10. Battles and Victories
It was the moon that woke me up. Its beams fell in a wide pathway from the window to shine directly in my face. I opened my eyes and blinked, and then I felt the arm resting across my chest, the warm body close to mine, naked and relaxed in deep slumber.
I turned to look at him. The covers had slipped down from the upper part of his body, and the clear light gave his flesh the glow of marble, turned his skin to matte silver. I reached out to lay my hand lightly on his chest.
From our first encounter I had been forced to rely on his physical strength for protection, and I remembered lying in the damp grass while he threw himself on top of me, shielding my body from the claws of the Nazgul. And then I had sat behind him, holding tight around his waist as we rode to Minas Tirith; I had embraced him in giddy relief when he returned from Osgiliath, sorrowful and injured. I had tended to his hurts, and tonight I had taken him into my bed. He had given himself to me with a joy and a commitment that humbled and amazed me.
"My beloved is all radiant and ruddy, distinguished among ten thousands," I whispered, and the glorious ancient words from the biblical Song of Solomon came back into my mind. "His head is the finest gold, his locks are wavy, black as a raven."
"What do you say, my heart?"
His eyes were open and he smiled.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I didn't want to wake you up – you need the rest."
"That is true." He drew me closer with great tenderness, not to touch the injury and cause pain. "But I'm not sorry, not at all."
"No?" I laughed against his warm skin, and with delight I felt the shiver course through his body.
"No." He caught my hand and kissed my fingertips. "For thus I have something to take with me tomorrow, when the army marches away."
My smile died away and now it was me shivering. I hugged him as tight as I could with my bandaged arm, pressing my cheek against his chest to listen to his heart, its throbbing loud against my ear. If he was slain… if he did not come back! Panic sent ice through my veins and tightened my throat, and then I felt his hand stroking my back, slow and soothing.
"Please don't. You must not be afraid."
I raised my head to look into his face.
"Are you not afraid?"
For a moment the dark eyes were pensive, distant. Then he smiled, but there was sorrow in his countenance, memories I knew nothing of, the bitter end of fallen friends and battles long finished.
„Not really," he said quietly. "There is a kind of fear a warrior must not allow himself – it dims the eye and weakens the hand. I have learned not to be afraid in that way. Guardedness, yes… that is absolutely necessary. And as time goes on, you develop a certain instinct – for the enemy at your back, for the sword striking out at you, for the unsheathed dagger you can't see in the dark…"
An unsheathed dagger in the dark… I thought of the attack of only a few days ago, but at this moment it seemed like a dream, a bad nightmare, no more than that. I looked at the man who held me in his arms, tender and strong…
It was thanks to him that the touch of a hand would never bring back the horror, the shame and anguish. He had displaced those dark images with stronger and comforting impressions, the gentleness of his hands, his body and his heart.
And if fate was not merciful to me, I would never see him again.
With an effort I sat up and ran my eyes over him, letting my hand glide across his chest and down his belly. His muscles tightened under my touch, and he lay utterly still, closing his eyes, as I turned my attention to his chest once more, using my mouth this time. I felt his hands on the back of my head, running his fingers through my hair, teasing out the long tresses till they lay like an outspread mantle over us both…
Outside the darkness gave way slowly to a grey dawn. The moon set, and as the first faint daylight filtered through the window, I took him inside me once more. The rhythm of our hunger and desire surged through me, ebbing and flowing, and a cry broke from me that was half joy and half despair. Then Damrod drew me down upon him, smoothly, irresistibly, and took me with him beyond the barrier, and my cry dissolved in his kiss.
******
He had plaited my hair into a braid, playfully, and I loosened it as I looked spellbound at my reflection in the mirror. The wound on my arm still hurt, but at that moment I hardly felt the pain. He stepped behind me, still naked, and his warm hand cupped my bare breast.
"You are so beautiful. I cannot believe what a gift you gave me…"
"When do you have to leave?"
His hand caressed me; his breath swept warm across my skin.
"The army marches at noon."
I winced. "I don't want to let you go," I whispered. My body felt numb, wooden.
"We have an hour yet."
He could die so easily in the battle.
"One hour…"
"An hour is a long time."
