41 – WAITING
She sobbed.
She didn't know how long she spent lying there, her body heaving painfully with great, wracking sobs. Tears streamed down her cheeks and inhuman sounds escaped her mouth.
She didn't think she had ever felt anything worse than what she felt at that moment. It felt like there was a vice around her lungs that was preventing her from breathing properly. It felt like there were two hands around her heart, wrenching it violently in two.
She had been betrayed.
Not only by Aragorn, the man she loved, or by Remuil, an old friend. Tcharum hadn't woken her, though he'd known she planned to go. Harûk and Mahaya too had left her behind. Faramir, Éowyn, Petakh and Éomer had left her sleeping. Anita had set Ioreth to watch over her. Gimli and Legolas had gone without her. Even Gandalf and Imrahil were complicit.
With great effort, she rolled over onto her side and retched. She hadn't eaten for days, and nothing came up but bile. A red flash caught her eye, and with a groan, she looked up.
It was the vadi that she'd used to wrap the palantír that Aragorn had given to her for safekeeping, still sitting on the bedside table.
Take it for me, he'd said, in the faith that I will come back.
And he had come back from the Paths of the Dead, only to leave again. She rolled herself back onto the bed and let her tears silently fall. He was gone, and she had been robbed of her death.
She remembered what he had said before he'd left her – that he couldn't bear the thought of her dying. Now she felt her pain triple as she imagined him impaled on an orc's blade, his skull crushed by a troll, his throat slit by an uncaring enemy, bleeding dry into the black dust of the plain. He was going to die without her, and she couldn't bear it.
Gasping through her tears, she dragged herself upright and tried to stand. But as soon as she put weight on her legs, they collapsed beneath her, and she crumpled to the ground. She cried out as the agony put a blanket over her brain, but after a few minutes it subsided. Aragorn wasn't there to comfort her this time, and she began to crawl towards the door.
She was almost there when it swung open, and she was nearly hit in the head.
"Tíniel!" came a gasp, and she recognised the voice as Faramir's.
"Leave me alone," she choked out. "If I must make my own way to the battle, I will!"
He wrapped one arm around her torso and hoisted her into the air. She cried out through gritted teeth as the pain from her ribs and her arm set stars bursting in her eyes. When she could see and think again, she had been put down in the wheelchair.
"Let's go for a walk," Faramir said with forced calm, and pushed her out of the room.
She was dressed only in her thin white gown, and she shivered at the brisk night air. Her tears continued to fall. Faramir didn't seem to notice.
He took her through the Houses, where there were significantly fewer patients than there had been the last time they visited. Dully, she noted that Anita wasn't there. Perhaps she was spending time with her son now that Beregond had marched off with Aragorn. Something twisted inside her, and she shut her mouth to stifle another sob.
At last they made it to the gardens. Faramir wheeled her a fair way in, until they reached an old oak tree. Its moss-covered branches dipped down to the ground so that once he wheeled her to the trunk, they were concealed from everything else.
"Éowyn," Faramir called, turning Tíniel so that her back was to the trunk and she was facing him. "She's here."
Moments later, Éowyn emerged, grim faced and wearing a blue cloak over her white dress.
"Hello Tíniel," she said cautiously. Tíniel futilely wiped the tears from her cheeks, not meeting the other woman's eyes.
Éowyn and Faramir exchanged a glance. They both stood before her, their arms folded. Faramir had a challenging glint in his eye, and Éowyn's chin was jutted forward.
"Alright," he said. "Go."
Tíniel drew in a number of shallow, shaking breaths before she looked up. "How could you?" she said in a deadly whisper. Neither of them replied, so she went on, her voice growing in volume. "How could you stand by and let them leave me behind?"
"We did it for your safety," Faramir said neutrally.
She stared up at him, another tear falling soundlessly. "I didn't want to be safe, Faramir," she bit out. Her voice was shaking, and it became a shout as she continued. "I wanted to be dead. I wanted to be dead, but instead I was betrayed by everyone I love!"
"You have to admit there's an irony there," he said quietly. Something snapped inside her, and she began to shake uncontrollably.
"How could you let this happen?" she yelled, barely intelligible and hardly knowing what she was saying. "Why did you let him go without me? I deserve the pain, I know, I know, but it hurts – it hurts." She hunched over, trying and failing to stop the shaking. "It hurts, and it won't stop, and he is gone without me, he is gone…"
Through the numbness, she felt gentle hands on her shoulders, pulling her back upright. Éowyn wrapped a shawl around her and knelt before her.
