Warning: if anyone should have wondered why there is a R-Rating, this chapter was the main reason. There is a very violent scene included;someone who doesn't want to read something like this, should avoid this chapter.

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Personal note: Thank you to everyone who was yet patient enough to follow this strange story, and who encouraged me to move on - especially cymoria, Kerla, Sweet A.K, Chibi-Kaz, rabidsamfan (and of course all the wonderful ladies in my LJ!!) and Khaelen Coulson. THIS MEANS THE WORLD TO ME! Hold on - the story will be finished soon (only four chapters still to come...)

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8. A burning City

The siege started near morning, but there was no dawn. The darkness faded to grey, and what woke me was not the light of day but a weird sound I could not identify at once: a dull rumbling like thunder that seemed to emerge from the depths of the earth. I sat up slowly and stared out the window. Now they are coming, I thought. Now it begins.

Breakfast was eaten in silence, a hasty, joyless business. I guessed that, like me, the men and women serving in the Houses of Healing were thankful for the daily routine that kept their hands and minds occupied. The enemy massed before the city and the ruined Pelennor swarmed with orks, but temperatures had to be taken nonetheless… a labyrinth of deep trenches was dug within sight of the city, and siege towers were dragged close to the walls, but we had no time to wring our hands at approaching disaster. We changed bandages, and I saved two glasses of chamomile blooms before they could slip out of Mardil's hands, while he expounded to me on the virtues of lady's mantle.

The day dragged by with agonizing slowness. Now and again people came to tell us what was happening: the trenches near the city were burning now, though no one understood quite how they had been set aflame. The black tent camps of the enemy were springing up in horrifying numbers. The gardens were no refuge anymore. They were high enough to keep the air halfway fresh, but the oily stench of smoke was everywhere by now, settling into all our garments, and even closing the windows didn't keep it out.

In the late afternoon I saw Oroher with a man in the Black and Silver of the Citadel; the warden was angry, ranting furiously at his companion. Then he snatched up his cloak and disappeared for about an hour; when he returned he was silent and very pale. He retired into his study, unapproachable, but after a while he came out again and went about his work as if nothing were wrong. Later Ioreth told me, whispering, that he had tried to convince the Steward to give his son into the care of the healers. Denethor had barely listened to him, dismissing him abruptly.

Now the first corpses were carried up to us, most of them slain by the debris of houses shattered by projectiles from the siege towers. We arranged the dead as decently as possible, making shrouds of blankets and carrying them into a deep, empty cellar. Oroher sent everyone he could spare down to the first Circle of the city, where more and more fires were spreading. The siege towers were flinging strange, flaming balls over the city wall – I guessed that they probably contained phosphorus, or something of the sort – and the damage they did was disastrous.

And all day the Nazgul flew over the city, mostly invisible… only their horrifying voices could be heard. From time to time one of them plummeted out of the darkened sky, not really attacking, but that was hardly necessary. Where the voices of the Nazgul rose, the men of Minas Tirith lost their courage: exhausted helpers stared hopelessly at the roaring flames, and sturdy warriors who had survived dozens of battles, dropped their weapons and turned to flight, crying like children.

Gandalf did what the Steward had been unwilling even to try: he rode without rest from Circle to Circle, encouraging the desperate defenders. I saw him only once, when he brought three men, seriously burned, to the Houses of Healing. He dismounted briefly and exchanged a few words with Oroher, then swung himself back on Shadowfax. I grabbed a jar of water and a mug, calling his name.

"Gandalf!"

He turned in my direction, and I hurried over to where he waited before the gate, handing him the filled mug. He drank thirstily, and when he handed back the mug our hands brushed against each other. I looked into his eyes, filled with an overwhelming weariness, and forced myself to smile. He smiled back very faintly; then suddenly he bowed down to me and the white beard swept over my shoulder as he spoke close to my ear.