His voice was deep and warm, and I could hear the smile in it. I realized that he was hiding the thought of the way to the Black Gate from me, deliberately, to protect me. My heart ached with how much I loved him.
At last he helped me to wash myself and get dressed, and I watched as he slipped into his own garments. We walked into the refectory together and I got milk for us, fruit and fresh-baked bread. Damrod ate with a good appetite, methodically, like a man who is aware that he needs his strength for the task ahead. He urged me to drink my milk, at least, and to please him I ate an apple he cut up for me. Then we went outside into the garden, hand in hand, and on into the street.
He took me in his arms, pressed tight against him, and I inhaled his scent, the clean tang of herbal soap from the Houses mixed with the faint flavor of his very skin that I had so thoroughly explored during the night… warm and spicy like sandalwood.
"If you don't come back I will never forgive you," I whispered, my throat tight.
"Oh, but I will come back, Noerwen," he answered quietly. "I will always come back to you, don't you know that?"
I felt his lips soft on my brow, my cheeks, and at last on my mouth; then he let me go. I saw him smiling, one last time, and then he turned away and started down the road, his steps quick and decided. I stood watching, following him with my eyes, until the road curved sharply and he vanished without a single backward glance.
He was definitely stronger than I was.
I would gladly have returned to my favorite place in the gardens, near the back wall behind the Houses, where Damrod had bid me farewell before the last battle. But I might have met Mardil there, or Oroher, or – the tought sent a horrified shudder down my spine – Ioreth. That would be more than I could bear.
Instead I walked slowly down the street to the next circle. I had seen a garden there from up above, bordered by the city wall. It belonged to a house, but there didn't seem to be anyone living there at present – perhaps the inhabitants had been evacuated before the siege.
When I reached the house, the black gate, bordered with beautiful ancient patterns engraved into the wood, was locked. But there was a small passageway beside it with a gate of wrought iron; it opened easily when I pressed against it, and I walked through into the garden I had already seen.
The garden was just as I had known it would be. Narrow paths paved in white stone meandered over the lawn and all around me lilac bushes were putting out their leaves, not blooming yet in March, but in a few more weeks any visitor would find herself in a daze of sweet purple fragrance. I strolled across the lawn – it needed a proper scything – and stepped close to the wall.
The blasted Pelennor lay under the morning sun and the last Army of the West was drawn up before the gates. I watched the men finding their places in the ranks, light mirrored and flashing from their helmets and the tips of their spears. Seven thousand men, I thought. Great Iluvatar, they are so few!
They would survive, or most of them would. The ring would go into the fire and the Dark Lord would be defeated. But at this moment that was no comfort to me. Warriors died in battle, even in victory. A misfortuned arrow could pierce the man I loved; an orc could hew him down before the eagles came.
I sat down abruptly on the ground, drawing my knees up to my chest. The grass was wet with dew and a shudder ran through me, but it was a chill inside, not the damp cold soaking into my skirt, and it would not stop no matter how I hugged myself. For the first time since I sat behind Damrod on his bay, just realizing where I was, panic rushed over me in an towering wave and I felt about to drown.
What makes you think you will be lucky this time? said a small, evil whisper in my ear. Always you have lost everyone you loved, every single one of them – and your father's love was dead already before he died himself. Isn't that true? Isn't it?
I pressed my face against my good arm and closed my eyes.
And even if he does survive, and peace returns, the voice jeered on, What will he say when you finally tell him the truth? Wouldn't he prefer a wife who is not apt to dissolve suddenly into thin air?
I felt the fear like a hard ball in my throat and my composure broke. I cried as I had not done since my mother died; tears flooded me till my bodice was wet with them, and sobs seemed to tear me apart. From a long way off I heard the horns blowing on the Pelennor as the army marched away.
To this day I could not tell how long I cowered there, abandoned to hopelessness. The storm abated at last, leaving me calm but empty, and I raised my head, took a shivering breath and wiped my eyes with my sleeve.
"I beg your pardon… would you like a handkerchief?"
I jumped, jerking around to see a small figure seated on the lawn a few metres away.
I stared at him in perplexity. Only a little fellow in knee breeches and a white shirt, one of his arms in a sling. He looked intelligent, his grey-green eyes clear with a dark ring around the iris that lent his gaze a peculiar sharpness. He met my scrutiny with a pixy-like smile that dimpled his cheeks. I looked down, embarrassed to be caught staring, and saw his feet: shoeless, the insteps clothed in frizzy hair.
