All day, the healer women tend to her. She has slipped back into darkness, but they have more skill at this than the Rohirric field surgeons did. A wise man - unlooked for, and with an unkempt mass of black hair that belied 'King' – has taught them a little of the use of Kingsfoil, and how to root out the dark poison of the enemy. Their charge is a proper case of it – it teems so evidently in her veins that they are quite nearly repelled by it.
Her physical maladies are far easier to care for.
By night, she has been drugged with a strong draught, and she barely borders consciousness. All the same, the senior healer brings forth two of her pages, and has them pin the patient down hand and foot. Methodically, the elder sets to the task of setting broken ribs, the mangled back, and a terribly dislocated ankle. Her hands are firm, and sometimes vicious – though her patient is deathly frail, she gives a good fight at times, and mumbles incoherent nonsense all the while.
Her ribs and back are bound tightly in linen. The slashes on her wrists are carefully re-stitched. Her ankle is bound in plaster. On closer inspection, they find that their patient's monthly has come – a sign that relieves them, as they had been pouring stew down her throat from the moment she'd arrived and her color had not yet improved. This is proof their efforts are not in vain. They dress her in soft cotton breeches and nightclothes, and let her rest as best she can.
I had been dreaming before a squeeze to my hand awoke me.
In my fantasy, I had been climbing a tall tree into the Heavens at sunset. And when I had reached the top, I had looked out over the ascending boughs and saw white sails fluttering in a seaward breeze.
On the horizon was Valinor, and it called to me as nothing had ever called to me before.
I knew what the Valar were asking of me in this dream. I had turned away from the Halls of Mandos, and that meant I had chosen life. But which would I choose – a mortal one, or something more?
My eyes opened to a candlelit reality.
"Good morrow to you," came a voice beyond the shadows of my ill-adjusted eyes.
When at last my vision cleared, I found the speaker to be a good-natured woman in her later years. She reminded me a little of Marmagen, and homesickness began to throb in my heart.
And as I realized that homesickness was indeed what I was feeling, a sense of wonder came over me. My days with Lenwe had been clouded by either misery or apathy. I felt no such sentiment now.
I attempted to return the woman's greeting, but my throat hissed and sputtered. The woman chuckled and turned to a pitcher and goblet. While she poured, I looked about the chamber I was in. A nearest window revealed that it was near dawn, and a few stubby candles still burned on the windowsill.
I was not the only patient; in fact, I was one of many. Fallen soldiers littered cots and bedrolls throughout the chamber, and several healers were bent about the room, applying bandages and mopping the brows of their charges.
It seemed that Lenwe had been successful, and that he had deposited me in the Houses of Healing – the ancient infirmary of Gondor, that once had been built so that the healing power of elves would not be forgotten by men.
I looked down at myself. I seemed whole, and I was dressed in a thin, gray dress. The sleeves had been cut to the elbows, and covering my forearms was a layer of bandages that encircled my palms.
Slowly, the healer helped me to sit, and I felt in my back the sort of stiffness that came from a hard day's ride. No longer did I wish to scream with agony as I had before, when it had felt as though several thousand shards of glass were embedded in my shoulders, lungs and spine. I took the glass from her with thanks and drained it wholly.
"I am Maedeth," She was speaking Númenórean Sindarin, and I smiled at her. Proof indeed that I was in Gondor.
"I thank you then, for you have worked a miracle on my back,"
Maedeth chuckled, and she placed a bowl of thin stew in my hands.
"Tis' not your back anymore that is of concern, but your thanks is welcome,"
I gave the elderly healer an inquisitive look as I took a sip from the bowl.
"Your brother explained what it was that happened to your mind. Though your physical ailments have been mended and your mind has been made safe, we expect you may become ill,"
"Why is that?"
Maedeth looked pointedly across the small chamber. I followed her gaze to the cot that laid there, and who it was that laid within it.
"Éowyn," I gasped, feeling the urge to run to her. She laid still in sleep, and not death as I had assumed. I recalled Lenwe's words, and though they remained woeful, they made better sense now.
Maedeth put a hand around my wrist gingerly – she must have sensed my panic. "She is well now, but she was terribly ill before. She succeeded in slaying one of the Nazgul, but in doing so she was poisoned gravely. If not for the skill of the King-to-be, Aragorn, she would have passed beyond shadow. We feared that a similar fate would be your own, and therefore I beg you to take caution,"
I did not respond to the healer, for my eyes were pasted to Éowyn's glassy pallor. I wondered if it had been Mearling that had brought death to Sauron's servant.
"Where now is Aragorn? I wish to speak to him," 'And his colleague. A tall blonde elf, wispy yet deadly, perhaps you've seen him?'
Maedeth was quiet, and I turned to her, prepared to repeat my inquiry.
But Maedeth's expression stilled me.
"He passed out of the City three days ago, with a great host of all that remained of the armies of Rohan and Gondor. Your brother followed yesterday. They will lay siege to the Black Gate,"
Horror began to churn my stomach. But not of the sort that became the chilling vice grip I was used to.