"If our shield brothers do not come soon, we are lost," he said softly. "Without Rohan, this city will not stand another day. I know you said Sauron would fall…but will Minas Tirith survive to celebrate the victory?"

I nodded, and for a precious moment the exhaustion that nearly paralyzed me was lifted from my shoulders. This time my smile had more potency, and it was mirrored in the wizard's deep eyes.

"Tomorrow, by the rising of the sun," I whispered. I felt the pressure of his hand; then he whirled Shadowfax around and rushed down the empty street like a wind out of the north.

Hardly anyone slept that night in the Houses of Healing. Those who had burns needed tending through the night, and the ceaseless bombardment of the walls made a dull thunder that forbade rest of body or mind. None of the projectiles had reached the sixth circle as yet, but water buckets stood ready to put out the fires when it should become necessary. Near midnight Alandel made a daring foray to the front city wall; when he returned he told us in horror about a giant battering ram being brought up before the gate. If that were not enough, he said that Mumakil were pulling even more siege towers up to the city walls. I didn't want to imagine what the situation must be close to the gate, where the few defenders faced a terrible superiority of forces.

Shortly before what should have been morning – but again there was no dawn worthy of the name – a sharp tremor shook the city. "The gate! They have broken the gate!" came desperate screams from the street. I rushed outside. Black smoke rolled up from the first Circle of the city, engulfed in flames. The smoke and fire blocked my view of what was happening near the gate, and to an extent I was relieved. I ran to the wall, where several people were already standing, old women for the most part, wringing their hands in terror. Suddenly a cold wind rose, tearing apart the clouds of smoke, and I could see a silvery streak near the horizon, breaking up the deadly gloom. I stared out across the plain, over the armies of Mordor, hardly daring to breathe – and then there was a resounding of scores of horns, deep and hoarse like the lurs of the ancient Vikings. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

The sun was rising – and Rohan had arrived at last.

*****

Barely an hour later I saw a man on a litter being carried to the main entry. A man in the uniform of the Guard stood near-by, his face grave, and someone else as well, much smaller…

Pippin.

So Denethor was dead; this must be Faramir, saved at the last moment from the madness of his own father. I wanted to go to Pippin, but Faramir must come first. Sturdy aides lifted the litter and carried it into one of the sickrooms. When I came in, Oroher was already there, kneeling beside him with a hand on his brow.

"He has a high fever," he said. "Best get him out of those clothes and wrap him in wet packs. Noerwen, go down to Mardil, please, and ask for whatever draughts and herbs he has against fever."

I hurried into the storeroom, explaining to Mardil what I needed and for whom. There was no sign of his usual absent-mindedness this time; he sorted out glasses and boxes with lightning speed, and in a few minutes I was in the refectory ordering a tea brewed from the strongest herbal mixture he had been able to find. Soon after that I was in the sickroom again, with a phial of peppermint oil and a pile of clean towels.

Faramir had been stripped of his clothing and bathed. Containers stood ready with cold water from a deep well; I poured in the peppermint and we wrapped his arms and legs in the cold damp towels, covering him with woolen blankets. I fetched the tea and we got the healing brew down him drop by drop, unconscious though he was, Oroher massaging his throat gently to help him swallow. The Captain of Gondor was horrifyingly weak, and his body seemed to be burning up where it lay.

Finally I put mug and spoon aside; I sat looking into the pale, still face, now washed clean of grim. My heart ached with pity and remorse: perhaps it would have been better to put all caution aside and at least warn Gandalf.

I rose and gathered up Faramir's garments. They were full of ashes and soaked with a sweet-smelling oil; the odor made my stomach turn. I tossed them in a basket by the door and wiped my hands on my apron. As I started down the hallway, I saw Gandalf coming, carrying someone small and slight as a child. But he was not a child, I knew that at once, though I had never seen him before.

This was Merry.