He held out a large square of white linen and his smile deepened when I took it and blew my nose noisily.
"Thank you," I said. "Merry Brandybuck, isn't it?"
"At your service." He managed a gracious bow even sitting there on the ground. "And you are Noerwen from the Houses of Healing."
"That's right." I tried my best not to stare, but he on his part examined me thoroughly from head to foot. It was fascinating and not a little bewildering to receive an appreciative "male" look from the eyes of someone who was probably mistaken for a child by many of the people who met him.
"You have wonderful hair," he remarked conversationally. "Red gold, like flame – glorious, really."
"Er… thank you." I felt an irrepressible giggle bubbling up in spite of my misery. "Normally my face looks a little better too, I assure you."
A companionable silence fell between us.
"Pippin told me about you," Merry said suddenly. "He thought you were very good, taking care of him, while I was unconscious."
"I didn't do that much," I said.
"I don't agree." He threw me a sidelong glance. "You were friendly; you talked to him and encouraged him, and even better, you gave him something to eat." He grinned. "He's a hobbit, you know, and food is very important to us."
"Is it?" Again I felt laughter tickling my throat; I was surprised to find that I felt very comfortable in Merry's company.
"I saw you coming in here some time ago," he said after a pause. "And I followed you, for I wanted to thank you for your kindness to my cousin when he needed a friend. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"I know." I propped my chin on my knees and stared down at the ground. "I just bid farewell to a man who is going to the battle before the Black Gate. A wonderful man, one of the rangers of Ithilien, and – I love him. When he passed out of my sight, I was afraid that I would never see him again."
"Are you promised?"
I smiled. "No, we haven't known each other very long. Actually, I met him for the first time a week ago."
One week. No, six days. I could hardly believe it.
"I don't think that matters much," he said slowly. "These last few months, I've learned that you can make friends very quickly in times like these. It would be impossible in normal circumstances… I wouldn't ever have met some of my comrades if I hadn't left the Shire."
"The son of the Steward." I smiled at him. "An elf, a dwarf, and a ranger with a new-forged sword… you really do get around, Master Brandybuck."
He stared at me in amazement.
"How do you know all that?"
"Oh… Gandalf," I said and inwardly gave myself a good kick for my stupidity. The fact that I felt more and more relaxed in Merry's presence mustn't lead to imprudence.
"You must be on good terms with him!" Merry gave a surprised laugh. "And I am a squire of the Riddermark. King Theoden… he was a good man, a good friend… You know that he fell?"
"Yes, I know." A deep shadow darkened his face for a few seconds. "Some of the healers helped to wash and lay him out. And we cared for Eowyn."
"Eowyn," he murmured. "She disguised herself as a man and rode into battle. And when everyone wanted to leave me behind like an annoying child, she took me up on her own horse and gave me a chance to prove my value." There was grim satisfaction in his voice. "I did no more than to prick a ghost in the leg with my sword, but it was enough to save her life and she was able to kill him."
"I know," I said earnestly. "It was a very brave deed."
He made a disparaging gesture. "That was nothing. Eowyn was a heroine; she faced him and did not flinch. And now Strider – Aragorn – has wakened her, but sometimes, you know, I think she is still asleep."
He gave me an uncertain look, and I raised my eyebrows encouragingly.
"It… it was hard for her, I think. She had to care for Theoden when he was under the influence of Grima Wormtongue – did Gandalf tell you about Grima?"
I nodded.
"I think he… wanted her. He crept after her for years like a slimy, soundless snake. And then Gandalf tore away his mask and he fled to his master, to Saruman, like the coward he was. I saw him in Isengard." He hesitated. "She had to be always on guard against him, and all the while her uncle the king grew weaker, more confused… I think she would rather have ridden out with her brother to fight orcs! I almost think she would prefer to be a man. It is very sad."
I regarded him with growing respect. He had an amazing understanding of people, and I liked the deep feeling for Eowyn I could hear in every word he said.
