It is strange how, once you are confined to bed, time loses it meaning. Especially here in the Healing Halls where I can not see the sun to gauge the passing hours.
Aragorn has me under armed guard, although I am sure that is not necessary, and when he arrives to poke and prod me, he will not listen to my protests.
"It is what it is, Legolas," he says. "Live with it." He is not in the best of moods. "Erynion will be arriving tomorrow," he continues, "Ithilien needs to see Gondor takes this seriously."
"Erynion!" That announcement diverts me completely from pointing out I am Ithilien and I already know he takes it seriously. "I do not need Erynion here!"
"I need him here," he replies. "I need someone to represent Ithilien before the Lords."
"I will represent myself!"
"You will not! Looking as you do? With the barest of grasps on Sindarin? That will not help me."
He is probably right but it does not make me happy to hear it, besides that is not the reason I do not want Erynion anywhere near here. If he comes then Maewen will come. If Aragorn has told them I have been attacked and injured wild horses will not keep her away . . . And I do not want her here. Not now when the streets are filled with tension and I am unable to protect her. This city is a dangerous place for elves.
"Maewen!" I tell him. My Sindarin comes back to me bit by bit. Arwen was right . . . It did not take long. There are more times now the words are there than not, but sometimes Aragorn must make do with a single word from me for that is all I can locate. It is lucky he knows me well enough to get by on that. He works it out now, exactly what I want to tell him. Perhaps he even expected it?
"Maewen is not coming with him. I do not wish her here when I cannot guarantee her safety. Do you think so little of me, Legolas?"
I scoff at his naivety.
"She will come regardless of what you want."
"Not if she does not know." He leans down to whisper as if he tells me a secret. "I told Faramir only to say I needed Erynion here for a trade meeting. They do not know you are here do they?" He does not even wait for me to reply, so confident is he his supposition is right.
And he is right. It is so annoying.
"Faramir was under orders not to tell Erynion what was happening here until they were on the road, well clear of Ithilien. Maewen will not come here because she has no reason to." He sits back smugly, arms folded. It is a brilliant plan and I can find no argument with it.
He is so irritating when he thinks he has bested me.
Still I look forward to seeing Erynion though I will not tell Aragorn that. His quiet, steady, calm is what I need—though he too is likely to lecture me about my carelessness. It will not be the first time.
They seem to have given me my own healer. When Aragorn is not here, she is. Quiet, pretty and shy, she gets me what I need and sits in the corner working when I need nothing. It seems a waste to me. I am sore and miserable, yes, tired and lacking focus, but not in dire need of healing every minute of the day.
I am also bored.
I need to regain my grasp of the Common Tounge before I next see Gimli and she seems the perfect opportunity. If she thinks I am an imbecile because I stumble so badly over her language what of it? I will practice my Westron with her.
She sits in her corner bent over something in her lap with concentration so when the tedium of lying here gets the best of me and I decide to launch into conversation by stating the obvious.
"This must be boring for you."
Startled she looks up at me, eyes wide, and the bandage she has been fiddling with drops off her lap rolling across the floor.
"My Lord?" She leaps to her feet in a rush, "do you need something?"
"To be out of here . . . For Aragorn to be less anxious, to have no guards on my door, I need that."
And she gazes at me in confusion.
"For you not to have to waste your time here with me all day . . . How about that?"
And instantly her face falls,
"Have I done something to offend you, My Lord? I can get another healer to sit with you."
I feel such a bully. Clumsily I have hurt her.
"No, no! I mean there must be better ways for you to spend your time. You have been very kind but there is nothing for you to do here. It seems a waste . . . For you." I am in a tangle trying to explain myself.
"Oh." Her face lightens immediately. "It is not a waste, My Lord. We want to care for you. We want you to know . . ." Now it is her turn to stumble. We are as awkward as each other it seems. "These men who hurt you," she continues, "they are not us. They do not represent us."
I do know that, but still it leaves a warm glow in my heart to hear her say it. If it is a gift they are offering me then, her presence, to show they care, I will let them do it.
"What is your name?" I ask her. "I am at a disadvantage for you know mine," and she ducks her head shyly.
"Rhíwiel, My Lord."
Rhíwiel; Daughter of Winter, a pretty name for a pretty girl, and Sindarin too. I wonder if she speaks it, for all that I need to practise my Westron it is exhausting battling to find the words.
"Do you speak Sindarin?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"I need to practise my Westron for I have a dear friend who speaks it and it has been shaken loose by that knock on my head. But it is so very tiring. Will you help me speak it later if we speak Sindarin now?"
She smiles then and it lights up her face, a true smile of delight.
"Oh yes, I will help you!" Her Sindarin is flawless, if heavily accented.
"What are you doing there in the corner, Rhíwiel? Can I help you?" I am willing to do anything to entertain myself at this point.
"Oh no!" Her horror at the suggestion is almost amusing. "You are a Lord, My Lord, I am rolling bandages. You cannot do that!"
"That is far too many Lords. I am Legolas, and I have rolled many bandages before now. Bring your basket and sit next to me. Together the job will be done twice as fast."
Still she hesitates.
