, Gondor has not yet left winter behind. Tuilere approaches in less than a fortnight, and ere this occurs you are expected at two functions with other members of Lord Denethor's court."

Winter's forehead creased. "Tuilere? That is the celebration of spring's beginning, is it not?"

"Indeed."

"She ought to have enough to busy herself with her work in the Houses alone," remarked Túiel, firmly. "Though Healer Ioreth is convinced she ought not do long days as of yet."

I'm not complaining about the short hours—less time listening to dear Ioreth talk!

"And yet," smiled Badhor, meeting the older woman's gaze, "she is a lady, and must become acquainted with those in the Lord Denethor's court. You shall see her made a healer soon enough, Túiel."

Túiel was very prim as she speared a piece of fruit with her fork.

"I am aware of this."

Winter chuckled inwardly at the pair of them. Túiel had explained that she and Badhor had worked together for many years now. Seeing their good-natured—and excessively restrained—disagreements was rather amusing. They were like an old, married couple who liked to bicker quietly over trivialities, such as which way the toilet roll was supposed to go.

Like Nanna and Pop.

She smiled—carefully, so as not to turn Túiel's ire upon herself.

"When am I expected to finish working in the Houses today?" Winter inquired, pouring herself a cup of her usual morning tea.

"You should not speak of 'finishing work', Lady Faenil, but of 'departing' or 'concluding'," Túiel reminded her, in her quiet, slightly exasperated way. Her sharp eyes lingered on Winter until she corrected herself.

"When might I expect to depart the Houses today?"

"Better, milady. Healer Ioreth should have no further use for you ere we reach the third hour after noon."

Three pm. Ok. Can do.

"And am I to be occupied this eve as well?"

"Nay," Túiel shook her head, then smiled sightly, "for Badhor has collected something which belongs to you. Lord Calaron explained to us that you could not bring the instrument you favour to Minas Tirith—the banjo, as you call it; as such, he instructed us to acquire for you a harp. Tonight, you shall learn to play, for it is custom that a lady should have skill in music."

Winter's heart leapt. It had been gut-wrenching to leave her banjo behind in Caoloth. Still…

"Yet I do not play harp," she replied slowly.

Túiel smiled again. "Lord Calaron did not foresee any trouble in learning, and Aeglossel has some skill in this matter. She shall help you."

Winter blinked several times. She had not counted on having to learn an entirely new instrument, much less a harp. She'd heard those were tricky. However, she knew better than to protest, even after such a short time in Middle-earth. Túiel was kind, brisk, and efficient, but she was also not accustomed to protest or rebellion.

Guess I will be busy.

"Lady Faenil."

Winter repressed a jump at Túiel's low reprimand. She'd dozed off in thought once more, and her vegetable crepe was growing cool.

Awfully daydreamy today, aren't we?

That's what thinking of Lachie will do to you, silly.

Túiel's gaze flipped rhythmically between her own plate and Winter's, as if to chide her, "Hurry now, girl, you're slower than Badhor on the Citadel stairs!"

Realising there was no benefit in irking her companion—despite the amusement this would bring—Winter finished her breakfast with the prim decorum of an aristocrat. Seeing she was finished eating, Aeglossel removed her plate and returned a few moments later from the kitchen with three warm, damp cloths.

According to Minas Tirith's customs, it was considered proper that warm cloths be produced after every meal. These were used by the guests to wipe their faces and hands in readiness for their departure. Winter accepted her towel from Aeglossel with a smile and proceeded to dab at any crumbs or grease about her lips.

Túiel glanced at the tall clock which graced the dining room in Lady Faenil's house.

"Forgive me, Badhor," she said to the byrath, with a faint trace of apology in her voice. "We shall have to depart before you are done."

Badhor, who was still devouring porridge contentedly, nodded. "It is of no import, Túiel. You must ensure Lady Faenil is delivered to Healer Ioreth's charge in due time."

Túiel inclined her head in return, before beckoning that Winter rise. "In which case, we must be off. Our cloaks, Aeglossel."

