7. For he to-day that sheds his blood with me...
I was very glad that I had found some work to do, even though the Houses of Healing did not have many patients at the moment. But everything was being made ready: heaps of bandages being rolled, and additional beds set up every place there was room. I spent all day the twelfth of March arranging Mardil's storage room, and when I went to bed that night my robe was saturated with the scent of herbs, heady and intense.
The faces around me in the refectory the next morning were wary and troubled. I drank my milk silently, and if there was conversation among any of the healers it was hushed and hesitating.
The first of the wounded from the Rammas were brought to us during the forenoon. Gandalf had escorted the wagons into Minas Tirith, and I caught a brief glimpse of him talking to Oroher, bending down from Shadowfax' back. A whisper among the people spread news that I already knew: the enemy had crossed the river, and threatened the forces of Gondor across the Pelennor. I thought of Faramir and then of Damrod, and my throat grew tight. I knew that Faramir would survive (however wounded) but the book said little about his men. To feel such a great affection for someone whose name appeared on only a single page of Tolkien's book was a bit too much for my peace of mind! But before long I was too busy to think much about it.
The injuries I saw now were frightening... deep gashes and ripped flesh, full of slivers. I worked with the old woman who had awakened me the first morning I was there, caring for a young man who fortunately was almost numb with shock. The old woman - her name, I learned, was Ioreth - sat by the bed holding his hand and speaking softly to him, while I removed small particles of rusty metal from the wound. Then I bound a bandage steeped in herbs to his shoulder and ordered willow bark tea for him against the pain and fever that surely would come... there were no antibiotics to prevent it.
I had no more time to look after him; in the next room an arm required tending - a cruel blow had sliced his flesh just above the elbow. This warrior - a dark-haired giant - was not so lucky as my last patient. He was fully conscious and screaming in agony. Two strong men held him down while Oroher examined the wound and cleaned it. Just as he was about to take needle and thread to sew it up, he was called into another room.
"Can you stitch a wound, Ioreth?" I asked. I was watching the man with some concern; he was struggling in the grip of the two orderlies, arching his back and moaning aloud. "I don't think we should wait…"
She shook her head. "Perhaps ten years ago, love, but not now. My eyes are not what they used to be. You should do it – I am sure you will be much more capable than I am."
She was right; I had learned to put in stitches during my short stint as a first year resident. I accepted my fate, administered the proper dose of poppy juice to the giant, and waited until he lay still at last. Then I washed my hands again, rubbed them with the strong brandy that was used here for disinfectant, and began.
A quarter of an hour later the work was finished. A clean bandage covered the suture, the patient dozed, still half-drugged, and I got up from my little stool next to the bed. For a moment I was lightheaded and Ioreth caught me by the arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Careful, love!" she said. "What did you eat for breakfast?"
"A glass of milk," I confessed.
"Off you go and eat something at once!" she exclaimed, pushing me out the door. "You have the right touch to care for people; wherever you come from, you have been schooled properly. But you won't be of much use with an empty stomach, and you are needed too much to faint with hunger."
I toddled off obediently to the refectory, and sustained myself with heavy dark bread, cold roast, and apples. Afterward I felt much better; I returned to the sick rooms and found Oroher surveying my suture and bandage, looking well satisfied. He smiled.
"I can really use you," he said. "I don't know when you will begin to remember anything, but your hands seem to have their own memory. If you will assist me, we have a man here whose thigh has been broken by the blow of a mace…"
When I was relieved of duty at last, the afternoon was nearly spent and evening was falling. Outside in the herbal gardens nothing much could be seen; the sky was already dark, and the balsamic scent of the herbs was overlaid with the stench of smoke. What I had heard vaguely in the background off and on during the day, hardly noticing it, could be heard more clearly now – far-off explosions. And when I drew near to the wall, high above the city, I saw with sorrow and rage that the Pelennor was burning.
Refugees were fleeing toward the city gates, peasants from plundered and fired homesteads trying to find security in Gondor's last stronghold. I saw warriors as well, but only a few of them in any kind of marching order; that told me more than I wanted to know about the chaos and terror that must reign near the river and the Rammas Echor.
I tried to see through the smoky darkness; somewhere out there were Faramir and his men, in desperate retreat. And Damrod as well – if he did not fall in Osgiliath. The thought was a cynical, hopeless voice whispering in my ear, and at that moment I heard shrill, deadly screams from the sky.
Nazgûl!
I ducked instinctively behind the wall, covering my head with my arms and for a few seconds I was horribly sick. Then I sensed that the evil voices had departed; the ringwraiths flew off toward the river as if they had found other, juicier prey. I got up and dared a look over the wall.
It was exactly as I had read it long ago; Tolkien had recorded the scene like a war correspondent. Here came a troop of men, still marching in some order, and following them a small, terribly small, group of horsemen. Torches flickered along the lines, and the sound of wild screams came to me faintly from the distance. And I saw, as I had seen once before, the black figures of the Nazgul plummeting down upon the refugees. I held my hands against my ears and clenched my teeth, but I could not look away.
