Chapter 21

They all dismounted at the foot of the steps. With his sister in his arms, Eomer had quickly disappeared inside the Houses of Healing, Aragorn with him. Boromir was close behind, carrying Merry.

Standing with all his weight on one foot, leaning on his horse, Garad did not follow. He fidgeted with the horse's bridle, pretending the animal needing soothing. The stall worked, at least for the moment, Faramir hurried away, following his brother.

Garad dared put his weight on his other foot. It hurt. A lot. But he was fairly certain he could make it alone up the steps and into one of the side wards. There a fellow Ranger-Healer could stitch the wound. And Garad would not have taken Boromir or Faramir away from their more immediate concerns. He didn't need them fussing over him for a minor wound.

Squish squish squeak. Squish. Every step hurt more badly. Worse every step threatened to reveal his injury. Garad grabbed the stone balustrade, hopped a few steps. Then, there was no more balustrade to help and he had to go back to wincing and cursing under his breath as he entered the hall. Growing ever louder, the blood sloshing in his boot seemed determined on giving him.

"Is that you?"

Faramir had stopped and was frowning back at him.

Garad shrugged and looked around as if to see who Faramir was talking to.

"It is you." Faramir looked down.

Dammit some of the blood was leaking through the seams of his boot.

"What did you do?"

"What did I do? Garad exclaimed indignantly. He sounded to his own ears uncannily like Boromir.

Faramir approached.

"Look, it's minor. There are others who need your skills and Talent more."

Faramir looked unhappy, knowing Garad was right. The compromise would be that he'd have to allow fussing at least as far as the door.

"Idiot. You should have said something." Faramir's arm slipped around his shoulders, taking his weight off the throbbing foot.

Garad couldn't quite contain the sigh of relief. Faramir shook his head and gave a disgusted snort. But thankfully he didn't say idiot again.

"How bad is it?"

"It'll scar."

Faramir shook his head again. "Check with Boromir on that. Kiss it and make it feel better, y'know. He'll tell you that you need to have them aim higher.

"Higher? How high?"

Faramir held a hand close to crotch level.

"Your brother's a pervert!" Garad said cheerfully.

Faramir smirked. "Frequently. And a very happy one if last night is anything to go by."

"Oh yeah, he did take a thigh wound, didn't he?" Garad said in self-consolation. "But, start on the foot, work your way up isn't so bad." Another hobbling step. "And Boromir's an idiot. You don't want anything sharp anywhere near that high."

Faramir's smirk deepened. "Not even teeth?"

"Especially not teeth."

"Here we are, idiot's ward."

"Thanks. So much. Tell Boromir I'll be waiting for him." He tapped his forehead.

"Oh yes, he'll hope we don't remember that." Faramir gave an aggrieved sigh.

A page boy opened the door for them. Inside was the usual organized chaos, with elderly or crippled retired Rangers tending the walking wounded. Or in his case, the limping wounded.

"Garad?" Herion. Now grey-haired, scarred face and limping, Garad nonetheless recognized him as the Ranger who had schooled him in battlefield medicine. He called from where he was finishing with his current patient, "Figured you'd be here sooner or later." He came closer, squatted, and studied the slashed and bloodied boot. "Looks like that's all the way to the bone. What did you do this time?"

"Dammit. As I keep saying – I didn't do it! The Easterling bastard cut me from behind, on the ground." He hesitated and dropped his voice. "Then again, I did step on him. And he was just a kid."

Herion shook his head. "You gotta make sure they're dead."

Faramir gave Garad a grimly understanding look before lowering him to sit on a chair, handing him off to Herion. Garad sighed heavily and submitted. Stitching he could take. But it would be nice if they'd just leave out the lectures. Of course, he gave them more often than he received them, so maybe he shouldn't complain.

"Get some rest and keep your weight off that foot." Faramir cuffed his head and turned to go.

"Faramir?" He looked back. "Make sure you eat before you start in there."

"Yes, mother."

Garad gave him the two-fingered salute.

Faramir was smiling as he left the room.

With Merry asleep or unconscious in his arms, Boromir entered the main ward to the expected din. Moans of wounded Men, orderlies shouting for assistance, people hurrying in all directions, more wounded arriving in a constant stream, being assessed and directed to the appropriate area. He had learned not to look toward the operating tables, though he knew he might have to this time -- Liel would most likely be working there.

"My Lord?" An orderly stopped at his side and lifted a corner of the cloak from about Merry. "You found a wounded child?"

"A warrior. My friend, Merry. A Perian. A Halfling," Boromir said, using the term the Man would perhaps best understand. "He needs the Shadow Ward." He did not look at the orderly, his eyes scanning the room for Liel. Finally, he found her, up to her elbows in blood, bent to her work with a badly hurt Rohirrim.