The maid laid Badhor's warm cloth beside his place setting in readiness for later, before gliding out of the dining room once more. A moment following, both Winter and Túiel had wrapped themselves in cloaks and departed by way of the front door. There they met the two members of staff that had come to form Winter's regular escort. She smiled in greeting at them both, and received unusually animated expressions in return.

Unlike the rest of her team, these two guards were not native-born Gondorians. They were, in fact, people of Earth. Winter had tossed aside the Gondorian names they had given her, gleeful at being able to refer to them as "Will" and "Sam". She hadn't managed to convince them to call her Winter as of yet—but she was hopeful.

"Good morning, milady," they bowed. "Good morning, Túiel."

Túiel nodded slightly, leading Winter past them and out the gate. Both men blended in well, being very tall and dark. As they set out along the paved streets of Minas Tirith, Winter heard Sam cough. It was a nasty, wracking cough, reminding her of someone who had recently had the flu. She caught the sound of Will's soft inquiry—"Are you all right?"—and Sam's cheerful affirmative. Then, they were caught in the strings of people and Winter's attention was entirely diverted by her attempts to remain by Túiel's side.

The quiet of Winter's first walk to the Houses of Healing had been deceptive. Since then, she had marvelled at the steady winding crowd which filled even the upper levels of Minas Tirith, snaking between milliners and jewellers and the rich noble houses. It was neither a mass nor a mob, but rather a stately procession of rich folk and their servants—and nevertheless difficult to navigate.

These morning walks were a high point in Winter's days. Here, she could lose herself in sharp-eyed study of Minas Tirith's populace, eyeing lords and ladies with an appraising mind as Túiel directed them up to the sixth level.

It's still a little hard to imagine they're all real, Winter mused inwardly, caught between following Túiel and begrudgingly admiring a lavish morning gown of ivory satin worn by an aristocratic lady. These people live here, in Minas Tirith, and that is all the life they know. This is their world, just as Earth is mine. Part of me keeps coming back to the idea that they must simply all be actors in a show—that they're not truly of Middle-earth.

It was an odd thought. Still, it busied her thoughts, and in spite of it all she possessed a keen interest in Minas Tirith's fashions. Seeing so many immaculately clad men and women made her glad for the cloak which masked her grey gown. The latter would announce her as a Healer to any who saw it, and there was no shame in such a uniform. Still, Winter's vanity did not allow her to enjoy the simple grey, when she could have blended into the throng in a green dress of very gratifying extravagance. Fortunately, the cloak she wore was embroidered maroon wool, and Winter was fond of it. The cowl was currently pulled up to cover her hair.

As they neared the houses, the crowds dwindled. Túiel squinted upwards at the sky and slackened her pace. Winter had still not apprehended how her companion could read the time of day by the position of the sun, but she admired the skill nonetheless—especially if the verdict was that they were early.

Several minutes later, they approached the Houses. Winter had yet to see a more beautiful part of the White City. Where the lower levels were a series of snugly-packed buildings, the Houses were spacious and extensive. They encompassed a section of the southern side of the sixth level, stretching from its outer side to the lee of the wall which separated it from the seventh. The main wing fell in the centre, surrounded on all sides by verdant gardens in a gleeful waste of space. Gravel paths twisted about the luxuriant beds, alive with crocus and honeysuckle and a score of flowers Winter could not attribute names to.

The building itself was several storeys high, with broad windows and shaded porches extending from the lower floors. Balconies hugged the upper levels. A clear canal flowed out from beneath the wall behind, making a tour of the garden before it was channelled down to the fifth level to enliven a fountain. The entire structure was ensconced in the warm embrace of a creeping vine, which lent a softness to the overall image. It was, in Winter's opinion, in every way superior to the clinical sterility of the modern Earth hospital—and no less busy.