Rather, my very veins filled with molten steel.
I could not be left behind. I would be a doer of deeds – the Valar had decreed it. If the time of men – and of Rohan - was to end before the Black Gates, then so would mine.
And so I tore from Maedeth's feeble grasp and bolted across the room, filled with a childish sort of impatience and a fury like that of wildfire. I bent to Éowyn's face - shadowed, pained, but with a touch of light – and I kissed my friend. And in doing so, I found my hunch had been correct; the hilt of a sword lay just beneath her pallet, and I gripped it tight before making for the exit.
Healers called out to me as I spun through the many chambers and arches, and left my ankle was stiff and sore, but I paid no heed to either, and ran through the halls with my naked blade in tow. Guided by instinct and the scent of early-morning bread, I found my way to a side door.
The streets of Minas Tirith were bleached and faded by the subtle shimmer of Ithil, and I was grateful for the light, for the intuition that had led me out of the mazes of the hospital vanished as my feet met marble streets.
Never had I stood before buildings as mammoth as those that confronted me. I had heard of the wonders of the White City before, but scarcely had I imagined simply how large it was.
Quite frankly, I was frightened. I felt lost at once, dwarfed by the shadow of the Citadel and its many outbuildings. And though it did not seem that the healers had followed me or called on guards to retrieve me, I felt as though I was being followed anyways.
Like a child that has awoken from a bad dream, I broke into a sweat at the sight of so many shadows. Claustrophobia began to smother me. I wandered about, gazing this way and that as the many sights of the sleeping city begged for my attention. The thought of walking through the city during day, when its streets would surely be teeming, nearly made me feel lightheaded.
Eventually, I descended a long set of stairs and found myself in what seemed to be a separate city entirely. Instead of grand marble monoliths and decorative archways, I found wooden shops and stone apartment buildings. And the further I walked, the more and more I was reminded of Edoras. I breathed easier as familiarity began to replace apprehension.
Intuition returned.
'If Minas Tirith is anything like Edoras, than its barracks and stables would not be so near to the residential areas, but not so far from the Citadel either,' I thought, and with a deep breath I plunged through side streets and staircases into the depths of the city.
Before long, the scent of bread was replaced with the scent of dung and hay. My nose had been trained to locate stables from miles away.
At last I came to the place I had been searching for – an armory, and a stable just beyond.
I looked for guards but found none. I remembered then that the city had been emptied of soldiers, as well horses, and the thought renewed my haste.
The doors were locked and the windows closed, but my determination was not dampened. A savage kick to one of the lower lying windowpanes allowed for my entry.
I dressed myself in the smallest shirt of mail I could find, a leather jerkin, and a pair of riding breeches that I was forced to cut shorter in the legs. I stuffed the scraps that remained into the toes of a pair of riding boots. I chose also a gray cloak embellished with a pendant in the shape of one of the Seven Stars of Gondor.
When I set to clasping the cloak about my neck, I realized that a chain already lay there. I looked down in surprise and found Eriodot's jewel in my hand. A slow smile flew up from my heart and into my eyes.
There were no proper scabbards for Mearling, so I settled for lashing the sword to my back with a leather strap. There was only one longbow and quiver left, too, and it was poorly wrought.
'Should I survive, I shall return to Rohan and empty my dowry upon a new bow,' I vowed, placing my palm over my heart.
When I came to the stable, I realized the audacity of the sin I was preparing to commit. Horse thievery was punishable by death in Rohan, and I doubted that Gondorian steeds were worth any less no matter what their people's law might have been. In Rohan, the bond between horse and rider was nearly as strong as that between husband and wife, for horses were as precious and costly as the keeping of a woman, or so the idiom went.
'Forefathers, Valar… forgive me, or hold me accountable before the gates of Mordor,'
I entered the stable with this pledge in my mind, and failed to recognize that, unlike the armory, the stable was not devoid of guards.
A blade was thrust before my breast, and I jumped back, startled.
"Begone or die, wench!"
I eyed the speaker and nearly laughed.
The horse guard was a young boy, no more than eight years old. He had a hardy seriousness in his eyes, but his blade trembled. Perhaps it was because the knife was too large for him, or perhaps it was because he was secretly afraid.
"I do not wish to harm you, young master, but I must find a steed," I told him, earnest and unafraid.
"I cannot let you steal one of our horses. I would kill you first," but his resolve faltered or his arm tired, and he lowered his blade as he saw Mearling glint behind my back.
I stepped forward, and he stepped away. Fear was now plain on his face.
"I say again, I will not hurt you. Now tell me your name,"
The boy remained mute, and I began to pity him. I knelt and reached out for his blade.
He looked up at me through unruly hair. I nodded to him, "Come now, tell me your name and give me your blade,"
He did as I bade, and I laid the knife across my palms. "Rochirion," he said. When he stepped back, his gait was strange - I realized then that he had a clubbed foot.
