Tathareth, daughter of Talathien, had been aware of the Rohirrim's arrival, and presence, in Lothlorien long before riders reached the stairs of Caras Galadhon. It started with a lone messenger, a young boy atop a hay-colored stallion bearing cloths stamped with the mark of Rohirrim riders, arriving in the forest Lorien. He had been amiably greeted by a scouting party and then escorted to the heart of the realm to deliver his message-a message from the King of Rohan himself.
The sentiments the elves of Lothlorien possessed regarding the Rohirrim were polarizing. Some held them in high regard, admiring them for their tenacity, gallalntry, and fortitude during the Battle of Helms Deep, while others held them in a negative contempt, blaming them for elven lives claimed by the Uruk-hai army-lives they felt as though were wasted on protecting mortals. But regardless of whether it was honor or disdain the elves felt for mortal allies, sadness struck their hearts hearing of how Theoden King met his end at Pelennor Fields and Lord Celeborn was more than willing to fulfill any request for Rohan's newest king.
A man required healing, the messenger said. A former chancellor that'd shed his skin to reveal himself to be nothing more than a traitor whose soul was stained with blood and lies and sin. The messenger spoke of the man he called "Wormtongue" with great detestation-but Celeborn was swift in upholding the elves' oath of being benevolent allies to Rohan, and had Tathareth make preparations for her to-be patient.
And Tathareth anticipated the worst illness to have stricken this man-Wormtongue-if he were sent here to rely on elven healing. An arcane infection, some dark enchantment, even dragon sickness-Tathareth expected the worst, something that'd be beyond her own healing capabilities, as she stood beside Lord Celeborn and a small assemblage of guards at the base of one of the grand stairs that lead into the starlit belly of Caras Galadhon. Unlike her lord's attire of silver and swan-white, her form was enveloped in lilac-colored and grey robes with billowing sleeves that hung limply at her sides like broken wings. From her head flowed a pale grey veil rather than hair, the fabric embroidered with shimmering white thread to give it the appearance of starlight held captive within a fogged dawn; a headband of diamond-studded silver threaded into an intricate, interwoven design held the veil securely in place.
There were two riders, donning Rohirric armor, seemingly, for the sake of appearances rather than a need for protection with swords hung at their waists, broad chests plated with leather armor and chainmail, and helmets that were vaguely equine in shape. Slouched behind the older of the two riders with a grizzled beard atop a black steed was a form cocooned in dark robes and a cloak, and was obviously not responsive. Wormtongue, Tathareth concluded with a firm purse of her pale lips. It was clear to her that the riders took no care of whom they rode with, merely ensuring that Wormtongue didn't fall from the saddle.
Tathareth regarded them with muted amusement, and mirrored her lord's polite incline of his head in greeting.
"We welcome you to Lothloerien, riders of Rohan," Celeborn said, stepping towards them when their horses came to a stop, hands extended outward in an elegant gesture of welcome. He spoke without a smile but his eyes were warm, his voice chilled but not unkind. "I understand that we are to take one of your own under our care?" His gaze flittered to the slouched figure, eyes narrowed slightly.
Tathareth stepped behind him, her hands clasped before her in the folds of her robes as she tried to get a better view of the man that was to be her patient.
"We are certainly eager to have him expelled from our lands. Might as well bring him to die amongst elves to spare us the reek of his decomposition." The older rider scoffed, sliding off his horse and leaving Wormtongue to slump forward with a muffled groan.
Tathareth saw that Wormtongue had dark hair (so unlike the dark gold of those that brought him here), and his pallor was deathly pale as she stepped closer to the horse. If this man was to be her patient, she felt it appropriate to assess him as soon as possible.
Stringy, lank black hair framed the man's face in dark curtains she parted with her fingers, long and white and slender like the legs of a spider, so she may feel for a fever, to see if the man would be responsive to touch, anything. And a fever there was. His skin was scalding to the touch, and Tathareth withdrew her hand with a seething hiss. She gawked at her hand as though she touched a hot iron and that the flesh of her fingertips bore the angry red mark of a burn, then she turned her attention back to Wormtongue. His breathing emerged as ragged wheezes, and his whole form shuddered beneath each breath.
She extended a hand again, lightly touching his shoulder to straighten his posture so she could study him further. Wormtongue gave another muffled groan, and then sharp grunt when he slid from the saddle and collapsed to the stone and moss path below him.
The riders only looked at him lying in the shadowy pool of his dark cloak with cold indifference-the older man looked smug.
Tathareth offered them a cool glare as she rushed to the other side of the horse and dropped to her knees beside Wormtongue. Were they not going to help him?