She must have felt his eyes on her. She glanced up, saw him. Her eyes widened and misted over. She gasped a sobbing breath and hurriedly lifted a hand to her lips. But she could not press against the tremor there; her hands were too gory. She nodded and he nodded back, smiling, tears stinging his eyes. He walked closer, Merry still in his arms.

"I'll be right back," he said, tilting his head toward the Shadow Ward door where the orderly waited.

"Merry?" she asked.

"Yes. Where's Pippin?"

"Running an errand. Faramir? Garad?"

"Safe. Right behind me." Boromir glanced over his shoulder, frowned. "Or, they were." He turned back, smiled again, and asked, "Where's our daughter?"

"With Beth. The kitchens are warmest."

"Good." He blew a kiss over Merry's head and continued on into the other Ward.

Aragorn, Eomer and Eowyn were already there. He could hear Aragorn calling softly to her, smell the clean, refreshing scent of athelas. Eomer sat on the other side of the bed, his fingers tight about his sister's good hand. He alternated frowning worry from her to Aragorn and back. It suddenly struck Boromir as odd that Faramir was not already here with them. After Aragorn, he had the greatest Talent in healing those who had fallen prey to the Black Breath.

"Over here, My Lord," the orderly said. "A bed for your friend."

Boromir very gently lay Merry down atop the grey blanket placed protectively over the clean white sheets and soft pillows. The orderly would strip him and give him a quick going over with a warm wash cloth before placing him beneath the covers. Boromir noted the Man had found a small tunic that would fit. He knew there were children hurt, lying in small beds in another ward, but none of them, thankfully, had been directly harmed by Nazgul.

"Make sure there's athelas in the water," Aragorn called to the orderly bring the steaming wash water closer. Aragorn gave Boromir a brief smile, somehow aware of his arrival despite the battle to draw Eowyn away from the Shadow.

"How is he?"

Faramir's voice.

Boromir turned to him with relief. "I don't know."

Faramir nodded and bent to take Merry's hand.

"Where's Garad?"

"Idiot ward," Faramir said and a faint smile drove the grimness from his eyes as he studied Merry's pale face.

"I didn't know he was hurt. Bad?"

"No. Foot. He'll be all right. When you see him, be sure to ask him what he's done to himself." The smile grew a little wider and Boromir nodded, recognizing a teasing joke in the making.

"What do you think?"

Faramir sighed heavily and stroked the golden curls back from the bloodied cut on Merry's brow. "He has many who love him, and loves them in return. The Shadow will not claim him. He will soon waken."

Boromir sagged with such relief that he staggered a little. Faramir frowned up at him and he covered, hurriedly saying, "Pippin will want to be with him. I'll send him to you if I find him." He gripped Faramir's shoulder gratefully and left.

Faramir frowned worriedly after his brother for a long moment, then gathering himself, he closed his eyes, concentrating, and whispering Merry's name.

He relished the gust of hot air that hit him as he opened the kitchen doors. He was so damm cold. At least holding Merry had helped keep back the chill. Entering the Healing House kitchens, Boromir braced himself for the expected weeping and glad reunion. Another return from the dead explanation was in order. He was beginning to hate that about his life. But unexpectedly, Beth simply smiled and looked up at him from over her cooking, her plump face flushed with heat and steam, her grey hair poking out in disarrayed strands from beneath her kerchief cap.

Ahh, Boromir realised, no one's told her. Good. Relief flooded him – while Liel was a warrior in her own right, and understood the dangers, Beth had been Boromir and Faramir's nanny and thus was more inclined to be motherly.

Finished with her stirring, she hurried over to him, the smile beginning to switch to the fussing one. Then, he saw why as she collected a wash basin, filled it with hot water, and began carrying it to him, a towel over her arm. He was indeed far too filthy to be in a kitchen.

"I'm not hungry," Boromir told her. "Where's Liramir?"

"Over there, by the hearth. But you can't –"

"She's asleep?" Beth nodded. "I won't wake her." He lifted his dirty hands. "And I won't touch her."

"You should eat something, and you must wash your hands. They're disgusting."

Boromir sighed, he would be gory and dirty again soon enough, going in search of wounded among the dead on the battlefield. But the feel of hot water would be welcome. He took the steaming wash basin and towel from her and set them down on the bench by the cradle, close by the warmth of the hearth. He intended to wash his hands and enjoy watching his baby daughter at the same time. But he found the sight so mesmerizing he got more soapy water on his surcote and trousers then on his hands. He wanted so badly to stay here, to enjoy the warmth, to allow himself to feel the weariness and pain that gnawed ever harder, and most of all, to simply watch his daughter sleep. He could still scarce believe he was a father, that this elven beauty was his daughter.