I forced my eyes back to his. "Ah, so your father must run this fine stable,"
"My father is dead," he said sternly. "He was killed in the attack. He told me that I must protect the stable, for it is the only thing that my family has left,"
I took the boy's hand in mine, feeling calluses there that could only have come from riding for hours on end.
"I am sorry, Rochirion. That is quite a burden to bear,"
The youth did not move, but I could see in his eyes that he agreed.
I lifted a hand to the back of my neck and fumbled clumsily for a moment with my linen-wrapped fingers. Eventually, the clasp came undone. Resolute, I held the emerald aloft before the boy.
"This is my gift to you, Rochirion. Sell it, pawn it, whatever you must, but know this – fierce women warriors have worn this jewel. You must honor their legacy, whatever you do,"
Rochirion reached out hesitantly and grasped the jewel between two small fingers. He did not pull it away at first - he merely looked at me skeptically.
I lowered my voice to a dramatic whisper. "And all of those women have been far prettier than I. Perhaps that will bring you some luck, when you're grown and need it most,"
Rochirion looked up at me and smiled a little, thanks painting his sullen features. And suddenly a smile sparked in his eyes.
"You speak funnily,"
The remark was so out of place that I nearly choked on my laughter. I rose and bid him along after he'd put the necklace around his head and stuffed the jewel down his ratty tunic.
"Neither Gondorion nor Westron is my native tongue, friend. I am from Rohan," I told him, now walking down the aisle of the stable. Most of the stalls were empty, as I had suspected, but a few elderly steeds remained.
The boy followed me warily with his significant limp, so I passed his knife back to him so he might feel a little tougher. I realized that I was not going to be able to entrance him with tales of far off lands when his horses' lives were at stake.
He reminded me of myself.
And so I bent and took his face in my hands, staring into startled eyes the color of amber.
"I am from Rohan, Rochirion. My love for horses is too deep for me to wish one harm. I was born with that love, and it runs," I placed his free hand upon my above my heart, "undying through my veins. I swear to you that I would protect one of your father's horses with my life,"
Rochirion's Adam's apple bobbed once, and he looked away. He put the knife in his belt and held out a hand to me. I took it, and he led me to the end of the stable.
In the last stall on the right rested a great black stallion with eyes like opals.
I gasped at the sight of him, at his regal majesty. He was crowned with a white star behind his forelocks, as if he truly was a prince, and his body was a mass of pure muscle and heady strength.
I reached out to the stallion over the stall gate. He blew his hot breath across my knuckles and whickered, and the war horse stepped to me.
Rochirion whistled. I looked at him as the horse lipped my palm.
"He would not let anyone touch him after the attack. He was injured, you see, and that is why the soldiers did not take him with," he told me, and he pointed to a scabbed gash across the stallion's left foreleg.
"What is his name?" I asked, admiring the stallion further. He appeared to be of some southern blood, and he had clearly been bred for speed.
"He is called Fuidhroch by the soldiers, for they say he moves like a shadow before the sun. But my father called him Ellerocco,"
I smiled and twirled my thumb over the stallion's star. "A fitting name, and kingly, too,"
"My father had always wished for him to be ridden by a King,"
I heard the hesitation accompanying the admiration in the boy's voice. I looked down at him, smiling gently.
"I am a Shieldmaiden, or I was once before. I am no King, but I do protect one,"
Rochirion took a deep breath and bit his lip.
"Father said Ellerocco was bred for war, and that he was not meant to be locked in a stable. And if you are riding to battle, then I think that Ellerocco should go with you,"
I nodded earnestly. "I swear that I shall not fail you, nor your father's spirit, nor Ellerocco, Rochirion,"
And in the boy's eyes was the understanding of a much older man. War had aged this youth tenfold.
In silence, Rochirion brought forth Ellerocco's tack, all of which was of impressive make. I spoke softly to the stallion as I tacked him but found I could not speak with him – this troubled me, but I had no time to spare for musings.
When at last he was saddled, I made ready to mount him. With my good foot in a stirrup, I ran my hand down his neck.
'Together we shall ride to War. And together, if it is our time, we shall die. As true Eorlingas,'
I pulled myself up, and when I sat squarely in the foreign saddle, Rochirion handed me a crop.
I shook my head. "I am not his master. I am merely his rider,"
The boy shrugged in indifference.
"Farewell, Rochirion. Thank you for your gift to me, for it is far nobler than any jewel,"
The boy blushed but managed to mumble a farewell.
I gave him an encouraging smile. "May you grow to become a fine stable master, and may you find brighter days ahead,"
And with that, I spurred Ellerocco forward. Into the night we rode, towards a host three days ahead of us.
But as Ellerocco ran, I found no doubt in my mind that we would not reach them in time. For the stallion may have moved like a shadow before the sun, but beneath the moon he passed like a comet, blazing bright.