His white robes swirling around his ankles, the wizard disappeared into a room two doors down the corridor, leaving his companion standing outside: a small figure in the uniform of the Citadel who leaned exhausted against the wall, his head bowed. I felt a rush of compassion and fellow-feeling – here is someone else who feels lost.

"Master Perian?" I asked softly.

He stiffened and looked up at me. I saw a pleasing face with hazel eyes, crowned with a tousled mop of curly hair the color of oak leaves in autumn. He looked like one who normally enjoyed life to the fullest, but now the corners of his mouth were pulled down with distress, and his cheeks were pale and stained with tears.

"They will take good care of your friend, little master," I assured him. "Perhaps you would like something to eat in the meantime? It is easier to keep vigil with something in your stomach."

His eyes brightened for a moment when I mentioned food – a hobbit, indeed. Then he shot a doubtful gaze at the closed door.

"You can do nothing for him now. And you will be of more help when you are feeling better yourself."

He pondered that argument carefully while I stood patiently waiting. Then a tentative smile curled the corners of his mouth and he bowed with astonishing grace.

"You are very kind. With whom do I have the honour of speaking?"

"Noerwen, worker in the Houses of Healing." I returned the bow, not nearly so gracefully, and the weak smile flashed for an instant into a roguish grin. It vanished quickly, however, and he looked once more at the door.

"Peregrin Took from the Shire, at your service," he said absent-mindedly. Then he looked at me doubtfully. "And you have no idea where that is, of course."

"Quite to the contrary, Master Peregrin Took," I said, and for the first time on this gloomy day my heart lightened. "I have a very good idea where it is. But I would be delighted to learn more, if you don't mind telling me."

I guided him down to the refectory. In the vestibule were several big basins, small crocks of herbal soap and clean towels. Pippin washed hands and face properly, but to my astonishment (and secret delight) he finished the procedure by pouring half a jar of water over his head. He spluttered and shook himself, sending drops of water flying in all directions.

"That was fine," he said, taking a deep breath. "And I must admit I would be very glad of something to eat now!"

I found a place for us to sit near the big front window, overlooking the green slopes of Mt. Mindolluin. The smoke was not visible from here, and the battle could be ignored for a few blessed moments. I got Pippin a glass of wine, thinned with water, and a bowl of walnuts and four small meat pastries from a platter that was still nearly full: hardly anyone had yet found time to eat today.

"At home we'd say, 'Enough for a hollow tooth'," he remarked with a smile, inspecting the rations. "Aren't you going to eat something? I'd rather have some company with my breakfast."

I helped myself to some grape juice, two apples and another meat pastry. When I returned to the table, nothing was left of his pastries and he was cracking nuts, looking very much better, his cheeks rosy from the wine. We shared our meal in companionable silence, and I left my second apple for him. I watched him bite into it, my chin propped on my hands; the situation seemed unreal, and yet I was amazingly at ease. To meet the men of Middle Earth was one thing, but now Pippin sat across from me, his legs too short to reach the floor from the man-sized chair. Pippin the Hobbit: real. Miraculously, marvelously real.

I looked away before he could notice my blatant stare. By now he had cleaned his plate down to the last crumb. Without the meal to distract him, his open, friendly face turned somber; he seemed to make up his mind about something and swallowed hard, looking me in the eye.

"I'm afraid Merry will die," he said in a low voice.

"Your friend?" Once again the urge to bend the truth gave me a pang of conscience.

"He's my cousin," he said. "I've known him since I began to walk – we were the terror of our aunts."

"I can well believe it," I said dryly, and was rewarded with a small grin.

"I have seen men die already," he continued. "In Moria – when Gandalf fell." He glanced up at me, uncertain. "Maybe that doesn't count, really, for he came back. But Boromir was really killed: he tried to defend Merry and me, and the Uruk-Hai slew him before our eyes…"

"I am so sorry," I said softly, but he continued as if he didn't hear me.

"And now Merry lies up there… he doesn't recognize me any more, and as I was trying to get him here, he asked me if I was going to bury him! And –"

He was struggling to keep his composure, his lips trembling.