"Now…" I stretched my legs and moved my right arm tentatively; pain flickered down it to my fingertips and I held it still again. "As far as I know, Eowyn came to Edoras after her mother's death, and it was a king's court without any queen. She never had the chance to choose a woman to be her model – there were only men. So for Eowyn strength and honour had always to do with battle, with the use of a sword."
Merry frowned, then smiled faintly.
"Perhaps she would have done better to take the first opportunity that offered and deal with Grima using a blade," he murmured.
"You see, that was the problem," I said. "She wasn't allowed to do that. She was raised almost like a man, but she did not have the right to act like a man. It must have been terribly hard for her to bear this; always she saw her womanhood as weakness, a burden and a shame."
He gazed at me attentively, and I could see how he pondered my arguments and finally accepted them.
"I had not looked at it that way," he said slowly, "but you are probably right." He yawned, then winced slightly and grabbed at his shoulder. "Perhaps we should go back to the Houses of Healing. I'm getting tired, and I'm hungry besides."
"Then we will go back," I said. "I'll find something for you to eat." I stood up a little awkwardly and pain shot through my arm again.
Merry looked at my sling. "How did that happen?"
The Southron, pinning me brutally to the ground. His hands on my body, his tongue thrusting relentlessly into my mouth… and the knife, so keen its edge, slicing almost of its own accord through his throat… his blood a horrible warm rain on my naked flesh…
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, pushed aside the memory with all my will.
"I'll tell you some other time." I made my tone light, friendly, and was thankful that my voice didn't tremble. "Now we really must go back. I'm afraid I should not have walked around outside; I will hear about it from Ioreth."
He smiled. "Small and old, sharp eyes and a tongue like a rattling mill wheel?"
I grinned back at him . "Exactly."
"She reminds me of the stories about my Great-aunt Amaranth," Merry said. "They say it took days for some family members to recover after a discussion with her."
"Sounds fascinating," I laughed. "I'd like to know more about your home."
We walked slowly side by side, and Merry began to tell me tales of Brandy Hall.
******
We didn't talk much after we reached the Houses of Healing. The small "journey" one circle down had been more exhausting than I thought, and I had to lie down. I didn't see Merry again until the next morning, when I went into the back garden, an apple in my hand.
He stood by the wall, a small, very upright figure, and he didn't move when I greeted him although he answered politely. He was gazing rigidly through one of the decorative openings in the brickwork. I stepped beside him and looked in the same direction; the bare slopes of Mindolluin lay in the full splendor of the morning sun.
After a while I asked gently, "Don't you want to look east?"
He shook his head, tightening his lips.
"You are worried about Pippin, are you?"
I sat down in the grass next to him, as he had sat by me in the neglected garden yesterday. Finally he turned to me and I saw fear in the sharp, clear eyes, and something like anger.
"Yes, I am," he said. And then, as if he suddenly gave up all resistance, he slumped down beside me. He drew up his legs and propped his chin on his knees, closing his eyes.
"I always took care of him," he said slowly. "Nothing could really happen to him as long as I was there. He's always poking his fingers into things he shouldn't touch, and sometimes his curiosity drives me insane. The Palantir…"
He paused, glancing at me sideways. When I showed no sign of surprise or ignorance, he nodded slightly as if he had expected that I would know what he meant.
"Pippin isn't silly." He frowned. "He's a little too easygoing, he doesn't always think things through. But he is like a brother to me… no, more than a brother. When he's not with me I feel as if one of my arms is missing, or a leg. Or both. And if he is killed in front of that Black Gate everyone is talking about…"
His expression was agonized; it was hard to watch his fear and his doubts. Without thinking I reached out and laid my good hand on his back, kneading the tense muscles as firmly as I could without the support of my other hand. Merry winced, but then he relaxed and yielded to the comforting touch. We sat for several minutes without talking while I continued the improvised massage; then I ran my hand up his back once more, allowing my hand to rest for a moment on his shoulder before I drew it back.
"He will not die," I said. "Maybe he will not return unharmed, and surely not unchanged, but he will not die."
"What makes you so sure?"
He was staring at me and I knew I must be on my guard. He was not stupid.
"Call it hope," I said quietly. "Call it certitude that things simply have to turn to good. That the king will reign in peace someday over a healed kingdom; that men will plow their fields instead of marching to battle… and perhaps that a few heroic hobbits may go home as well."