She was already attempting to lift him, to drape his arm across her shoulders when she called to the riders, "I require your assistance, please! You brought to me a man who is practically a corpse, I cannot let him die here!"
"Good, let him," the young rider finally spoke, voice quivering as he remained atop his mount. Tathareth found it fascinating that the ire that burned upon his tongue and in his eyes wasn't made out of petty hatred, but rather of pain and hurt and fear. Wormtongue meant something to these men, and that something wasn't favorable. "Let the snake die."
"Wormtongue and his fate are no longer our concern," the older rider evaded around the crumbled man and elven healer to mount his horse with smooth, stoic expertise. He spoke with a similar hatred as his younger companion, as well as an eagerness as he turned his horse on the path. He regarded Celeborn with a curt bow, something Celeborn returned with eased grace and a gentle furrow of his pale brow.
"Lady Tathareth will ensure he makes a recovery, and that he may return to Rohan-"
"Rohan won't accept him," the older rider interrupted Celeborn with a gruff growl. "He isn't one of us, and for his safety he ought to keep it that way."
And without another word, the two riders departed, the thundering of their horses' hooves swelling the air of Lothlorien until they faded into the soft quiet of the forest.
Tathareth was still struggling with Wormtongue, as he obviously couldn't stand on his own two feet and fever made his whole being hot to the touch. The stench of infection seeped from his body, and the pallor of his flesh gave him a sallow appearance like that of a rotting corpse.
Her struggle didn't last for too much longer, though, for Tathareth felt his deadened weight lighten, and she looked over to see an elf with white-blond hair and pale green eyes supporting Wormtongue on his shoulder. Lirion. His square jaw tensed and blond brow pinched when he returned Tathareth's gaze, and he nodded to her.
Another elf stepped forward and supported the remainder of Wormtongue's weight upon her own shoulders, a she-elf with darker blonde hair and a thin scar marking her pointed chin. Saeliel. Both adopted slight sneers that made their noses crinkle as they balanced the man between them.
Lirion, then, nodded to Tathareth, "Lead the way, my lady."
Gathering the skirts of her robes in her fists, she hastily bowed to Celeborn before ascending the main stairs. With a purposeful pace she led them into the more shallow depths of the city, close to the forest's floor. She paused every couple of steps to ensure that the other elves had been following her, and that they, somehow, hadn't managed to lose Wormtongue over the edge of the platforms, leaving him to tumble and meet an assured death on the forest floor below.
Tathareth kept herself, and her work, far from the other elves. Not too far, however. She was close enough to the city's heart to be retrieved in a moment's haste, or if illness struck an elf too severely to travel far, or if they were in dire need of herbs. But she was still far enough to allow herself, and her patients, her beloved solitude.
Through the elegant labyrinth of marble platforms, porcelain archways, and crystalline corridors, Tathareth led the elves in a wisp of purple gossamer and silk robes. They came to a corridor that wrapped itself around one of the city's great white trees with several doors carved into the bark, and Tathareth lead them to the nearest one (the unlit lamp hunt beside its threshold indicated that it was vacant).
The door opened to small, circular chambers carved into the tree's innards, the room looking as though it were sculpted freshly from slabs of marble and bars of silver. It lacked furniture, save for a bed made of silver and porcelain carved into elegant loops resembling the silhouettes of swans in the room's corner and a nightstand beside it made in a similar fashion, and was obviously devised for recovery rather than comfort. The space was illuminated by the silver gilded lanterns melded into the walls, and Tathareth approached them all to turn leaf-shaped levers and dim the silvery light they held within them. She needed not bright light to finish her work, and the man required the comfort of darkness to rest and recover.
"On the bed. Quickly," Tathareth stepped aside to allow Lirion and Saeliel to drag the man into the room. They'd been in the process of easing him onto the bed when she departed from the room, whisking away to the opposite end of the corridor where her personal chambers, with its silver detailing on the walls, yawning hearth, collection of marble and glass pestle and mortars, and drying herbs hanging from the ceiling, were.
She'd returned with her arms carrying bushels of athelas and marigold and lavender, a pestle and mortar, and rolls upon rolls of bandages. Lirion and Salriel had removed Wormtongue's cloak and robes, leaving them folded on the bedside table, and Wormtongue himself laid in a crooked heap on the bed in a tunic that was damp with sweat and infection. The fabric above the left side of his chest was especially stiff with dried blood and pus. A smell filled the air, one of death and mortality, and Tathareth was grateful for the lavender she brought with her.
"Water, please," she said without looking at either of the elves that'd remained in the chamber as she began to set her things on the bedside table. The bushels of lavender she strung from the ceiling around the bed from silken twine, to banish the smell of sickness and dying from the space.