But, as ever, there was no time. His Men would be waiting and he must return to the field. He wanted to be with the ambulance crews, to help gather the wounded, and reassure them with his presence. He must issue orders for those not wounded, dismiss the most weary to rest, and set shifts. He needed to check, to be sure his Rohirrim allies were well quartered and fed, then he must find the City engineers and check the damage to the walls. And he must comfort his frightened and grieving people.

He must hurry.

He sluiced some of the wonderfully warm water on to his face and checked it was clean enough. Then, he leaned down, kissed his sleeping daughter's curls, and very gently touched his nose to hers, finding it incredible she was so delicate, so perfectly formed. Smiling, he straightened. A wave of cold grabbed at him, made him shudder.

"You're cold?" Beth frowned at him. "How can you be cold in here?"

"I'm not cold, " he lied. "I was just thinking of something."

She seemed ready to accept that explanation, imagining battle-field horrors. "Faramir? Garad?"

"Faramir is healing those who came under the Shadow. Garad is safe, but he's one of the walking wounded."

"Oh, then he'll be in the Idiots' Ward." She snorted at Boromir's expression. "I might have guessed. I'll send him some of his favorite food."

"He'll like that." Boromir bent and kissed the top of her head. "I have to go. Thank you for all your work."

She blushed at the compliment even as she waved it away. "Tis only right we care for you all. You look tired. Be sure you rest soon."

The shivering returned, worse than ever, as the kitchen doors swung closed at his back. The sun had set, the sky an angry dull red between the curved arches of the colonnade. The chill of dusk was a stark contrast to the heat inside. He wrapped his arms tightly about himself. Any wounded still lying on the ground out there would be feeling it much worse. There would be so many it could take all night to find and bring them in. He didn't like to admit how much it upset him to think of his liege-Men, the brave Riders, still out there, hurting, waiting, dying... They would be harder to find in the dark, and Legolas and Gandalf couldn't be everywhere.

He didn't want to take the time but he would go get his head wound stitched next. Liel was expecting him, and if he walked in there without that wound tended; she'd want to do it. And ask awkward questions. They would only have moments, spending that brief time being stitched up by his wife wasn't exactly what he had in mind. If he could hold her, just for two minutes, he could get warm, he could truly feel they'd won.

Garad looked up as Boromir entered. His scalp wound was still wrapped in the same filthy bandage. Things must be bad in the main ward, but then they'd have to be. In fact, bad would be a gross understatement. Boromir, as Garad himself, would have insisted his minor wound could be cleaned, stitched and dressed elsewhere. Knowing Boromir, it was a marvel that he was willing to take that much time away from his Men. Then it came to him, Boromir would want to see Liel, even for a moment, and he didn't want her fussing.

"They told me I'd find you here," Boromir said. "Faramir said to ask you what you'd done to yourself?"

"Very funny." Garad had stopped falling into that trap. He simply pointed at his freshly bandaged foot, propped high on a chair cushioned by somebody's blood-stained clothing.

"Ahh."

"Sit down here, please, General."

Boromir obeyed, groaning under his breath. Garad figured that was the pain in his back, but he didn't dare mention it if Boromir would not.

This filthy bandage came off. The Ranger-Healer hissed through his teeth.

"This looks bad, My Lord."

"Just clean it and stitch it," Boromir growled.

"Yes, My Lord."

"How's your small friend?" Garad asked.

Boromir smiled. "Faramir says he'll be all right. He's Calling him."

"Calling?"

"The Shadow."

"Oh." Garad said after a moment, "He'll be busy."

"He is. Ow."

"Sorry, My Lord. I'm having trouble getting the bleeding to stop."

"Then just wrap it up again. I need to get going."

"My Lord, you're shivering."

"It's cold in here."

"No, it's not." Garad gestured to the roaring hearth fire. Boromir gave him a glare. He subsided.

"Blood loss will make you cold. And tired. You should rest."

"It's a scratch. Strap it. I've work to do."

"So do I. That being, a duty of care," Herion said flatly, not fazed by Boromir's irritation. "You fell from a great height. I strongly recommend that you stay here and rest. Now. My Lord."

"Thank you. I'll take that under advisement. My Men need me, and I'd like to see Her Grace before I go to them. Strap it or I'll do it myself."

Herion pressed his lips together and sighed heavily. Garad knew what the Man was thinking -- she'll deal with him. That eased Garad's concern a little, too. He had seen Herion's thwarted, exasperated worry on so many faces, especially Faramir's, when dealing with an obstinate Boromir. The old Ranger set to work, sullenly, efficiently and probably much more gently than Garad would have done it under the circumstances. Boromir always compared any wound he himself carried against those of acute care cases – if he could still breathe, still walk, he should still be on duty. And in Boromir's case, it seemed, even death was no excuse.

