Aragorn watched her walk away, the sound of the rain rushing in his ears. He knew suddenly, with a certainty that stunned him, that it was too late; she had given him the choice, and it no longer mattered, because he loved her. She had given him the choice. I trust you. She wanted him, she had offered herself to him. Everything. He could hardly comprehend it. But do you have the strength to refuse her, son of Arathorn? He asked himself, still half-dazed by the shock of feeling that had washed over him. Or to accept?
She had felt real in his arms. He wanted her. He could not deny those things. To make such a choice, though; to deny his former life, to forget his former dreams and loves, that would take more than a mere desire, a chance affinity that would, no doubt, prove fleeting as a season's passage. And yet, what had he wanted, before this last week? A life that now seemed as far away from him now as his long-distant childhood when he walked the flower-strewn paths of the Elven realm, as insubstantial as a dream. Aragorn clenched his fist in frustration and cursed at the ground quietly, but still did not follow her.
And where would you go with this girl, who appeared from nowhere, who remembers little more about herself than her name? Who may yet disappear again at a moment's notice? What would you do, live off the land, keep pigs like a peasant of the Rohirrim?
No. Cold settled in Aragorn's heart, and he shook his head, scattering raindrops. No, it was ridiculous, and he would have to convince himself of that fact, remind himself for every waking minute around the girl. A girl who dreamt of sand, who cursed in her sleep in a language like that of the men Aragorn had killed to protect her not four days before, the four lost men in the dark of the forest. She may yet prove to be a tool of something less than good, Aragorn told himself, although deep inside, he could not believe it of her. She was too young, too naïve. Too far ahead.
With a start Aragorn began walking, quickly falling into a loping stride that calmed his mind and settled his resolution. He would take her to a place where she would be safe; he would take counsel from Gandalf, if he was there – and what made him think he would be there? A waking dream, most likely, caused by hunger or exhaustion – then he would leave, and never see the girl again. Yes. With each step, he seemed to tread down the flickers of guilt and doubt that tried to rise to grasp him. He did not look at her figure, now trudging the slope of the next hill, shoulders hunched with misery or cold, and did not allow himself to remember the touch of her lips on his and the jolt that had leaped through his body at the touch, or her sweet smile at the old man in the hovel that morning, given even in the midst of her hunger and exhaustion, or her eyes, urgent and fierce and pleading, I trust you.
As Lora walked, she did not look behind her, or think, he does not want me, or, I was an idiot to think he did. She walked, and only felt the rain trickling down her face and neck, slowly soaking her clothes through again, welcoming the numbness it brought her. As the pale morning lightened and the sun rose, even behind the endless rain clouds, from a high point Lora could see a dark shape far ahead, something that rose above the rolling hilltops, seeming to loom strangely against the flat grasslands. As they walked – or she, for she was no longer sure that Aragorn was following behind her, but could not bring herself to look – it grew in shape and became a settlement on a high hill; closer still, and the top of the hill became a building, a great hall. Towards mid-afternoon, after Lora had stopped briefly to finish the dried apple Aragorn had given her earlier, but not long enough to think, the rain stopped, and the sun showed itself briefly from behind the clouds. As it danced across the steaming plains it fell for a few seconds across the still far-off hall; as Lora stood and watched, its roof flashed with bright gold. She kept walking.
Later, Lora remembered very little of that last part of the journey towards the Golden Hall, seat of Theoden, Lord and King of the Rohirrim. She remembered stumbling to a halt at the gates so high that it hurt to look up at them, when the early stars were already half-way across the sky. She did not remember a guard asking for her name, but she did remember Aragorn answering in a low voice, and the rush of mingled relief and renewed misery – how long had he been so close behind her and said nothing to her? – and their slow, painful walk up the cobbled slope of the town, past the dark shuttered buildings.
They approached the high dais of the hall, and there was another exchange with guards in a speech she did not understand. She stumbled, and nearly fell. Kind voices spoke to her as hands took hold of her and gently half-steered, half-carried her through low, dark passages to candlelight and a bed. A cup was pressed to her lips, but she could not drink; her head lolled onto a friendly shoulder, and she was asleep.
She woke after an age, a year, and the first thing she knew was that she was very, very thirsty. She sat up and swung her legs out of the bed, but suddenly the room was swimming, spots danced before her eyes, and, unable to keep her balance, she pitched forward. She woke on the stone floor, with someone picking her up.
"Oh dear, oh dear, my poor girl, I never did see such a thing..."
Dazed, Lora was vaguely aware of being manhandled back into bed, and having something dabbed on her face. It hurt.
"Poor starved little mite, hasn't eaten for days, I shouldn't think, and trying to get out of bed on those feet... there, dear, can you hear me? You sleep a little longer, and I'll fetch something from the kitchens."