"We are with you," she said, her own blue eyes full of unshed tears. "Tíniel, you and I faced down a beast that had terrorised men for ages past. We can face whatever befalls us now, and we will face it together."
She began to cry harder, and Faramir took her head in his hands and kissed her forehead. "I'm so sorry, little sister," he said, pulling her against him and rocking her gently back and forth. "I'm so sorry."
The next few days Tíniel spent in a hollow daze. She only ate when somebody made her, and her sleep was restless and disturbed by vivid nightmares and cryptic doom dreams. She barely spoke, and her eyes were always focussed on the Eastern horizon.
The shadows had been growing darker and larger again, and to those in Minas Tirith, it was a clear sign: Sauron was preparing for battle.
"Do you think they've arrived?" Anita said on the morning of the fifth day. She was sitting with Tíniel, Faramir, Éowyn and her son Bergil, on a balcony that looked East over the Pelennor. "At the Black Gate, I mean. Do you think they're there yet?"
"Not yet," Faramir said. "It would take at least seven days to march a host of seven thousand from here to there, I think."
"So, there is time yet," Éowyn murmured, her eyes fixed on the far mountains of Mordor. Tíniel noted dispassionately that there were dark shadows under her eyes, but she only felt a faint stirring of concern. The waiting was wearing all of them thin, but their suffering would be over soon.
"Time for what?" Anita asked, a hint of bitterness in her voice. "To wait until he comes for us? Time to count our last few breaths?"
"We cannot despair," Faramir said, glancing down at Bergil. Tíniel knew he was forcing himself to sound sure. "While the Enemy doesn't have the Ring, we have hope."
Anita frowned. "What is the Ring?"
Tíniel looked back over the plain, her thoughts drifting away from the conversation around her. She wanted this to be over, this false semblance of living. More than anything, she wished she'd been allowed to go to the Gates. But it was too late for that now.
"Tíniel," Faramir was saying. "Tíniel. Are you listening, woman?"
She looked up, blinking tiredly. "What?"
"How many of your tribe have stayed behind, I asked," he said, his eyes softening.
She put a hand to her temple. Her hands had taken to constantly trembling, and she'd given up trying to make it stop.
"Uh… I don't know exactly," she said, her voice soft and hoarse from disuse. "Tcharum – my brother, he allowed everyone who wished to march to battle to do so. Mothers, pregnant women, the old, even the young." She clutched the folded-over parchment in her lap, the letter Aragorn had left her. "Everyone except me."
There was a silence that was laden with unspoken hurt. Young Bergil got up from Anita's side and went to sit on the ground by Tíniel's feet. It made her feel like crying.
"Beregond is gone too," Anita said quietly, adjusting her apron needlessly. "I asked him to stay and defend Minas Tirith rather than going to the gates. It was the first time I ever asked him to stay behind."
"Would that we had died on the Pelennor Fields," Éowyn said suddenly, her voice bitter. "Would that the Witch-king had struck us down, and that I watched over the world with my uncle and Théodred."
Faramir looked sidelong at her, his grey eyes filled with indecipherable emotion. "Untimely ends may come for us all yet," he said at last. "Yes, the time we have left may be a curse. But it might also be a blessing. We must use it to prepare for the storm that is coming."
"What can we do?" Anita asked. "We have a skeleton army defending the city, and half of them are only here because they were too wounded to go Morgul Vale."
"Are we going to die, Ma?" Bergil asked. There was another long silence, and then Anita sighed.
"Probably, my boy. But lord Faramir is right. We shall prepare and do it with honour, just like your father."
The boy, not even ten years old, simply nodded stoically. Tíniel looked back out to the East, but her attention was soon drawn back by the arrival of Ingold.
"Good morning," he said in his usual, restrained manner. "I was looking for Tíniel."
"Well, you found her," Faramir said. "Though you'll have to let us know if you have any luck getting more than a handful of words out of her."
Tíniel didn't have the energy to respond to the half-hearted jibe. She shut her eyes and sank further back into her chair.
"Will you join us, Ingold?" Anita said. He hesitated, but nodded and took a seat reluctantly.
"Thank you," he said awkwardly. "It has become harder to find ways to pass the time recently."
"We were just discussing that," Éowyn said darkly.
Ingold glanced over at her. "I don't think we've had the pleasure, my lady," he said.
"This is lady Éowyn of Rohan," Faramir said to him, making the introduction. "She slew the Witch-king of Angmar in the battle. And Éowyn, this is Ingold. He was… he was Boromir's lover."
There was a sharp intake of breath from around the circle. Éowyn's eyes widened fractionally, and even Tíniel blinked. Faramir shrugged apologetically at Ingold.