"— and Lord Denethor went mad right before my eyes." He bowed his head, swallowed. "He tried to burn himself, and Faramir as well, and his son is still alive – what kind of father would do such a thing? Heavens, all I want to do is go home!"

The last words were almost a moan, and he hid his face in his hands. I longed to touch him, to comfort him, and I didn't dare: he might be small, but he was not a child. He was a man, trying not to weep before me, and the only thing I could do for him was to let him keep his dignity.

"You will go home, and your cousin too," I said. "He will not die."

He raised his head to look at me. "You are very kind." His voice was tired, faltering. "Thank you. I'd better go upstairs again now; I don't want to leave Merry alone."

I guided him back to the sickrooms, and we didn't say any more. He slipped into Merry's room, turning back for a moment to raise his hand and give me the ghost of a smile. Then the door closed behind him.

*****

The little time with Pippin was the only thing to warm my heart that day, but the effect passed away quickly, for now we suffered the full aftermath of the battle. Wounded men flooded in and we did our best to care for their injuries, but soon we had to turn away those with only minor wounds. We had to save the space for those who were too badly hurt to stand, and those whose injuries demanded constant observation.

And now I watched men die. At first the worst ones were those who screamed, their voices growing weaker and weaker until at last, dreadfully, they were silent. But as the day waned, more and more were brought in who did not scream, and we learned to fear them. These were the victims of the Black Breath: when they arrived they were generally still conscious and did not seem to be severely wounded, but then they fell into a deathly sleep, their foreheads burning with fever and their limbs ice cold. They sank deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, until they slid over into death. There was nothing we could do for them; we could only stand by and watch them die.

I saw young men die, hardly more than adolescents, from the south of Gondor. Nothing had prepared them for this horror, battling the vile creatures of Sauron. After a few hours I learned to keep up my defenses, to shield myself somewhat against the misery, the sorrow and pain. It was necessary to keep a little distance, or I would have sat down and wept with pity, and been of no use to anyone.

I saw Eowyn carried past, silent and beautiful, a blanket pulled up to her chin. I watched Faramir sinking deeper and deeper into deadly dreams. I sewed up gaping wounds and patched together the scalp of one of the Swan Knights – an axe blow had nearly torn the skin from his head, and at that he was lucky to be alive. The day dragged on and I struggled to keep going, my sleeves rolled up above my elbows and my apron stained with blood. When I stole a moment to glance at the other healers, I could see they were as badly off as I was myself. And when the bells began to ring, and messengers came running up from the lower Circles to spread the good news that the ships of the Corsairs, sailing up the river, had not brought more enemies but instead an army of allies and a warrior who bore a black banner, embroidered with stars, all I could manage was a tired smile.

What remained most clearly in my memory was the Horseman of Rohan I was caring for when evening drew near. There was nothing any of us could do to help him. His arms and legs were bandaged, and the healers had placed a covering of thin gauze over the terrible wound in his belly; it was too deep to bandage and too mangled to sew up. His time was nearly up, and we all knew it. I went into his room to be with him in his last moments, but also to be out of the hubbub for a few moments.

I sat beside his bed, holding his hand between both of mine and fighting against sleep, while he bled to death inside. Once or twice my eyes closed and I dozed off.

I was startled awake when the dying man grew restless, tossing his head from side to side and muttering. The rays of the setting sun struck through the half-open casements, washing the room in light the color of rubies, and I bent down to listen to him, but I couldn't understand, at first, what he was trying to say. I laid my hand against his cheek and smoothed the tousled hair, pale as straw, that had worked loose from his long braids. At first this seemed to comfort him, but then he began again to whisper, becoming more agitated, and I put my ear close to his mouth.

"Moder…" he said faintly, his voice choked and hoarse. "Moder… Moder…"

I hadn't noticed that someone had come into the room behind me, until I saw an embroidered sleeve and white hair from the corner of my eye. I spoke without turning around.