The room had ceased to sway, but darkness was encroaching on her vision again. Before Lora lost consciousness, she caught a hazy glimpse of a matronly face leaning over her to go with the kind voice, and she slipped back into sleep with the comforting sense of being cared for.
The voice roused her again, much later, and before Lora was fully awake she was being helped to sit up, and was given water. She now found she was parched, and drank greedily until the woman took away the cup with a gentle tut. "Now, dear, take it gently, or you'll be sick. My goodness, I never did see anything so starved. Don't move now, eat a little of this."
It was soup, hot, nutritious and wonderful, and with every spoonful Lora felt strength creeping back into her limbs that had felt like water. She finished the bowl, and was so desolate when there was no more that she almost burst into tears, weakness washing over her again. The hands lowered her onto the pillow again and stroked her hair, the voice keeping up a flow of platitudes and comforts, and Lora quickly fell asleep again, no longer feeling as if she might dissolve and seep into the bed-sheets.
She woke again, and there was daylight in the room, but Lora did not think it was morning. She was alone, but she could hear the murmur of voices not far off, her chattering nurse and another woman, obviously waiting for a noise from her to enter. This time, she cautiously propped herself up on her elbows, and even that required a great effort, so she lay back again, and took stock of her surroundings. She was in a low room, sparsely but solidly furnished, and very clean. Someone had removed her boots, and, she realized as she woke further, all her other clothes as well. She was wearing a plain white shift, as spotless and well-made as the room, and as many times repaired. The walls were of plain stone, except for the one to her left, which held a hanging. On it was emblazoned, in faded colours, the head of a horse. The riders of Rohirrim. Who had said that to her? Aragorn? Aragorn. With that thought, Lora's head sank back onto the pillow, suddenly feeling leaden. Where was he? She didn't think he had followed her here to this room, but she wasn't certain. She flushed hot suddenly at the thought that he might have undressed her. No, surely not. The woman must have done that. Almost as if she were summoned, at that moment the nurse bustled in.
"Awake, dear? Feeling better?"
She felt Lora's forehead, and frowned, concerned. "You may have a bit of a fever there, my love."
Lora blinked and hastily tried to gather her thoughts. "No, I'm fine, thank you. I feel much better."
Her voice came out rough and strange, as if she hadn't used it for weeks.
"There's a good girl. Now, we'll feed you up a little more, and then there's a basin of hot water for you, and a towel. By the golden roof, but I never did see such a sight as you when you came in."
A bath suddenly seemed like a very good idea, but food even more so, and Lora managed to sit up without help and gratefully ate the crusty roll and ham she was given, and drank a small cup of weak wine which ran warm through her veins as the nurse kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation.
"Now, we haven't been introduced proper as yet, or not when you were awake enough to understand, poor thing. My name's Thrandyl, and you're in the traveller's lodgings as such we have here at the golden court for those who seek an audience with the king. Not that there are many in these days, and not many of those but that he'll see..."
She sighed, and Lora steeled herself to ask the one question that seemed important around her mouthful of bread, "Where is my friend? Is he still here?"
Thrandyl looked almost affronted. "Your uncle? Bless me, child, but you don't think he would leave you here alone here? Goodness, what a notion. He's been fretting about this door all yesterday while you were sleeping, and I told him, 'Be off, you can't help her by a-bothering me, and you look piped yourself.'
Lora suppressed a smile at the thought of Aragorn being chased off by this mother hen, but was too tired to suppress a foolish, happy glow. He was there all yesterday, he was worried. Have I slept so long? But he hasn't left me, he hasn't gone yet. He won't leave me yet. Another thought occurred to her, and she nearly choked in her hurry to ask.
"And his arm? How is it? Is he well?"
Thrandyl frowned, then nodded vigorously, remembering. "Oh, he's had that washed and bound. I've no doubt he'll heal fast, the wound is clean, and he's a valiant fellow, no doubt. You're fortunate to have such a kinsman, indeed."
Lora nodded, hoping she did not see her wince, and allowed herself to be levered out of bed. Her felt as shaky as a baby's when she first stood up, and it hurt to put her weight on her feet, but after a few hesitant steps leaning on Thrandyl she found that she could walk. It wasn't far. She washed, with a little help, and Thrandyl plunged her head into the warm basin and scrubbed her hair with soap several times before she was satisfied, combing it through and picking out knots with a thick wooden comb. Lora endured this stoically while trying to work out how long it had been since she had last washed. I must smell worse than one of their horses. I'm lucky they didn't put me on straw instead of sheets. I wonder when Aragorn last washed? That thought made her flush again, for quite different reasons from before, but luckily Thrandyl was distracted by a particularly difficult knot, and did not notice.