The quartet moved along a gravel path direct to the Houses' main entrance. Winter bemoaned the lack of opportunity to pluck some of the lilies from a nearby garden bed, but instead steeled herself to follow Túiel. Her mother had always had a garden bed full of lilies, though she'd never let Winter touch them.

As if they were more precious to her than—

What did we say about letting thoughts run away with you?

A moment later, they had come to the entrance hall, and a young pageboy had come to collect their cloaks.

Túiel's quick gaze fell upon Winter as the latter slipped down her hood. Túiel's eyes prophesied some kind of reprimand to the young Australian girl, who braced herself with a slight smirk tugging at her wide mouth.

"Lady Faenil, with your hair and cloak—all of you is red!"

Yep. Called it.

Despite all her resolutions to the contrary, Winter burst out laughing. Her fingers grasped the wine-coloured wool which was completed by her crown of flaming hair. She continued to grin as she unfastened the garment and passed it to the pageboy.

I am very, very red—but goodness Túiel, clearly no one ever taught you not to comment on a ginger's hair!

"And I so hoped my hair could be considered auburn," Winter sighed, adopting a caricature of a pout and thinking of an equally ruddy-haired book heroine of her childhood.

Like Anne and Marilla all over again…

Túiel pressed her lips together in disapproval, glancing about at the people who passed. "I do not know to what you are referring—" Lucky for you! "—but are you insensible to the stares you receive, Lady Faenil? Red is not a quiet colour."

Winter gave a slight shrug. The majority of the time, she walked to the Houses of Healing with her head covered as was custom for a noble lady. In the shadow of her cowl, no one could easily observe the vibrancy of her hair. In the few instances she had gone abroad for leisure, she had been permitted to wear only a transparent veil. It barely dulled the cheerful red. In those moments she had been the object of many stares—and, truthfully, enjoyed the attention. Badhor recounted to her rumours of an exotic lady in Minas Tirith, flame-haired like her mother from the North, and exceptionally beautiful.

"Better to be stared at because I am unusual-looking than for breaking custom," Winter replied quietly. "Have I done anything amiss?"

Túiel's reply was rather begrudging, and she glanced furtively as several healers passed by. "No, milady."

Winter smiled. "Then I suppose we are not discovered, and all is well."

"Yes indeed, milady," agreed her companion, with far too much cheek for a real servant. Winter bit her cheek to prevent herself from galling Túiel any further. She was saved by the appearance of a fresh-faced healer's apprentice.

"Lady Faenil," nodded Gaerel, dropping into the slightest of curtseys and inclining her head in Túiel's direction. "Lady Ioreth expects us."

"Yes," Winter agreed. "Thank you, Túiel."

Containing her sarcasm admirably, Túiel curtseyed to her "mistress" and departed with Sam and Will in her wake.

As Winter followed Gaerel down the corridor, she sighed softly. Perhaps the main reason she accepted her unusual hair colour with equanimity was Ada Newhall. Her mother had worn it proudly, imperiously beautiful and utterly unapologetic for outshining every other woman in her presence. Winter's stomach twinged with mixed pride and regret.

And then she was disappointed to have me!

Her heart fell a little. She could see her mother, as if she stood in an alcove nearby, shrouded in disapproval. Winter sighed with inward weariness.

Damn it, Winter! What did Abby tell you? When did your mother ever tell you she was disappointed in you?

She didn't, came the somnolent reply. She just looked it, every day.

She sighed again.

Let's just hope to goodness I've put Túiel off hassling me about my hair ever again!

Had it not been for Gaerel, Winter was certain she would've wandered off track in the minute it took for all those thoughts to flash before her mind's eye. She tended to lose herself in thought entirely, at times.

And you've got a job to do, so you just get yourself together now, came an uncompromising reprimand.

What, me, doing my duty? Mum'd have a heart attack, she replied, with a hint of her usual acridness.

"Do you know what you are to do today, Lady Faenil?"

Blinking slightly, Winter turned her head to observe Gaerel. The prim Gondorian woman kept her eyes forward, displaying her dainty profile. She was exquisite and unreachable—like the lilies in her mother's garden.