"If we're all going to die, there's no point in hiding it."
The other man shook his head minutely. "A paragon of subtlety as always, Faramir," he said wryly. Then he glanced at Anita. "You knew, lady?"
"Well, no one ever told me," she said with a distinct air of guilt. "But… well, the thing is… I had to tend to both of you several times. And Boromir talked in his sleep."
Ingold winced. "He used to do that, yes."
"I'm sure no one else noticed," she said comfortingly.
"You are an annoyingly perceptive Healer," Faramir muttered.
"Well, even if I only know you a day or two, we are well met, Ingold," Éowyn said. "When did you lose your arm?"
Ingold blinked at the forthright question. "Osgiliath, in the summer of last year."
"And why have you stayed behind?"
"To defend the city, lady," he said. Then he looked pointedly at Tíniel. "And I count myself fortunate and honoured to be here."
"Please, Ingold," she said quietly. "Now is hardly the time for a lecture."
Abruptly, Ingold got to his feet, his face turning thunderous. Everyone looked at him in shock.
"I think it's the perfect time for a lecture," he snapped. "I think it's about time everyone stops tiptoeing around you and that you start acting like the full-grown woman you are!"
Tíniel blinked slowly and turned to face him. "Do not speak to me like that."
"I shall speak to you as you need to be spoken to," he said, approaching her with righteous determination written over his face. Tíniel felt the stirrings of anger break through the cold emptiness.
"You don't know what I have endured these past days," she said, the emotion leaking into her voice.
"You think I don't know?" he spat, coming to a stop directly in front of her. "You think you're the only one who knows that we're sitting ducks here, waiting to die? You think we don't all want to sit there silently and feel sorry for ourselves?' He snorted. "But I don't know why I am surprised. You always were selfish!"
"How dare you?" she hissed. "I mourn for my people, my friends, the man I love, all gone to die! I grieve that I no longer have a chance at an honourable death! I am faced with the thought that I will never walk again in the time that is left to me, and you call me selfish?"
"You think I don't know how it feels?" he snorted, brandishing his stumped arm. "You aren't mourning, Tíniel, you're wallowing, wallowing in your own damned self-pity. You're thinking only of how you feel and ignoring the needs of the tens, the hundreds who are still here and relying on you!"
"What's the point?" she shouted, throwing her hands up. "Why should I look after them when it will all be over in a matter of days? Why should I be there for them when there is no one left there for me?"
"Because it's your duty!" he bellowed back into her face.
"Well, I don't want it anymore!" she yelled, trying to get to her feet. The agony was instant and blinding, and she collapsed to the ground with a cry. She could see Ingold as the haze slowly subsided, see the fear on his face. As the pain faded to a dull roar, he lifted her into a sitting position on the ground.
"I'm sorry," she croaked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You're right."
"I know," he said, smiling crookedly. "I'm sorry too, I didn't mean for you to get hurt."
She grunted through gritted teeth as she shifted position and grabbed his arm for balance. "Oh, you didn't?"
"No. I only meant to make you angry enough to jolt you out of your misery."
"You think there's no one left for you?" Éowyn asked. "We are here." Tíniel looked up with an effort. She'd almost forgot the others were there.
"And we aren't going anywhere," Faramir added.
"And anyway, it doesn't matter if you can't walk," Bergil said, shuffling over to sit next to her on the ground, "because you can just make everyone push you around in your chair, because you're in charge of them!"
She ruffled his hair, smiling tiredly. "Don't know why I didn't think of that before," she said. She turned to Ingold. "Can you lift me?"
He nodded and scooped her up and into her chair. She bit her tongue to keep from whimpering at the stabs of pain that came with the movement.
"Sorry," he said quietly, wincing, but she shook her head.
"I'm fine. Take me to the second circle."
Tíniel took her leave of the others, and Ingold pushed her the long way down to the second circle. It wasn't hard to find the remainder of the Maruvikh tribe; they followed the sound of singing.
Ingold stopped outside a large building that looked like a warehouse. Perhaps it had stored bags of grain or barrels of wine before, but now it housed what was left of Tíniel's people.
"I won't go in," Ingold said. "You'll be alright?"
"Of course," she replied. He nodded shortly and turned to leave, but she grabbed his hand. "Ingold. Thank you. Not everyone would have done that for me."
He shrugged, looking down. "I did my duty by you. Now you do yours to your people."
She nodded slowly, and he smiled his crooked smile and walked away.