And then came the fanfare, short and desperate: down below me the gates opened and the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth galloped forth, racing to meet the hard-pressed warriors. Far in the lead a single shining figure launched himself toward the enemy, his staff held aloft and cutting through the darkness like a beacon.
I turned and ran. I stormed out of the herb gardens into the street, my long robe snatched up away from my pounding feet, passing the empty houses and courtyards through circle after circle of the city. The air grew worse and worse, thick with smoke, as I reached the lower levels. The lowest circle was packed with men, and I leaned against the wall a little to one side, gasping for breath and coughing, and listened as the huge gates grated slowly open on their hinges once more.
The foot-soldiers came first, slow and stumbling, their faces grey as ashes, and not only from the eerie half-darkness that covered the city. I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to see how many of Faramir's men were among them. I saw Mablung far in the front, an ugly slash across his forehead. Two of the Swan Knights came behind, their shining armor marred and dented, and one of them led a lame horse by the reins. Then…
…then Damrod passed by me, head bowed, one arm hanging at an odd angle from his shoulder.
"Damrod!"
His name burst from my mouth in a mixture of relief and horror, sounding like an explosion in the numb silence. Damrod's head jerked up and he looked all around, searching, until our eyes met. Then he whispered something hastily to the man beside him, and stepped out of line to walk slowly over to me. I reached out for him, and his uninjured right hand closed around my fingers before he suddenly drew me close and held me in a half embrace. For a brief moment his forehead sank down upon my shoulder and I could feel a convulsive shudder running through him. Then he stepped back, but without releasing my hand.
Now the horsemen came, a few of them with great banners in their hands, the colours nearly unidentifiable in the dark. I heard the clatter of hooves on stone, the jangling of horses' harness and the creaking of leather saddles, but there were no shouts of welcome, no cheers. The crowd stood silent. And we stood side by side, Damrod and I, and watched the prince of Dol Amroth ride into the city, a high, beautiful figure on his tall horse, and we saw who he held in his arms.
And a voice cried out, shrill with lamentation.
"Faramir!"
I clung with all my strength to Damrod's sound hand, and he winced. Then he loosened my fingers, gently, and drew me to him a second time, and I returned his embrace, hiding my face against the cool armor of his chest. The people of Minas Tirith burst into tears around us, crying aloud and calling Faramir's name over and over, and I clenched my teeth, shuddering. Damrod stood stockstill, watching, listening, and turning to look after the prince, easing me gently to one side. The crowd broke up, silent once more, creeping home with bowed heads and tired, desperate faces.
"I should follow them up to the Citadel." Damrod said.
"Nonsense!" My voice came out sharp and angry. "You will be little use to the son of the Steward in your present state. Your arm looks as if it's broken."
"I don't think so." he said with a grimace. "I have sensed it, and I think the bone is still in order."
"Ah… then you are not only a warrior but also a healer, hm?" I took his healthy arm and drew him with soft force with me.
"No, but it is not my first wound in battle, you know! I know what a broken bone feels like."
"Excellent," I said. "And I know how to splint a broken bone. And since I do know that, I will take you now to the Houses of Healing, where we will care for your arm and also give you a proper meal. I think you are badly in need of both."
"I will grant you that," he said, and sighed. He was silent as I guided him slowly up to the sixth circle of the city and through the dark gardens to the Houses of Healing. Ioreth met us in the vestibule.
"There you are at last, love – I had begun to worry about you!"
She looked at Damrod with a frown. "Are the warriors back from Osgiliath?" she asked in sudden comprehension. "Have… have many fallen? How is the Lord Faramir?"
"He has been hurt, Ioreth," I said before Damrod could answer. "They have taken him to his father."
Her face seemed to grow more aged even as I looked at her, but then she saw that my companion was also wounded. I could see how she struggled for composure; finally she succeeded and in that moment I forgave her every moment of garrulity she had subjected me to in the past two days.
We took Damrod into one of the examining rooms, and together we managed to free him from his armor and peel off the leather doublet he wore underneath. He wasn't able to help us much, but Ioreth was quick to find the right buckles and buttons. At last there was only a thin linen shirt, and since he could not lift his arm, Ioreth gave me a pair of scissors and I cut the cloth carefully away from his shoulder. I could see the shoulder joint clearly under his skin, but in the wrong place, and when I palpated the surrounding area I could feel how it was misaligned.
"You were quite right, my friend," I said. The bone is not broken, but your shoulder is dislocated."
Ioreth went out and came back a moment later with a clay jar, a mug, and a sturdy orderly – one of the men who had held down the mighty warrior whose wound I had stitched earlier in the day.
"Brandy," she said briskly. She poured a great shot of it in the mug and handed it to Damrod. "Drink up, and then Alandel here will hold on to you so Noerwen can put that joint back in place."
Damrod stared at her in perplexity. His gaze wandered over to the brawny orderly and then to me. He threw back his head and emptied the mug in a single gulp, then gasped for breath and coughed.
"I brought you here to be cared for," he said hoarsely. "What has happened, these last three days? Have you overthrown the warden and taken over the governance of the Houses of Healing?"
I laughed softly. "No," I said. "But we discovered that there a few things I am capable of doing."