"Nay, Gaerel." Had Winter imagined the tightening of the other woman's lips when she'd referred to her as 'Lady Faenil'?

No reply.

She would have shrugged, except that she immediately thought of Túiel's reaction to such an expressive gesture.

Túiel would fall in love with Gaerel in an instant, Winter mused, feeling more cheerful as she surreptitiously scrutinised the other woman's face. It was more of a mask than a face, really.

Gaerel turned through a broad archway to the left—Ioreth's surgery, where she worked on new remedies and treated any particularly unwell patients.

Winter quenched her desire to grin as they entered. As irritating as Ioreth could be at times, she was also excessively amusing. Added to this was the fact that Winter simply couldn't give vent to her mirth, a fact which made things funnier; exploding with laughter every time Ioreth waggled her eyebrows in that maddening way would have Túiel in spasms of horror.

"Ah! It is Lady Faenil! And Gaerel," cried Ioreth, bursting forth from a side-chamber.

Do. Not. Laugh.

"Good morning, Ioreth." Gaerel curtseyed. Winter followed suit, glad to lower her head so her dancing eyes didn't betray her.

"Good morning, Ioreth."

"Good morning. Come, come," said the elder woman, flapping her hands as she flew back across the floor. "We have no time for formality."

Gaerel's face tightened slightly at this.

As little as I relish a Potter reference, she looks like she's about to shout, "My father will hear about this!"

Winter, you're supposed to avoid laughing, not amuse yourself! Or stoop to Potter!

C'mon, my internal commentary is all I've got in these moments. Besides, she grinned inwardly, Potter and Gaerel seem about the same, In my books.

"You girls shall work in company today," Ioreth informed them, her thick brows knotted in concentration. "The Houses are in uproar, for Lord Boromir, Captain of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor's Armies, has returned from Osgiliath, and with him many men in need of tending. None are mortally wounded, and shall be quite safe in your hands. Yet we must not tarry."

This speech was punctuated by several pauses, some energetic eyebrow acrobatics, and much pacing.

Kind of like if you pencilled in eyebrows on a chicken and chased it around a kitchen.

Winter steeled her attention in Ioreth's direction whilst her longing to fall upon the ground and giggle waned.

"You shall attend to those on the second floor of the western wing," Ioreth informed them. She gathered up a scattered oddment of belongings from her remedies cupboard and tossed them into her apron. "Come, come; all the medicines you shall be needing are kept upstairs, and many await who shall be more comfortable after your ministrations." Then, she strode out of the surgery with near-frantic urgency, talking all the while. Gaerel followed with her usual stately indifference.

Winter found her spirits rising as they climbed a flight of stairs and progressed along another corridor to the western end of the Houses. She had spent the majority of the last week and a half learning the ropes, becoming acquainted with Gondorian medicine, and being instructed in treating some easy patients. There had been little to do with her physiotherapy qualification thus far, though a thorough understanding of anatomy stood her in good stead. Her supervisors had been pleased about that. Still, it didn't take a genius to mix herbal teas and poultices.

Now, however, it seemed they were to graduate to treating real patients!

Probably just men from the front who have a few scrapes, bruises, and maybe the odd broken rib.

Still!

Ioreth halted abruptly before a door, and Winter narrowly avoided cannoning into her. She could feel Gaerel's silent disapproval as she struggled to control her long limbs and her mirth.

"Henceforth you shall be among soldiers," Ioreth informed them, solemnly. "Their talk is coarse, their manners often coarser, and their pride great. I shall be amongst you, tending to those whose need is direr. If you are in any doubt as to your treatments, call for myself or another Healer. You are maidens of Gondor and apprentice healers, and these men mean no harm to you. Yet if there is any cause for discomfort as to their behaviour, summon one of the elder women just as you would if your path for treatment unclear. Yes?"

Both young women nodded.

"You especially, Lady Faenil, for as a member of the Steward's Court, you must command respect."