Tíniel leaned forward gingerly and knocked on the door. There was no pause in the singing, and she sat back and sighed.
"There's never a chance at civility here," she muttered, and cleared her throat to yell. "Khuma!"
The song broke off and she heard the patter of small feet. The door was opened by a girl around the same age as Bergil, and when she saw it was Tíniel, her mouth dropped open.
"The Khondyë is back!" she yelled back into the house. Then her eyes widened and she saluted quickly and clumsily. "Sorry, Khondyë! Khuma Khondyë!"
"Khuma," Tíniel replied, suppressing a grin. "It's Gura, isn't it?"
"Yes, Khondyë," the girl replied. There was a crowd of young children gathering behind her now, and excited murmurs of the Khondyë's return rippled through them.
"Well, may I come in, my friends?" she asked.
"Yes!" Gura said, stepping aside. Tíniel cleared her throat awkwardly.
"I might need a little help," she said. "Would someone push me in?"
The children stumbled over themselves to be the one to do the Khondyë a service, but Tíniel couldn't help but flush with shame at her own uselessness. At least she was in the building, she supposed.
"Khuma Khondyë," came a slow voice from the left. Tíniel glanced sideways and saw a group of twenty or so Elders, sat cross-legged in a circle. "You have returned to your people at last."
"Khuma," she replied. "I am only sorry it took so long."
The one who had spoken before got to his feet slowly and with an effort. It was Tarond, a man who had once captained the Maruvikh variag and had been a member of two chiefs' war councils.
"You were healing, Khondyë," he said. "It is best that you come to us well."
She looked down at herself seated in the chair, embarrassed again. "Almost well," she said. "Unfortunately, I… I cannot walk."
Tarond tugged on his white beard, watching her with coal black eyes that twinkled. "Can you move your legs?" he asked.
She frowned. "Yes, but barely."
"Then there is hope, Khondyë," he said, nodding with satisfaction. "With time, you will be up and rushing about again, just as you always have."
"We don't have time, I'm afraid," she said. "But tell me, how many went with Tcharum?"
"Almost all of us, Khondyë," Tarond said. "Two thousand remain – the very old, the very young and the very injured."
"I suppose I am one of the three," she said, trying to keep her tone light.
"There is a reason we kept you here, Khondyë," Tarond said gravely. Behind him, the Elders nodded as one. "It was a betrayal, yes, but you are our leader. We need you, even if we must become khaviga to keep you."
"Well," she said into the silence. "I am here now. We have lit our fire. Now we will watch it burn."
"Indeed," he said, a smile stretching the innumerable lines on his face. "Welcome back, Khondyë."
Two days later, the Eastern shadow began to grow. Over a number of hours, it billowed up from the mountains like a fist ready to come down, and none in Minas Tirith could take their eyes from it.
"The battle has begun," Faramir murmured.
Tíniel didn't reply, but she didn't take her eyes from the mountains. Her heart was hammering in her throat, and her stomach clenched and unclenched. Aragorn was out there. Aragorn was beneath the Shadow, fighting for her and all the free people of Middle-earth.
"Come on, Frodo," she whispered under her breath.
It went on for hours and hours. She sat in her chair and watched, Gura and the other children sitting silently around her. The remaining Minas Tirith garrison lined the outer wall of the city, and behind them stood the wounded who could stand, and the old who had been left behind.
But so far, no attack was coming. For a while, the shadow kept growing and growing steadily. Then Gura gasped sharply and stepped closer to Tíniel. The shadow shot up into a huge, rearing pillar.
"Is it happening, Khondyë?" she breathed.
Tíniel didn't reply, but only stared as the shadow grew bigger and bigger, many times vaster than anything she had ever seen. She could hear distant cries as people in the city witnessed the same thing.
The shadow billowed upwards in a great, dark pillar until suddenly it began taking shape. Two arms separated from its side, and the top part shifted and morphed into something resembling a helm.
"Mekakhond," Tíniel whispered. "It is him."
But terrible and terrifying as it was, it began to reel and recoil as though it was being struck. Blow after invisible blow was dealt, and everyone held their breath, their eyes glued to it. Suddenly, a bolt of red lightning ran through the shadow-man, and its movement ceased. Then, silently and gently, the shadow was blown away by a gentle breeze.
In the utter silence that followed, a bird began to sing.
Enormous quantities of love to all my reviewers for last chapter: you brighten my iso, you beautify my quarantine, you enliven my loneliness. The next chapter will come all the sooner for you, my darlings.
Hope you enjoyed! It's nearly lunch time in Straya and I'm hungry, so I'll catch yas later.
S