"Very capable indeed!" Ioreth interjected.
Damrod gazed at me with doubt in his eyes. I gave him a smile as companionable as possible and rolled the long grey sleeves up.
"I hope you had enough brandy," I said, "for I'm afraid this is going to hurt."
I was right, of course; it did hurt, but he bore it. Alandel held him still, and I saw how the sweat broke out on them both when I pulled as hard as I could on the dislocated arm. I bit my lip and concentrated, praying that I could still manage the maneuver. I twisted the arm sharply to the left and felt with a sigh of relief how the ball of the joint snapped back into place.
Damrod took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his brow, managing a wan smile at me. I sat down weakly, my knees as shaky as his must have been. Then I pulled together the shreds of my professional dignity and cleared my throat.
"I will give you an ointment to massage into the shoulder joint," I said. "Alandel will help you with your doublet."
The orderly slid the leather doublet over his head, gentle with the injured shoulder, and fastened the buckles on the side. He gave a quick bow and slipped out of the room. I took a few strips of bandage and fashioned them into a sling.
"You should be careful with that arm for the next few days, Damrod," I said.
"That may prove a bit difficult in the midst of a war," he said with wry humor. His gaze didn't leave my face while I knotted the sling around his neck. I took his arm and positioned it carefully in the sling, my hand resting for a moment on his skin. It was warm and vibrant under my fingers, and I wanted suddenly to stroke his arm, run my palm along the muscular strength of it…
"I know you will not have much time to heal," I said softly. "But I would be glad all the same, if you could come out of this safe and whole, Damrod of Ithilien."
"And I would be glad to come back and find you here again, Noerwen," he replied, and for a sweet, tingling moment he laid his hand over mine. "But now I must go to the quarters of the Guard."
He smiled down at me; then he let go of my hand and turned quickly away, out the door. I stood for a moment in the middle of the room, staring at the empty doorway, before I began slowly winding up the rest of the bandages.
"Splendid figure of a man!" Ioreth's jaunty voice came suddenly from behind my back, and I started violently. I'd had no idea that she was still in the room. "And if my old eyes don't deceive me, you have set him well aflame with the fire on your head…"
"Old gossip!" I snapped, and felt my face turn red. I darted out of the room, her high-pitched giggle following me halfway down the hallway.
Before I went to bed, I walked out again to the city wall. The sky was midnight black now, and far away fires flickered near the half-destroyed Rammas Echor. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
This was not the time to rack my brain about what I was doing here. At this moment I knew the reason beyond any doubt: I had clever hands and the medical knowledge to be of service in the dreadful time that lay ahead for this oppressed city. I could consider what other reason there might be when the battle was over.
For a while I was part of this story; I was allowed to play some part in it. And unlike the men who now perhaps lay sleepless in their beds, wondering what the next few days might bring, I knew exactly what was coming. I thought of the wounded Faramir lying in fevered sleep in the Citadel with his father brooding beside him, of Peregrin who did his duty among strangers, only half understanding what was required of him… he must feel endlessly alone now! And I thought of the Ring Bearer: if I remembered the course of events properly, he was lying at this moment in the Orc Tower of Cirith Ungol, a terrified captive.
Be with him, I prayed. Give him courage. I know You have chosen him, but You let him pay a high price for accepting his burden so humbly.
And suddenly I remembered sitting in a darkened theatre while an actor spoke cadenced, classical lines onstage, lines that seemed strangely perfect here, where I stood on the wall of Minas Tirith on the eve of a cruel siege. The words that had moved me so deeply then came back to me without effort, and I spoke them to the air -
"Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us."
"That's good."
I recognized the voice at once and spun around. Gandalf stood behind me, a white spectre in the darkness. A breath of night wind stirred the hair of his beard.
"Thank you, Lord," I said, surprised. "A poet of our world wrote that, a man of the Pengolodh's own country, and he tells the tale of a King speaking to his army on the Eve of a great battle."
"Indeed?" Gandalf took a step closer. "And was his situation as desperate as ours is?"
"I don't remember," I confessed. "But the enemy had the greater force of arms."
"Then in that, at least, the circumstances are alike," Gandalf said dryly. "You should go to bed, Noerwen. Oroher sings your praises in Westron, Rohirric and Sindarin, all three, but you are only of use if you are well-rested, child."
It was the first time he had used the name Damrod had given me, and the fact that he called me "child" moved me deeply.
"I'll go back soon, only a moment more," I promised. "Good night, Lord."
"Good night to you, Noerwen."
I heard his steps moving slowly away, and I was stirred by admiration and deep pity; I could hardly measure the burden he had borne on his shoulders for such a long time. I stared out once more on the Pelennor, where the enemy approached closer and closer to the walls of the city. At this moment I was not afraid; a fragile, wondrous peace and courage held me up, and I spoke the quotation slowly and quietly to its end, without pathos, but filled with calm and steady confidence.
"But we in it shall be remembered...
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
Make him a member of the gentry, even if he is a commoner.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."
* from „Henry V." by William Shakespeare/ The speech of the King on the Eve of Saint Crispin's Day and the Battle of Agincourt