Winter twinkled in reply. "I shall, Ioreth."

The healer whisked away as if she hadn't heard Lady Faenil's reply. Entering the room, she moved swiftly to a nearby table and unloaded the burden contained in her apron.

"Come, Lady Faenil; Gaerel; gather your things. Those with minor injuries await you at the far end of the room."

Winter scarcely heard this instruction. She was awed as she entered the long hospital ward, broken down both sides by beds and chairs. Today it was bustling, filled with ten times the men as there were beds. It was more like a drop-by clinic than a ward.

The entire room was lined with soldiers, glinting silver and black in their armour. Hair was matted, faces dark with various stages of beard growth, and clothing had been discarded to varying degrees in order to receive treatment. Some had been entirely undressed. One young man was sitting upon a bed near Winter's right hand, being tended by an experienced healer. He had been stripped so he wore only his loose breeches and boots, his chiselled torso exposed to full view. He blushed a hale shade of pink when he realised Winter was watching him, and hurriedly averted his eyes. Modesty was held in high regard in Gondor.

Realising she was staring, Winter turned to the place Ioreth had gestured at. There awaited the healer's kits, full of herbs, bandages and various other oddments they would require. Gaerel had already acquired hers, and was moving down the ward haughtily.

Winter hastened to join her, gathering her supplies and moving toward the busier end of the room. Here one older Healer was already at work, and Gaerel had joined her. The murmur of gravelly voices was louder at this end of the room. Winter felt a little awestruck as many pairs of eyes shifted toward her.

What was it you were saying before to Túiel about not minding stares?

Much to her disgust, she knew she was just as pink as the bashful soldier at the other end of the ward.

C'mon. You massage old people for a living. You can handle chucking bandaids on a couple of hot warriors!

So she stilled her features and moved to the opposite side of the room to where Gaerel was already at work.

Winter met the eyes of the first soldier she was to treat, and quailed slightly. She had had precious little time to observe Minas Tirith's soldiers since she'd seen them that first day. Up close, and wearing nothing more than a soft black tunic, they still managed to seem other-worldly and dignified.

And you've travelled twice as far as any of them, studied for probably five times as long—and you can box. You got this.

"Gi suilon," she said, standing before the first bed and gripping a façade of confidence about her like a blanket.

"Gi suilannon, rodel," the man upon the bed replied gravely, courteous in spite of a countenance which belied his pain.

Lachie did always tell you your Sindarin was too informal, she sighed.

And how did he know I'm a lady?

Who else would you be, the only redhead in an entire city with jewels in your hair?

Right.

Realising she was a little out of her depth, Winter's eyes travelled swiftly over the man. He had shed his armour, but it sat on the bed nearby. A few metres away on the next bed sat another knot of men, watching her intensely. These all wore identical chainmail and tunics, and seemed oddly interested in the proceedings. Upon closer inspection, Winter also noted that the man she stood before had a slightly different insignia upon his uniform. His helmet was also more ornate.

The information flashed back to her memory swiftly as she performed a lightning study of the design.

A Second Captain, she thought, with relief. Guess it wasn't such a bad thing that Calaron tested me so rigorously on military ranks.

"Second Captain—?"

"Rostor." He lifted an eyebrow in a mild show of surprise at her knowledge.

"What ails you, Second Captain Rostor?"

He shifted so he turned to face her fully. It was then that Winter realised there was a misshapen lump on his low-hanging right shoulder, and discovered the source of his haggard expression.

"Your shoulder is dislocated," she said without thinking, placing all her goods on the bed beside him and stepping forward. Fortunately, she halted before she reached out to touch him.

"It will not move, milady."

One of the soldiers on the next bed had spoken. He was younger than his Second Captain, who looked to be about thirty-five, and his face was lined with worry. It took mere seconds to grasp the situation, whilst Rostor looked acutely miserable. He was not someone who liked attention, she perceived, as he sent the young man-at-arms a stern look.