His face closed and I knew of whom he was thinking – those two, whose return was so unlikely. The one who had taken the greatest hazard of this whole deadly war on his slender shoulders, and the other, who walked beside him without hesitation.
Resolutely I swallowed the lump in my throat. "All Hobbits," I whispered. "However unmarred."
There was a sound of voices; someone was approaching behind us, and Merry gazed past me.
"Look," he said, his voice hushed.
I turned around. Faramir and Eowyn were walking side by side across the dew-damp lawn. They were curiously alike, each with one arm in a sling, both of them pale, with drawn faces. But they were conversing, one with another, and I guessed that Faramir was telling some tale. From time to time she put in a word, and Faramir's face lightened as she gazed up at him – although she was nearly as tall as he was, and had not far to look up. If ever I have seen an enamored man… Ioreth had said that about Damrod, but her words suited this case just as well, and Merry saw it, too.
"A lovely couple," I said softly.
"Exactly." Merry sounded thoughtful, and the weariness had left his voice. I saw that his eyes were full of mischief.
"Do you perhaps intend to assist fate, Master Meriadoc?" I did my best to sound shocked, but he didn't fall for it.
"Certainly, if I can arrange it." He grinned, and I felt that I could literally see the beginnings of a plan of action forming in his eyes. He was a conspirator, indeed. I pulled myself to my feet with some effort, nearly stepping on the hem of my robe as I got up.
"I must go back to the house," I said. "My arm needs a fresh bandage."
"He rose, then he bowed and – to my surprise – took my hand and kissed it.
"Thank you," he said soberly, "for every comfort my cousin and I have received at your hands." He smiled at me and his dimples reappeared. "You are like a fire to warm oneself at on a winter day. Your ranger is a lucky man indeed. I hope he also will come home safe and sound."
I walked through the garden slowly until I reached the main building. At the door I glanced back and saw him sitting on the lawn again, devouring with gusto the apple I had brought out and completely forgotten.
*****
In the following week I was able to watch Merry's plan developing to his satisfaction. The young captain and the shieldmaiden from Rohan spent more and more time together. Often I saw Merry talking to Faramir, sitting on the ground, the steward idly holding a book on his knee, or together with Eowyn, resting in an armchair while Merry lay in the grass, both deep in discussion.
My arm was healing, though not as quickly as I had hoped. My medical training told me to be thankful, that arnica compresses, packs of field horsetail and properly boiled linen seemed to have an astonishing effect, but I wasn't satisfied. I was constantly tired; the shortest walks left me breathless, and I slept miserably. The oppressed city waited night by night under a clear sky to learn its fate, and I lay in my quiet room with my eyes wide open, watching as the stars faded and gave way to pearl grey dawn.
The days melted one into another. I remember on March 24th I walked out in the gardens, a little weak in the knees, to recover after a rather painful changing of bandages. I found a sheltered spot near the wall and found two quiet figures stretched out on the newly-shorn grass, both sound asleep. Eowyn's blonde head leaned against Faramir's shoulder; the spring breeze had given her beautiful pale face a hint of color, and his hand lay over hers protectively.
I stood and watched them for a long moment, gripped by jealousy, realizing that their destiny would link them together. I would have liked to have a similar certainty concerning myself.
Then I slipped away, not to disturb them. I rubbed my head, trying to massage away a pounding headache that had tormented me ever since breakfast. In the course of the day it grew worse and worse, until Ioreth placed a wooden draught screen in front of the window by my bed; the light hurt my eyes.
"Oroher must examine you thoroughly tomorrow morning," she said. She stood at the foot of my bed, her voice only half penetrating the dull droning inside my head. I nodded weakly, relieved when she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Another unpleasant night dragged by and the 25th of March dawned, dark and stormy. I struggled out of bed and managed somehow to wash and dress myself, but the very thought of breakfast made my stomach clench up in a hard knot. I felt alternately hot and cold, and every few minutes I was gripped by a violent dizziness that forced me to to lean against the wall.
At last I found my way out into the garden. I went over to the wall; the far mountains in the direction of Mordor were covered by dark clouds, and I shivered with cold. There was a heaviness to the air, as if a thunderstorm were brewing.
Today fate would decide. Today the Dark Lord would fall.
Today Damrod might very well die.