Lora felt human again after her wash, the clean smell of soap wrapping around her like a warm blanket. Thrandyl disappeared briefly while she dried her hair on a rough towel, and returned with clothes, a long, woollen dress like the one she wore, but richer and better made. It was dark green, and felt strange after weeks in ranger's clothes, but it fit her well, and was comfortable.
"There now," said Thrandyl, stepping back and looking at her with satisfaction, "I daresay you look fit to meet the king now."
The king? What?
"Do – am I seeing the king?" Lora stuttered, her legs suddenly cold and weak again, and she sat down heavily on the bed. Thrandyl clucked reproachfully.
"Oh my love, indeed no. What a dunce I am, frightening you like that. Not yet. But perhaps you will, when you are well again! Your uncle has gained an audience with Theoden King tomorrow, but he can tell you that himself. Oh, dear me, I am a forgetful so-and-so! There's you, asking about your uncle, and me forgetting you are to eat with him tonight. Some good news for you, my duck!"
Lora nodded dazedly, her heart suddenly feeling quite uncertain about whether it was to continue beating, and even more uncertain over whether this was caused by terror or delight. However, noticing that Thrandyl was leaving, she managed to marshal her resources.
"I'd like to go outside, please, if I can. To get some fresh air. Can I go out whenever I want?"
The old woman seemed to have remembered something she needed to do, and waved distractedly as she opened the door, as if to make free the whole world to Lora.
"Indeed, indeed my dear, this is no prison! Don't you go too far now, though, you're still as weak as a little lamb. Anyone will return you back here if you get lost, though, don't you fret. Wrap up warm, there's a chill wind on the plains today..."
She hummed her way out of the room, leaving Lora in a swirl of confusion. I don't even know what time it is now, I can't count the hours until dinner. Maybe that's a good thing. She yearned for some air to clear her head. There was a thick shawl lying on the bed. Lora picked it up and cautiously opened the door of her room, half expecting Aragorn to be there, pacing impatiently. He wasn't, and Lora set off down the low passage, choosing a direction at random, before she could decide whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
She soon came to a window set in the wall, to look out of which she had to bend down a little, despite her own small size. She saw a low wall outside, and some steps, and a man in grey walking slowly up them, leaning on a large stick. He soon passed out of her sight, and then a large woman stepped right in front of the window, obscuring her view. Lora straightened up with a sigh, and moved on. After passing several doors on the left and right, she felt the brush of cold air on her skin and still-damp hair, and wrapped the shawl around her with a shiver. Then there was a half-open door to be pushed open heavily, and bright silver daylight, and a cold wind. Lora stepped outside, and gasped.
She was standing on a steep, paved street, outside one of a cluster of well-built, low buildings obviously associated with the great hall on the summit of the hill, some way above her. From her vantage point she could look over the small, scattered town that ran down the hill, down to the high wooden gates and the walls, and beyond, across the sweeping plains of this place. Rohan. Lora whispered the name aloud to herself and heard the wind in its syllables. It howled desolately across the plains, as if trying to reach something forever beyond it. There were no trees here, none for many leagues, maybe, except the forest which she and Aragorn had come out of, so long ago. Now, with the sky seeming to fill the world, Lora could not remember the sound of leaves. But she remembered Aragorn's voice, high up in that sky of green, guiding her gently as they descended through branches after their imprisonment inside the tree, naming the places of the world for her. To the south, the halls of the Rohirrim, the horse tamers. How many days ago had that been? Lora's head hurt, trying to count the days, which seemed too few. And how many days before that, since I woke up in the forest? All the days I can remember, my whole life.
It was cold, and Lora drew the shawl more tightly around her, her teeth beginning to chatter. The bare landscape suddenly seemed too big, and she turned to look at the imposing hall above her, needing something substantial to rest her eyes on. The structure seemed the essence of all she had seen here; sturdily beautiful and old, but not beyond imagination, it was reassuringly man-made. Its roof was of gold, and today it gleamed dully under the bleak sky. But suddenly, as Lora stared at it, she caught a brighter flash of gold beneath it, and stepped back a little to see. The hall stood on a sort of plateau, an unwalled stone courtyard around it, and on this high platform, there was a woman walking, dressed in a garment too dark for her pale skin, her fair hair whipping around her face. Actually, Lora amended as she watched her, walking was the wrong word; she was pacing, right to the edge of the plateau, and always recoiling a little as she reached it, as if striking iron bars. Lora stared at her for some time, fascinated at the far-off figure, roaming up and down like a caged thing. She never looks at the hall... she's always facing outwards, even when she turns around. I wish I could see her face from here...
At last, the cold penetrated even the warm shawl, and, teeth chattering, Lora shivered her way back to bed, the image of the fair-haired woman staying with her even as she reached her own blessedly warm room again, and following her into her instant sleep. She even forgot to think about Aragorn, and only woke when Thrandyl came to fetch her, some hours later.