"It is of no great import, milady," grumbled Rostor, moving as if to rise. His face hardened in well-masked pain as he did so.

"Please, sir, sit," Winter urged, concerned.

Goodness knows how long it's been out of joint, he hasn't told anyone, and now it's giving him hell! And that young man—looks kinda like him, a brother maybe?—is worried, and his company's all here to check that he's really all right!

Rostor begrudgingly lowered himself to the bed. She moved about him swiftly, attempting to make him comfortable as his arm hung awkwardly. This she propped with a pillow.

Winter knew what to do. She was almost confident about executing the manoeuvre; if Rostor had managed the pain for this long, he would be far less squeamish than her last patient had been as she popped his shoulder back into place. Nevertheless, Winter was not eager to alert either Ioreth or Gaerel to the severity of the injury. By rights, Rostor should have been down at the more acute end of the ward.

Not going to give up a chance to show off, are you?

Nope. And anyway, as a real-life physio, I'm probably better qualified for dislocations than even Ioreth herself. But she doesn't know that.

"Was there not a healer amongst you upon the field who could have treated this?" she inquired, beginning to move Rostor's armour aside. It stank like BO.

Ah, the nitty-gritty life of a Gondorian Second-Captain.

"Yes, milady," Rostor admitted. "Though for an injury such as this, the Captain-General desired that I wait until a Healer could attend me."

Ah. Boromir. Well at least we know he's not an idiot.

"Captain-General Boromir is wise," Winter replied, allowing herself a small smile. "I shall hopefully relieve you of some discomfort presently."

For an instant, Rostor's gaze flickered to where the chatty Ioreth was bustling about the ward. Winter stared back at the Second Captain, daring him to question her capability. Seeing the challenge upon her face, he seemed surprised once more. His lips curved in a ghost of a smile.

"I believe you shall."

Winter: 1. Rostor: 0.

She whisked about to face the ensemble of watching men-at-arms. "I shall need assistance, someone strong. It's not easy to treat such an injury." Winter studied each of the half-dozen men.

"You aid her, Acharndir, for you shall not become as squeamish as young Aearonion," chuckled a greying man of middle years. The youngster Aearonion, who had piped up in his anxiety, scowled at him, whilst a third individual rose and moved to Winter's side.

"What do you require, milady?" Archandir inquired mildly.

Winter paused, choosing her words carefully. She'd never really considered how to phrase modern medical terminology in the cadence of Gondor.

"We must move his arm back into its place," she said, pursing her lips. "However, it requires some force, and we must not harm him further. If it is incorrectly placed, he may lose feeling in his arm, so we must be careful."

Rostor frowned heavily at this. Once more he scrutinised Winter's face—Noting how young I am, probably—her posture and the small jewels which glinted upon her hair.

I'm a young lady playing nurse. No, really.

"However, first I must ascertain if there are any breaks, and administer your Second Captain something to dull the pain." Winter said this to her helper, who nodded wordlessly. She moved to her kit bag, eternally grateful she'd sought to identify Minas Tirith's anaesthetics within the first few days of her training. The idea of treating people without some form of pain relief made her sick to the stomach.

Ideally, we'd have an x-ray done before I even attempt this. Way too possible that he's damaged something near the socket, but I guess this is all I can do.

And if it goes wrong, and Ioreth finds out?

It won't.

Winter gathered her supply of drugs and tipped them into a cup which rested on Rostor's table. Adding some water from a jug, she swirled it about and passed it to the Second Captain.

"I am sorry to leave you for any length of time, but this medicine will take a half hour to take effect. I shall not do anything until that point. Is there any numbness in your arm at present?" Winter heard Rostor's wordless murmur in the negative as he drank the contents of the cup. "Good. If you still have feeling in your arm, it is likely not serious. Are there any others in need of treatment in the meanwhile?"

Several soldiers—for more had gathered about as Winter treated their Second-Captain—professed minor injuries, and Winter began to apply sterilising agents and bandages to the odd bump and scrape. It was simple work—anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of First Aid on Earth could have done it—and she was soon done.