"Child?"
I turned and found Mardil standing behind me. The wind had tousled his thin, white hair and ruffled it up to an aureole around his head.
"Ioreth told me you are not well. Have you already seen Oroher?"
I shook my head. Something very strange was happening; Mardil's voice faded, becoming faint and far away and then coming back to buzz in my head, devoid of meaning. His face went small, as if I were looking through the wrong end of a telescope… then it grew to grotesque size, hovering above me like a giant balloon.
"Mardil…" I said. "Mardil…"
I felt my knees buckle beneath me. I stumbled forward in the direction of the herb master and he tried to catch me, but his hand closed on my bandaged right arm.
The pain was sickening and I screamed. I heard him exclaim, "For heaven's sake, child…" and then I fainted.
vvvvvThe eagles came that afternoon, flying over the city with their gigantic wings gilded by the sunshine, and they proclaimed the victory. And then all the bells in Minas Tirith were ringing, and men gathered in the streets, giddy with excitement or stunned speechless by relief. As evening fell, lamps were lit all over the city and no one went to bed until far into the night; past midnight when everyone finally went to rest, they slept in real peace for the first time in many weeks.
But I saw and heard none of it; I lay half conscious in one of the sickrooms in the Houses of Healing. My misgivings about my arm had been prescient: the apparent healing had been skin-deep only, and the flesh below was putrid with suppuration which now broke out in a raging fever. Oroher opened the wound again and cleaned it thoroughly, washed it out with brandy and inserted a thin pinfeather to allow the ichor to drain off. The whole operation was agonizing, made bearable only by a large dose of poppy juice, and I spent the next few days drugged and sleepy. Now and then I opened my eyes to faces leaning over me, but always they drifted away before I could make out who they were. And there were voices sometimes, familiar but unidentifiable. In truth I was too weary to care. My universe shrank to the confines of my own body and the injury that had developed an evil life of its own.
The days went slowly by, and all over the city the work of repair began. The ruined houses in the first and second circles were torn down and rebuilt. Out on the Pelennor the last corpse fires were burning, and the peasants waited impatiently to cultivate their fields, that there might be at least a small crop this harvest. The families that had been evacuated to the south before the siege returned to Minas Tirith, and the streets I had found so forsaken hummed with bustling activity.
Some time near the beginning of April I woke up one morning to find Merry standing by my bed. He was like an explosion of life in the quiet, shadowed room; his eyes glowed with joy and when he saw that I was awake he took my hand.
"You were right!" he exclaimed. "Pippin is alive, he survived the last battle -- but not unharmed, as you said. They tell me a troll fell on him."
"How wonderful." I smiled faintly. "That he lives, I mean... not the mishap with the troll."
Merry grinned, but then his face grew serious again.
"But you are not well. The warden told me that your wound has been inflamed..."
"I'm sure it will be better soon," I said. I felt sunk in weakness and struggled to keep up my end of the conversation. "And you... what are you doing? Are you going to Cormallen?"
He gave me a piercing look. "Until half an hour ago I had no idea where I'm going today," he said slowly. "One day you will explain to me where all your knowledge comes from."
"One day," I said. "But now now. Give my best regards to Pippin when you see him. And..."
...don't be too horrified when you see Frodo for the first time. I forced the words back just in time, helplessly cursing the poppy juice that made it so difficult to think clearly.
"And...?"
"Nothing." I closed my eyes. "May you have a pleasant journey, Merry Brandybuck. And if you see a tall ranger named Damrod, with grey eyes and long black hair, tell him that I love him."
"I will."
Once more I felt the gentle pressure of his hand on mine, before he went silently out and the door closed behind him.
Where are you, my love? Are you still alive?
I sighed, let my head sink back into the pillow, and slept.
*****
A week later the fever spiked again, and it went very high. Again for days on end I was only half conscious, and in my delirium I wandered endlessly across the battlefield. Again and again I relived the attack and the terrible panic, the fierce resolution that I would not give in without a fight and the moment when my tormentor died. I tossed so violently in my bed that Oroher feared I would do myself more injury, and at last he had the healers restrain me with belts of padded leather.
Then one day I opened my eyes again and saw a face framed by dark hair leaning over me. A man's face, and it looked nearly like...
"Damrod?"