"He is dying, Gandalf, and I can't make out what he's trying to say. Can you help me?"

The wizard came closer, listening, and then he sighed. "He is calling for his mother." He said. „Many of them do that when they die."

"I know. He is certainly not the first one today." My voice sounded unnecessarily brusque; I saw how Gandalf looked at me and closed my eyes, ashamed. "I am sorry, Lord. It is only that I—"

"I know." He smiled sadly. "You are certainly not the only one today."

"I wish I could help him," I said. "But I don't speak his language. That he must die alone, without help…"

"He is not alone," Gandalf replied. "You are with him, are you not?"

"Moder…" The voice of the warrior came again. He gasped for breath, and once more I caressed his cheek.

"Repeat what I say," Gandalf ordered abruptly. He spoke a few words, hard, light syllables, the sound strange and familiar at the same time. I said them again and again in a low voice until I was sure I could pronounce them correctly. Then I leaned once more over the dying man.

"Eagan xine beluctu, sunu min, ond on sibbe sweftu…" I whispered. The effect was astonishing; the man lay still and bent his head to one side as if listening eagerly to a familiar, beloved voice. His agonized face relaxed into a smile of relief.

"Moder…" he murmured once more. I kissed his brow and felt his last, heavy breath across my face. Slowly I pushed myself to my feet and faced Gandalf, still holding on to the hand of the dead man.

"What did I say to him?" I asked.

Gandalf bowed his head. "You spoke Rohirric, his native tongue. You said, 'Close your eyes, my son, and sleep in peace.'"

*****

Gandalf went out, and I left a few minutes later. The dead warrior of Rohan was carried away, and I went over to Faramir. He lay absolutely still and I felt, watching him, that his time, too, was running out. Ioreth stood by his bed, her old face anxious and full of sorrow.

"Lord Gandalf was here a moment ago," she said. "I told him I wished there was still a King in Gondor: the Kings had hands of healing, so the old stories say. And he gave me a sharp look and said, 'Men shall remember your words, Ioreth.' And then he said something about strange rumours running through the city, but I have heard nothing of them! When I looked again, he was gone."

Naturally! Gandalf knew that Aragorn had come.

"I'll go meet him," I said decidedly. Suddenly I couldn't bear the narrow boundaries of the Houses another minute. After a look at my face, Ioreth made no attempt to dissuade me.

"Take care of yourself," she said. "Don't leave the city; the battle field is still dangerous, I'm sure."

I grabbed a cloak and hastily gathered up some bandages, in case they were needed. Then I hurried away through the gardens and out into the street as fast as I could walk.

For the first time in two days I saw more of the city than just the sixth Circle. The houses and gardens of the upper levels were relatively untouched, but as I went down toward the gate, the damage got worse and worse. The second Circle was rubble for the most part, and the carnage near the main gate was beyond description. The dead lay everywhere: warriors of Gondor, Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, Southrons and Orks in ghastly, bloody confusion. The battle was only just over, and there had not been time as yet to bring order out of the dreadful chaos.

I picked my way among the bodies and passed through the gate, or at least what was left of it. The great metal panels hung crazily on their hinges: this was where the Witch King had blasted his way into the city with his evil magic and Gandalf had held him back, until the horns of Rohan sounded on the field and ended the contest of more-than-human power.

Now the road to the Pelennor lay before me. It had been partially cleared, to allow the transport of the wounded, I supposed, but the fields and meadows round about were still littered with bodies, thousands of them, both friend and foe. A stench rose from the battlefield, foully sweet, and bitterly I regretted that I had not brought a handkerchief and some oil of arnica or peppermint, to cover my nose. I looked all around, the light hazy and indistinct, but I could not see Gandalf or Aragorn anywhere.

Better go back. Wandering around among the corpses seemed anything but a good idea, and I turned my back on the Pelennor, pausing to look once more at the battered gate. Minas Tirith had escaped destruction by a hair's breadth.