Rostor's countenance appeared far more relaxed when she turned back to him not long after. Winter was unsure entirely how long had elapsed—the ward had no clock—but it seemed roughly half an hour. At any rate, Rostor was beginning to get the airy look of someone who'd just had a strong dose of morphine.

"Second Captain?" Winter asked quietly, leaving her latest patient to admire his fresh bandage and returning to her most troublesome charge.

Rostor grunted. "Let us proceed."

Winter placed her other things aside and stood before Rostor. Glancing up quickly, she saw that Gaerel and the other Healer had moved along the ward already. The qualified Healers were also amply occupied at the other end of the ward.

Winter breathed.

Today, she would not be a disappointment—to anyone.

Nevertheless, her earlier confidence had been eroded as time had passed. Her stomach was twisted in knots lest she do something wrong.

She breathed again and gathered herself.

"Second Captain Rostor, sevin dhâf maetha le?"

It was the same question she had asked of each and every patient.

It also bespoke her status as a lady.

A healer of common station would simply inquire in the Common Tongue if they might treat the patient's injuries. However, Winter was required—as Lady Faenil—to voice this request in Sindarin. Traditionally, this pertained to the courting rituals of the nobility; a Lord or Lady must ask in the Gondorian Elvish dialect whether they might touch the one they courted. In the setting of the Houses, it was merely a perfunctory query as to whether Winter could touch her patient. When treating the men-at-arms, Winter had had to repeat such a request in the Common Tongue as well, for many spoke little to no Sindarin. Rostor, as a Second-Captain, was required to learn it. As such, he replied smoothly.

"Ben iest gîn."

Winter nodded sharply. Right.

From a distance, she heard herself instructing Archandir to wash his hands. When there was naught left to do but begin, Winter stepped forward and laid her hand on Rostor's shoulder.

Capable fellow, if he's already a Second-Captain in his thirties. Shrewd. Strong. Pain tolerance of an elite gymnast. Not bad-looking. Well-respected.

His shoulder was warm beneath the thin black tunic. Winter's hands moved tentatively across the joint, trying not to cause the man undue pain. His shoulder was a knot of muscle and tendons twisted badly out of shape. The painkillers had done their duty, however; he did not so much as flinch as Winter began to explore the damage with greater boldness.

After ten minutes of careful investigation, she sighed with relief.

"There is nothing broken," she announced softly. Archandir evidently related this quiet information to the other men, for they began to chatter far more happily upon hearing this news.

Still, it's inflamed like crazy because he didn't ice it.

"Was your arm secured for the journey back from Osgiliath?"

Rostor nodded. "Lord Boromir requested it be placed in a sling."

Thank God.

You'll have to attempt a closed reduction and just hope that there's nothing impeding it.

And pray that we get it over and done with before Ioreth notices.

The Healer-women had met Winter's gaze several times already, when she had been obediently treating minor wounds.

Just ten minutes would be great.

"Let's give this a go," she muttered quietly, plucking the sheet off the end of the bed. "Archandir, might you clear the bed? Rostor, you shall have to take off your tunic."

The Second Captain, happy in his bleary haze of painkillers, did so with only a slight wince. Winter was gobsmacked after the bashful display of the earlier shirtless soldier.

Clearly hard-core drugs reduce your inhibitions, even in Gondor.

She helped Rostor remove the tunic from his useless arm and laid it carefully aside. Whilst Archandir finished his task, Winter looped the sheet like a rope around Rostor's armpit so the ends extended past his head and instructed him to lie down. Lifting his unclad arm left forth another waft of male sweat.

That I don't think I'll ever get used to.

"Ready, my lady," Archandir announced.

Not "Healer"? Interesting.

"Thank you. Might you stand at the head of the bed and grasp the ends of the sheet? Yes, thank you. I shall pull on Captain Rostor's arm, whilst you pull in the other direction upon the sheet. You shall provide traction as I attempt to reduce the spasm in his muscle and allow the shoulder to return to its place."