I tried in vain to lift my hand. Fingertips smoothed my brow, their touch cool and pleasant, and then the face withdrew. Another one appeared -- surely this was Ioreth -- and a hand came behind my head, raising it. A mug was pressed against my lips. I drank and the bitter flavor of willowbark tea filled my mouth, slightly softened with honey.
"How long has she been in this state?"
"For several days now, Lord Faramir. We keep trying to bring down the fever, but we haven't been very successful as yet."
Faramir.
Could he tell me something of Damrod? If he was well? If he was -- wounded?
I wanted to ask him, but when I opened my mouth another mug was there, and this time I tasted the sweet, heavy poppy syrup. I swallowed and tried to speak again, but the fever made my head swim and I only managed a soft whimper.
"Will she recover?"
"We are doing all we can for her, but she is very weak."
My mind ricocheted backward. A field full of corpses... a man pinning me against the ground... a knife in my hand and my raised arm... and the heavy body falling across me. I felt my back arch as if I tried to shake him off once more and I clenched my teeth; my breath was a hissing moan. Careful hands wrapped me in cold, damp cloths as I sank deeper into swoon.
Hands. The hands of another man, tender and gentle... a clear, beautiful face above me and another body, miraculously melting into mine... tender touch and tender kisses, deep and thrilling...
The tension left my body and I relaxed, at peace.
Damrod.
******
After that day it went better. The fever abated little by little and the wound healed properly at last. My appetite returned and Ioreth carried trays of delicacies from the kitchen, delighted to see me eating again.
It was a week before Oroher removed the pinfeather, and another week before Alandel carried me out into the garden. And there I was again in the same chair where once before I had spent a whole day in the sunshine. Around midday I saw the young Steward of Gondor passing by with his bride.
And she was his bride, beyond any doubt. They walked close together, and their devotion was nearly palpable. At some point while I lay fighting the fever, Eowyn must have let go of her futile dreams and turned toward life... and toward the man who loved her so patiently. I watched them from my chair, weary but contented, and suddenly Faramir glanced my way and saw me. They turned and came toward me across the lawn.
"Noerwen!" The Steward smiled with real joy. "So you are better at last! I was concerned..."
"I know," I replied. "You visited me once, I think."
"That's true." He looked at Eowyn, his gaze embracing her, and I saw a smile curling the corners of her mouth. She dropped down unceremoniously on the grass, taking no care for her white dress. It was a lovely thing, woven with blue and silver threads, and it flowed down her body like cool water. Surely it would suffer grass stains if she did not get up at once, but instead she drew Faramir down beside her. He sat down without complaint, smiling at her.
"My bride Eowyn, the White Lady of Rohan," he said, and his eyes shone with pride.
"Milady..." I raised my shoulders slightly, glad that the heavy pain in my right arm was now a thing of the past. "I would like to bow properly, but I'm afraid I can't even get up."
She laughed softly.
"Never mind." Her voice was bright, pleasant and clear. I could hardly reconcile her lovely, serene appearance with the description I knew so well from Tolkien. Nor could I imagine her standing above her dead uncle with sword in hand, daring to face down a living nightmare.
Neither had I ever imagined myself slitting a man's throat.
A shudder ran down my spine and I closed my eyes for a moment, fighting back the wave of revulsion. Then I looked directly into Faramir's face and asked the question that had haunted me for weeks.
"Have you had news of your men? Are they well? Do you know something about..." I hesitated "... Damrod of Ithilien?"
His face clouded. "I don't know very much," he said. "I heard that some rangers fell in the battle. Mablung is dead."
I felt the blood draining from my face. Mablung, who returned from Osgiliath with an ugly slash across his forehead, but alive. I had seen him marching in through the gates of the city. His would had not even had time to fully heal, before he was slain.
"And Damrod?"
"I will not lie to you." He looked at me with earnest, worried eyes. "We know nothing certain as yet. There are still many wounded being tended to, and the lists of the dead are not complete. We will not have a full accounting of our losses until the army returns with the king."
"I understand," I said. "Thank... thank you." My voice failed. I felt numb, the old familiar panic creeping in, ready to overwhelm me.