"It would not be right, My Lord."
"Legolas. It would not be right, Legolas. I do this in Ithilien you know. In fact the healers make me do worse than this. Bring your basket here." It is what I hate most about Gondor and Minas Tirith, the way they trap people into thinking they are less.
So she brings it, places it on my bed and sits in the chair beside me. I am not lying. I have rolled many a bandage before and she stares in astonishment when I pluck one out and begin.
"You are so fast! I cannot even see your fingers move!"
"I am an elf," I laugh, "It is an advantage."
"Only Eldarion can go anywhere near as fast as that!" She exclaims. "Well I imagine the King could . . . If he ever rolled a bandage . . . I do not imagine he does."
"Oh he does." I have seen Aragorn roll bandages a plenty and he is very handy at it, but that is not what interests me. "How do you know Eldarion?"
And she blushes.
"The King sends him to the Healing Halls to learn. I have seen him here." She avoids my eyes and studiously studies the bandage in her hands.
"And what do you think of him, Rhíwiel?"
"I think he is very quick to learn, and very good at rolling bandages and he is my Prince." She lifts her head and her eyes flash a challenge to me. Oh she has spirit this girl. She hides it well.
"Of course." I will not test her by asking more.
We work then together in silence. She surprises me when she speaks again.
"He is very sorry." She says quietly, "He did not mean for this to happen, I know that. He loves you."
"How do you know that?" I must admit it is a relief to hear it but a strange thing for her to say.
"I just do. It is the truth. . . . He has spoken of you when he is here," she adds when I look at her in silence. And then suddenly she changes the subject leaving me wondering,
"I wish I could go to Ithilien one day," she smiles wistfully as she says it, eyes alight.
"Why is that?" It seems a strange thing for a Gondorion girl to wish for.
"Because there you are free to be whatever you wish. I watch the Lady of Ithilien when she is here. She is so beautiful . . . and strong . . . She can do anything."
She watches Maewen? Oh Maewen would be thrilled to know she was held in such high esteem. Always, despite how much I tell her it is untrue, she feels in Arwen's shadow when she is here—that compared to Arwen's beauty and grace she is ordinary—but not to me, and not to this girl either!
"You know," I tell her, "Maewen's Father was a forester. She lived out in the villages in the Greenwood until she was chosen to come in to the Keep and train because of her strength with the bow."
"And then you saw her and you married her!" Her eyes shine with the excitement of it. I do not want to correct her even though Maewen and I are not married as she understands it ,for Aragorn's people all believe that to be the way of it. Silvan's do not marry, but we are bonded in our hearts. That is true.
"Was your Father not angry?" She asks, "Surely he did not want you to marry a village girl but a lady instead?"
And I laugh.
"My Father was married to a village girl himself! My mother is a Silvan from the woods. But yes he had concerns, for my mother found it very difficult being a Queen. Still he could not stop me when he had paved the way himself."
I do not tell her my mother is over the sea, and that one of the reasons is how hard she found it being a Silvan in the Sindar palace. That is only one small contribution to her departure. There are many others bigger and more important than that.
"That is why I want to go to Ithilien," she smiles, "A Village girl could be Queen there."
"There is no Queen there unless it is Arwen," I correct her. "Aragorn is King of Ithilien and our own King is Thranduil. I do not want Maewen to ever be Queen for it would stifle her. We are happy just being ourselves."
It does not take long before I begin to tire. My neat bandages become sloppy and in the end I stop for she will just have to do them over.
"Tell me of yourself," I ask her. "Tell me some stories of the Healing Halls."
And so she does. She has a sweet voice filled with energy. I like her. She tells me of her training, of the healers who oversee her who sound like other tutors all over the world. Some just and fair . . . Some not so just. And much to my surprise I hear much about Eldarion. Eldarion is the best at mixing ointments. He always gets the amounts just right and he enjoys it as she does not. Eldarion is cleverest at soothing frightened patients, he can do it with a touch. Eldarion has the lightest, most careful hand when it comes to stitching . . . Eldarion, Eldarion, Eldarion.
For all her fire and courage, for all her sweetness and light she is not very subtle. She is as obvious as the stars on a clear night.
I do not realise I have fallen asleep until the opening of a door wakes me.
"Go and rest," I hear Arwen say, "Get some food, I will be here for awhile." And when my vision clears it is Arwen sitting beside me, not the girl.
"What is her story?" I ask her and she frowns.
"What do you mean, Legolas?"
"The girl. The girl who was here before you, the healer girl. What is her story? Where does she come from?"
"I do not know," she answers. "I have seen her here before but I know nothing of her."
"Her name is Rhíwiel." I say but it does not remove the blank look Arwen gives me.
"Why do you want to know?"
"It seems she has been sentenced to keep me company. If we have to spend our days in a room together I would like to talk to her. I would like to know about her."
"You Silvans," Arwen laughs. "So egalitarian." And she pats my shoulder gently. "I will find out for you Legolas. If you wish to make friends with the healers we must make sure you are fully informed."
And I wonder, what does Eldarion think of this girl?
For it is plain as day, even to the foolish Silvan I am, what she thinks of him.