Note: Because I have been neglecting my real life, you get two chapters at once.
Chapter 7 – A Discovery:
Estel pulled the heavy breastplate up higher on her lap and ran the rag across the hammered bronze and leather as if it were possible to increase the sheen. She had already spent an hour on it, lovingly working the rag into every crevice and cranny and the armor shone in the firelight. She turned it over in her hands, loving the feel it in her hands and sniffing at the faint aroma that emanated from it; leather and Feorl. From the corner of her eye she watched as the Rider pulled off his sweaty shirt and took the extra water skin to pour over his head, soaking his dark blond hair and letting it run down across his bare chest, his skin glistening in the orange light of the fire as the water trickled across his muscles and Estel quickly looked away.
She was happy, happier than she had been in months; and she was miserable. She loved being part of the Rohirric company, loved galloping across the plains with Feorl, singing the ancient songs of battle and blood, and a part of her felt as if she had been born for it. Born to hold a sword and sit a horse and ride in search of the enemy. But another part of her missed home, more and more as the weeks went by, so much so that she had cried herself to sleep on more than one occasion recently, silently letting the tears run down her cheeks and fall into her blankets. She missed Alasse and thought of her sister as she carefully put the breastplate back in its usual place in Feorl's and her tent and she suddenly wanted to talk to her, tell her how handsome Feorl was, and how funny, how kind. She wondered for a moment about her mother, how she was, and if her father was any better. Returning to the fire she sat down with a sigh.
"You're very serious." Feorl gave her a nudge as he sat down beside her, wiping at his wet torso and pulling on his cleanest shirt. She shrugged and quickly pulled a chunk of meat from the hare roasting above the fire, handing half of the greasy piece to him. He took a bite and watched her, chewing thoughtfully, and she looked away.
"Thinking of home," he said quietly, knew he had guessed correctly when Stellan's eyes grew wide and he shook his head vehemently.
"No."
Feorl gave him a disbelieving grunt and let the matter drop. It was a closed subject with the boy, that had become quite evident and after more than a month Feorl still made prying remarks mostly out of habit, not really expecting an answer. The Rider leaned back and stretched his legs out before the fire, enjoying the quiet evening. They were still riding the northern borders and still no signs of orcs. No fresh signs, at least. There had been the occasional abandoned camp but nothing to cause any worry. Still, Feorl did not let his guard drop too much. The mountain passes had room to hold orcs by the thousands and it was best to be wary. Wulffon still had them riding with pickets and posted a guard every night.
Beside him he saw Stellan relax when no more questions came about home and family and Feorl smiled as he saw him pull out the sword he had given him and begin to polish it, rubbing the rag across the metal and checking the edge for any nicks or dents. The boy loved the sword and Feorl was glad he had given it to him, wanted him to have something of his own that he valued. Wanted him to be happy, he admitted to himself and felt slightly annoyed that he was letting the boy's happiness become so important to him. Stellan was good with a blade, and well educated, but he was still a boy, eager for approval and acceptance, and Feorl, remembering the bruises on his cheek that night at the tavern, had cared for him and worried about him, and now he was both flattered and troubled by Stellan's affection. If he just weren't so young, he thought. Too young. When they got back to Rohan he would insist he stay behind next time, stay safe in Edoras until he was older, and while he knew Stellan would be furious and Feorl would miss his company, he would insist. He did not want to see him spitted on some orc's lance before he could even grow a beard. Feorl sighed and shifted before the fire, letting the warmth lull him to sleep as he made his plans.
The orcs came boiling out of the small valley like angry bees from a hive, more than a dozen of them, and that number would not have presented a problem had the entire eored been picking its way along the valley floor. But the entire eored was not, instead it was merely the six men who had been sent ahead as pickets, while the remainder of the company followed further back. Six men, and a boy, and they were spread out in a ragged line across the meadow on the valley floor. Feorl had not thought to order Stellan to stay behind, they had not seen a single orc in the weeks they had been patrolling, and so when Stellan had trotted his horse behind Feorl he had merely grinned at the boy and told him to stay to his left.
Now, however, he had lost sight of him and there was no time to look around for the sturdy figure with dark hair as a black-fletched arrow buried itself in his horse's throat and Feorl felt the animal lurch and begin to fall. He felt sick as the horse collapsed, his father had given it to him as a gift five years ago when Feorl had become a Rider, and he loved it with the whole-hearted love the Rohirrim lavished on all their mounts. But there was no time to mourn the animal's loss. Knowing instinctively the horse was already dying, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups, managing to stay upright and leaped onto the short grass beneath him as the horse crumpled to the ground and a wiry orc dressed in a half-rotten leather breastplate charged him.
He slashed with his sword only to have his movement parried by the orc, the force of his blow shaken and stopped by the monster's own black blade. With an evil grin the orc opened its mouth and bellowed a challenge at him, saliva dripping from its yellow fangs and Feorl raised his sword again and stepped forward. The orc raised its sword and charged him, screeching, and he met it, the blades flashing in the sunlight and ringing sharply as they crashed together, were pulled back and crashed again.