Unexpectedly Eowyn came to my rescue. "Don't be afraid," she said. "Faramir has spoken often of Damrod. He is a redoubtable warrior: strong, deliberate and fast. He would survive." Her fingers closed around my hand and I felt her strength and courage like velvet-covered steel. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan... now she was shielding me.
"Your hand is like ice," she said quietly. "And you're pale as death. You must go back inside; a meal and some sleep will do you good."
I didn't bother to explain that I had hardly done anything else, the last few days, but eat and sleep. Misery bore me down and I knew she was right. She called Alandel and he carried me back to my room. They tucked me into bed and Eowyn herself put heated stones under my covers to warm me. She stroked the hair gently back from my face before she bid me farewell and went out. And I gazed after her, struck by her tenderness and strength, before I let my head sink back wearily on my pillow. I had the odd impression that the light in the room had faded when she left.
Where was he? Did he lie wounded in some field hospital? Or had he been left on the battlefield, fallen beside Mablung his friend?
I pressed my face into my pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of lavender and chamomile and fresh linen.
Damrod.
*****
April was nearing its end and the city was a bright tumult of men and women, voices and music filling the streets that had been so empty. Anticipation hung in the air and even the Houses of Healing were infected with it. Rumors buzzed through the corridors and common rooms, and I realized suddenly how long it had been since Gondor last had a king... nearly thousand years. It was the beginning of a new age for them, and everyone was anxious to set eyes on their new sovereign.
On the eve of the first of May hardly anyone went to bed; torches and lamps burned everywhere and music echoed in the streets. I stood at the wall of the sixth circle looking down on the merry confusion of colour and light. Someone nearby was playing a piercingly sweet melody on a flute, and I listened for a while, looking out across the battlement onto the Pelennor. It was twinkling with lights from the half-rebuilt homesteads, and close to the city a vast encampment of tents spread out. During the day I had noted the pennants fluttering there: the white horse on a field of green for Rohan, the swan spreading his wings on shining blue for Dol Amroth, and of course the King's banner, the white tree and the stars flaming against sable black.
I might have gone down to the gate with Ioreth. Her cousin had arrived from Imloth Melui, and when I saw them sitting in the garden, their heads together in animated conversation, I was glad that I knew so much more about the life here than what could be found in the books.
They had become so precious to me, all of them. But the one I loved most of all... did he yet live?
I did not go down with everyone else to see the King crowned. I might have met Gandalf again, Merry and Pippin... I could have seen Aragorn, Frodo, Sam...
But I was not sure if I would see Damrod there, and I could not endure not seeing him. Asking again. Knowing for certain that he had fallen.
So I holed up in Mardil's storeroom. He had not gone down either; ships had come up the Anduin, carrying herbs and oils he had been wanting for a long time, and he could not wait to unpack them and put them away. I helped him, pouring eucalyptus oil and essence of fennel from huge jars into small phials, and entering the new supplies on the lists I had created when I first began working in the Houses of Healing. We didn't talk much. I knew well enough that Mardil was watching me, but I didn't feel like answering questions.
At last, late in the forenoon, there were footsteps and voices outside the door. When I lifted my head, a small, gloriously caparisoned figure in the white and green of the Riddermark had entered the room on silent feet and stood before me.
"Merry!" I set the freshly filled bottle carefully on the table. "My goodness, that is really... impressive."
He smiled, his eyes sparkling. "I think I've found something that belongs to you," he said.
"What..."
His smile widened and he stepped aside. Someone appeared from the shadows behind him and stepped forward into the broad stripe of sunlight streaming in the window.
Dusty boots of soft suede. Silver armor half hidden under a long, dark green cloak. And... a face that I knew.
I stood, feeling for the back of my chair. The words I wanted to say died in my throat and I stumbled as I stepped forward, crashing against the table. The jar of oil tipped over and abruptly the room was filled with an intense aroma of oranges.
"Here I am, my heart," said Damrod.
I took another step and my knees folded beneath me. He was there before I could fall, catching me in his arms, and I began to weep. Through a veil of tears I stared at him, raising a trembling hand to touch his cheek, and the warm roughness of his stubbled beard seemed to strike sparks in me. Tears ran down my face and into my mouth, and then his lips were on mine and I forgot everything else.
Vaguely behind me I heard Merry whistling what sounded like the jolliest tune ever written.