Garad could sympathise, he felt the same way. But his own injury had proven impossible to conceal. He scowled glumly at the white bandage about his foot; even harder to hide now. He could still be useful, helping with the stitching and bandaging did not require walking or standing. He looked again to Herion, realised the Man was none too happy about letting Boromir leave, even with Her Grace to double check. Only Faramir would have been able to stop Boromir now.

Boromir leaned against the wall, behind Liel who worked on removing the mangled mess that had been a Man's right arm. Boromir was uncertain if he was a Man of Gondor or of Rohan. He was naked but for the sheet laid over him. So very young. At least he was out of pain, for now, dosed with poppy until unconscious. Boromir shifted uncomfortably, guilty, that he was still here and not out there with other young Men who were similarly hurt.

Liel had, as ever, noticed his discomfit. She finished washing her hands quickly, turned to him with arms outstretched. He smiled and gathered her to him, engulfing her in his embrace. She was too tall for him to rest his head on hers, but she slumped down, sensing his need, and her own as she rested her head against his chest.

Why was it that this simple act better than anything else, always lessened the horror of the day? Weariness washed over him. Then he remembered something else.

"Pippin!"
"What about him?"

Boromir scrubbed a hand over his cold face. "I forgot, I was going to try and find him. He doesn't know about Merry."

"He might guess he could be among the wounded."

"No. Merry was supposed to stay in Edoras."

"Oh." She considered, stroking his face lightly with her fingertips. "When he comes back, I'll call Faramir to him. He can better explain his… wounds."

She ran her hands up under his tunic and the flat of her palms brushed over his nipples. He drew a sighing breath. He knew she was probing for injury, but he chose to take it otherwise.

"A little public," he said with a sly grin. "And try lower. I think I strained that wound."

"Hush. Are you sure you're all right?" Her skilled fingers did go lower but only to press against his spleen, his liver, then his kidneys, doing the usual soft tissue check. "Cave trolls aren't that soft."

"These were. Very squishy in fact. Who told you?"

He tidied the strand of dark hair that had come free of her braid, tucking it back into the glossy dark mass of her hair. She gave him a reproving look. "Everyone." Her hands explored lower, one tugging at his waist band allowing the other to slip in. She gave his cup a little shake. "Good. Not dented."

He shrugged and smirked. "You know what a hard Man I am."

She snorted and smiled. Her hands reached behind, squeezed then slapped his butt. "Egotist."

He grinned then kissed her, long and lingering. Eventually, he noticed everything had gone suddenly quieter. He looked up. Everyone was watching them and suddenly they hurried back to work. He noted they were all smiling. He felt much better himself.

"I must go."

She gently traced the bandage about his forehead. "I'm glad you had the sense to get this tended at least." He lifted a hand to draw hers to his lips. She sighed, bracing to leave him, to return to her awful, bloody work. "I can't find anything else hurt, but you don't look right. Don't stay out there all night. There are others who can finish looking for the wounded and talk to the civilians."

He nodded but avoided her eyes. He would not come in until every area had been thoroughly searched. She knew that. She sighed again, reading his thought. He kissed the top of her head and turned to go.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, one hand going to her brow. "I can't believe I almost forgot. Your sword, I left it in the Main Ward, against the wall, just inside the door. I wanted them all to see when --"

"You found it!" Some of his strength returned in the rush of welcome. His sword was almost a part of him; they had been through so much together over the years.

She smiled at his reaction but her eyes darkened as she recalled. "Elena brought it to me."

He stepped back and gripped her hand again. He would not have been able to bear it had their positions been reversed and he been told she had been taken by a Nazgul. Dead, or worse.

"I told them you would want it when you returned," she said softly. "Then, we heard the horn."

He snorted. "It's becoming useful at last. "

She looked down at the floor. "Yes." With her smile recovered, she met his eyes once more. "Your helm's in there, too. It is dented. Rock meets rock."

He laughed and kissed her again. He left and walked across the hall and into the crowded Main Ward. Every bed was filled with pallid, bruised and broken, bandaged Men. Every tiny space had been crammed with more beds, and now they were placing Men on mattresses on the floor. He stared at them, remembered to smile, and turned to get his sword.

The room erupted in cheering. "Boromir!"

He turned back. "Rohan! Gondor! You have given our King victory." Slowly, intently, he saluted them with the sword. Every Man there returned the salute as best he could, silently, earnestly, there eyes shining with the same emotion that blurred Boromir's own vision.

He walked out into the night and the chill claimed him again, sudden and sharp as stepping into ice water.