There was a sudden noise behind me, something scraping against the ground, and then heavy panting. Before I could turn around, something hit my upper arm with terrible force.

The pain was unendurable. I screamed and fell to my knees, then the ground rushed toward me and everything went black. It only lasted for a few seconds, and this fact saved my life.

I pushed myself up on my uninjured arm, spitting out dirt and grass. From the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of light on metal – a knife! I flung myself away, falling clumsily on my back, and the knife blade drove into the ground beside my head. I gazed up at my attacker.

One of the Southrons, I thought… he was too big for an orc and somehow too – human. I couldn't imagine where he had sprung from so suddenly; probably he had been struck down and left for dead, but I had not time to curse my misfortune. With a grunt he yanked the knife blade out of the ground and threw himself upon me with his full weight. A heavy hand in a metal gauntlet pressed against my upper arm, right where the blow had landed. Burning agony washed over me and the world went blurry before my eyes again.

I dared not lose consciousness again; to faint was to die. His head was close before my face, encased in a steel helmet that completely hid his features. Desperately I jerked my good arm free and thrust my fingers into the small sight holes. His head jolted back reflexively and I gasped for breath and tried to squirm away from him.

He loosened his hold on my arm, but he still kept a tight grip on me, staring down at my face and body. Plainly he was realizing for the first time that I was not a man. A dull growl came from under the helmet, and suddenly he grabbed my neckline and ripped both robe and underdress wide open, nearly down to my navel. I opened my mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand across it and pinned me to the ground, digging the fingers of his other hand with brutal force into my left breast.

I moaned, staring up at him helplessly. A quiet, strangely objective voice spoke inside my head. Not only will he kill you, he will rape you first! And what are you going to do about it? I felt sick with horror, but before panic rendered me totally defenseless a thought crossed my mind, as objective as the voice. He needed two free hands to do that! Where is the knife?

He must have dropped it, and I had to find it. Suddenly my mind was clear and ice cold. I let my body go limp and my head sink back. He was right-handed, so the knife had to lie somewhere to my left, and my left arm was unhurt. I reached out and began to feel along the ground. My tormentor, encouraged by my passivity, loosened his grip on my breast and started to push my robe up above my legs. Then, with a quick move, he took off his helmet.

He was olive-skinned with dark eyes and long dark hair that fell in many small braids over his shoulders. His beard was neatly trimmed, and under different circumstances, I would not have thought him repulsive. Now, however, he embodied everything I had learned to hate. He ran his eyes over my body and his panting breath came faster as he began deliberately, impudently, to feel me over.

I shut my eyes and prayed that I would find the knife in time. He pressed his mouth against mine and forced my lips open. It took all my resolution to hold still, to resist the urge to bite down on his tongue with all my strength. He lifted his head and gave a hoarse laugh, sure of his prey. Then, his right hand lying on my breast without pressure, he began to loosen the lacing of his breeches.

I pushed myself a little to the left and reached out as far as I could. At last my hand found the hilt of the knife, and my fingers closed around it. I made a small, involuntary sound of relief, but he was too distracted to notice. He pushed my legs farther apart. Wait… wait… His body tensed to complete his triumph, his head tilted back. Now.

I swung my arm around, the tip of the knife straight up. His neck above the chest armor was unprotected, and the razor-sharp blade slid smoothly through skin, flesh and cartilage, slitting his throat.

He remained motionless for a few endless seconds, a strange gargling sound coming from his mouth. Then he collapsed on top of me. I felt a fine mist of blood drops spraying over my naked skin with each of his laborious gasps. Finally he lay still.

With a choking scream I dropped the knife and shoved him off me with a last, desperate burst of strength. Propping myself once more on the wounded arm, I crawled a metre or two away from him, before I sank to the ground with my eyes closed, shivering from head to toe, the ragged remnants of my robe soaked with the blood of the man I had just killed.