"Don't watch, Aearonion," jibed the older man again, unshakably cheerful.

Or breathe, Winter wanted to put in. Rostor smells worse than a Byron Bay supermarket.

Ignoring the stench of unwashed bodies, Winter grasped hold of Rostor's hand and wrist. Archandir positioned himself obediently at the head of the bed, holding the sheets in roughened hands.

Gosh, I hope I'm strong enough for this. Her stomach turned. It was no mean feat to pull a shoulder back into place.

Turning to the right, Winter gave one last look toward where Ioreth worked. The Healer-woman had seen her, and was watching in puzzlement.

Ah, dear. We're in for it.

"Archandir, you merely need to counter the force of my pulling," Winter informed him, bracing herself against the bed and beginning to lean into her task. Rostor's arm lay almost alongside his body, whilst Winter started to pull against it. Archandir responded, steading his superior officer with his weight on the sheet.

"Lady Faenil?" came an inquiring call.

Winter applied further weight to Rostor's arm.

Come on, come on!

Rostor groaned softly as the pressure increased. Archandir gripped his sheets grimly. Footsteps clattered down the aisle of the ward. A moment later there was a sickening pop sound and Rostor gasped.

It worked.

Yeah, and the man didn't scream. If all the men of Minas Tirith are made of this stern stuff, I'm in for an easy job.

Ioreth arrived milliseconds later.

"Lady Faenil, what manner of injury are you treating? You should—" Her tirade was cut surprisingly short as Winter turned to face her. Triumph was written on her features as she glanced between the Healer and Rostor. The Second Captain was smiling—a small one, certainly, but compared to the impassive faces of the other Gondorians it was a positive grin—and Archandir helped him sit up. The other men-at-arms looked collected but relieved, whilst Aearonion had left his post on the bed and moved to Rostor's side in a surprisingly animiated flurry. The captain did not attempt to move his arm, but the relief from pain was obvious.

Winter dropped into a rather smug curtsey.

"A dislocated shoulder, Healer Ioreth. The shoulder moved easily back into place. I believe Second Captain Rostor is greatly better now."

The Healer's hazel eyes—unusual colour, that—were wide with astonishment.

"You have treated this, Lady Faenil?"

Oh. Didn't think about that, did we? Oops.

Winter lowered her eyes demurely. "I have dealt with numerous such injuries, upon my father's estate. We have no healer-women, and I have treated similar wounds in times of need."

Ioreth quirked a bushy eyebrow. Then, "I must inspect the patient." She bustled forward, shooing away Rostor's men-at-arms to inspect the shirtless Second Captain. Winter deemed this an appropriate time to retire, and hid a satisfied smile in her kit.

That could have gone all kinds of bad. Lucky it was a simple dislocation.

Pleased with her efforts, Winter nodded in farewell to some of Rostor's companions and proceeded down the ward. As she did so, she met Gaerel's stony gaze. The implacable girl looked almost sour.

Winter's heart danced a jig.

Her father will definitely hear about this.


TRANSLATIONS

Gi suilon – I greet you (informal)

Gi suilannon, rodel – I greet you, lady (formal)

Sevin dhâf maetha le – May I touch you (bad grammar, I translated myself)

Ben iest gîn – As you wish (formal)


AUTHORS NOTE

Hey again friends!

Chapter 8 is here. Sorry it's been such a wait; I've been flat-out with uni stuff but I did this in tiny dribs and drabs and then sat down this afternoon for a good 5 hours and pumped out the rest.

Also, it's exceptionally long. Close to 10,000 words. However, I didn't want to split it up because it's all one day, and I challenged myself to attempt a scene which flowed from one to the next rather than jumping around too much (like the last chapter).

Please feel free to leave a review, I love getting them and I'd really like to learn where I can improve. Especially regarding Winter's character and the other OC's we've introduced (there's a lot, I know - sorry!).

Anyway, hope to hear from you and have a great week everyone. x