Lirion ducked his head in silent obedience, and left the room. Saeliel remained in the opposite corner, arms held behind her, and prepared to offer whatever assistance Tathareth would come to require. She watched the healer with blue eyes that were narrowed, analytical. She thought it'd be easier to just let the man die, as it was obvious that death clung to him so intimately and it seemed as though no one wished for him to be alive, but she remained wordless. Lady Tathareth, eccentric and aloof as she tended to be, always held a determination to heal someone-and to heal them correctly-regardless of circumstances surrounding a patient and their character.
With swift hands, Tathareth shimmied Wormtongue free from his tunic, peeling the damp clothing from his flesh like peeling away a snake's dead skin. And she winced seeing the horrid extent of the man's infection. A gaping wound of flesh festered in a spot just between his collarbone and where his heart ought to be, and Tathareth pressed the back of her hand against her lips to suppress her shock. How had he not died yet? How has infection not obliterated his heart and killed him by now?
Alive or barely alive, she needed to move with great haste, for he was being hurtled toward his death with a swiftness she'd grown all too familiar with.
Death was swiftly approaching. Tathareth, and her kin, felt life leaking from men like blood leaking from a wound. But with a wounded man creeping his way towards his own demise, Tathareth felt herself drowning in the weight of his mortality.
When Lirion returned with an ewer of water and a glass-and-silver bowl filled with unused cloth, Tathareth had set to work grinding the athelus and marigold petals into a paste. She paused to accept the water, cradling the bowl against her breast, and nodded to both of the elves as she shifted to sit on the bed.
"Thank you for your aid. I shall be able to handle things by myself from now on. Now go."
The three of them exchanged polite bows, and Lirion lingered in the chamber's doorway for several heartbeats, his pale eyes resting on Wormtongue with a narrowed, tight-lipped gaze. But he left with a soft sigh, closing the door behind him.
Once she'd cleaned the wound of its dried (and oozing) pus and blood, she soaked a fresh cloth in the cold water, then pressed it to Wormtongue's forehead, resting her grip there for a moment with the hope that the chill would seep into his body to bring his temperature down. She noticed a thin, white, and fresh, scar lining the man's lip as they parted in shuddering breaths.
With a tender fervor, she filled her hands with her paste concoction, using her fingers to gently press and massage it into the wound, all while whispering her spells of healing in elvish in a numbing loop. The way she spoke, it was like a whispering lullaby, her tone shifting every other syllable as though she were offering a song rather than a spell.
No immediate signs of healing showed themselves as Tathareth slowly withdrew her hands to wipe them clean in her bowl, and then retrieved bandages and stray pieces of marigold petals and athelus once she dried them against the skirts of her robes (which were now stained muted shades of green and gold and orange). She pressed the raw plants to Wormtongue's wound before dressing it thickly in the cloth bandages, muttering more healing spells as she did so.
With the wound dressed, Tathareth sat back on the bed with a soft sigh, especially in relief at seeing Wormtongue's breathing remain consistent and fall into a rhythm. A weak, muted, ragged rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless. He was alive yet, and he is to live, Tathareth concluded with a nod of resoluteness; his right arm sustained several dull bruises from his fall from the horse.
In bed, his hair surrounded him on the pillow like serpents of shadow, and Tathareth took a moment to investigate her patient as she'd lost her chance to do so earlier. Admittedly, now that the adrenaline of saving his life had passed (for now) subsided, she felt elated knowing an air of infamy surrounded him. There was a peculiar excitement at the prospect of working with a patient that worked so closely with dark wizards and even darker sorcery!
With the very tips of her fingers, ghosting a touch across his jawline, she coaxed his head to turn ever so slightly towards her so she could clearly view his face.
The lamplight dimly highlighted narrow features that were nearly serpentine with a sharp nose, a smooth and hairless brow, lines of bitterness etched into the flesh around his mouth and eyes, and grey lips curled into a cruel sneer even while in sleep. He looked like the villain-the snake-those riders seemed so determined to loathe and banish. He looked bitter and weary, though not as evil as Tathareth would expect from a man as hated as him.
Let the snake die.
Tathareth retracted her touch with a scrunched brow and pursed lips, a sigh rushing from her nose, before she stood.
"I shall be back in a few hours to change your bandages, my lord Wormtongue," she hummed quietly into the air, as if he were conscious and would understand her words, and she took a moment to reorganize her tools on the nightstand for when she was to return. "Until then," she tugged the silken coverlet that'd been bunched at the foot of the bed over his body and stepped away with a low bow. "May you rest well."
When she departed from the room in a whisper of gossamer and silk, the young Rohirric rider's words still adhered themselves to her.
Let the snake die.