Behind him Feorl could hear the sounds of his comrades as they fought their own battles and for just a moment his concern for Stellan's whereabouts distracted him, and the orc caught him off guard, managed to slide the edge of his wicked blade along the man's side. Feorl grunted and jerked as he felt the metal drag across his skin and the blood spring up, begin to run down his side and soak into his leather breeches. He heard the orc's howl of triumph, knew he could use it against him and pretended to lurch to the side, bent over the wound and the orc stepped forward to deliver the death blow. Feorl fell to his knees, rolled and was suddenly at the orc's feet, much closer than the creature had planned and the Rider swept his sword up from the ground and slashed across the leathery skin above him. He arced the blade between the orc's legs and into his belly and the guttural scream that left its throat as the orc fell, dying, brought a smile to Feorl's face as he struggled to his feet and looked around him
Three other Riders had also been unhorsed, and Feorl could see another horse, only slightly injured, leaping and bucking in response to the pain of its wound and heading toward a small copse of trees nearby. Two orcs were down, in addition to the one he had killed, and as he stood up the sound of thundering hooves could be heard and felt and in seconds the rest of the eored had arrived in the valley and the remaining orcs were cut down by flashing swords.
Feorl looked around him anxiously, scanning the Riders for a dark-headed figure on a bay gelding and found nothing, and he felt the faint stirrings of worry increase. A Rider trotted his horse up to him and dismounted, pulling off his helmet. "You're wounded, Feorl," he said in surprise, reaching out a hand towards the blood-stained breeches.
"It's nothing," said Feorl, pressing a hand to his side and frowning at the blood that came away. He searched the valley again, but saw only Rohirrim, their blond heads catching the sunshine as they piled up the dead orcs and caught the loose horses, their voices calling cheerfully across to one another. With a worried look Feorl turned to the man who had just arrived. "Have you seen Stellan? The black-haired boy who rides with me?"
"Stellan? No." The Rider looked around them. "He's not here?" Feorl shook his head and his fear increased. Where could he be? He limped over to his horse, now lying dead in the grass and he patted the soft ears for the last time as his eyes roved across the valley once more.
"Stellan! Stellan!" He bellowed the name but no dark head suddenly appeared, no broad face with clear grey eyes, and Feorl could feel his worry increase, begin to turn into panic. He started across the valley, cursing himself. How could he have been so stupid, letting the boy ride along? He'd known he was too young, untried, and yet his company had been pleasant and Feorl had let himself be fooled into thinking they were safe, when he KNEW they were not. He moved painfully along the edge of the valley, searching clumps of grass, breaking up knots of Rohirrim where they stood about but found nothing. No one had seen the boy since he had ridden off behind Feorl when he was assigned picket duty. Feorl could feel his stomach twisting as he trudged along, holding his side with his hand and looked around him once more.
A few Riders had been injured and he watched as their wounds were bound up, while further behind them another man sadly slit the throat of a badly wounded horse, the animal's squeals of pain slowly diminishing as it struggled briefly then sank to the ground. Feorl stopped, a thought slowly coming into his head, and he turned to the small group of trees on his right.
Yes! His heart leaped. The wounded horse he had seen heading for the trees was a bay gelding and it still stood there, head down in misery, blood trickling down its leg. Stellan's horse! He hurriedly limped toward the trees, gasping as the numbness of shock started to wear off and the deep cut began to burn and sting. The grove was made up of less than a score of small trees, none bigger around than Feorl's arm, and he only took a few steps into the slight shade they afforded before he saw it. An orc body, tall and broad and sprawled face down in the grass beside one of the larger trees. And from beneath the muscled, leather-clad thigh emerged a small booted foot.
With a cry Feorl ran forward, his own injury forgotten, and shoved the orc sideways, groaning with the effort needed to dislodge the heavy body. When it finally rolled over Feorl noted Stellan's sword buried to the hilt in its ribs even as he reached for the still, pale face beneath him on the ground.
"Stellan! Stellan!" Feorl patted the boy's cheek gently as he eyed the orc blade that protruded from his shoulder. Grey eyes blinked open and Stellan moaned softly and Feorl felt a great surge of relief. "Lie still," he ordered softly. "Let me see where you're hurt." He gently moved his hands down across the young body, finding to his amazement no broken bones or any other injuries. Black orc blood soaked Stellan's breeches, but the only red was that welling around the blade buried in his shoulder.
"I killed it." Stellan's voice was faint but Feorl could hear the pride and he grinned with pleasure and smoothed back the dark hair.
"Yes, you did. Well done."
"I want its sword."
"You shall have it." As he spoke Feorl pulled out his knife and enlarged the cut in the leather jerkin Stellan wore, then tore the cloth of his tunic to inspect the point of entry and bit back a curse. The large blade had shattered the collarbone upon entry, the splintered edges of the pale bones gleaming through the blood, and then been driven through flesh and bone as the collapse of the heavy orc body thrust its sword forward with tremendous power. Just as he had feared, it was now lodged deeply in the dirt, pinning the boy to the ground while the blood that ran from the wound soaked the earth and turned it into a gory mud. He would have to pull it loose and clean as much of the soil from it as he could before drawing it back through the wound. Not only would it be more painful, but the chances of infection had suddenly doubled. Beneath his hand Stellan gave a small whimper.
"It hurts."
Feorl laid a hand across the pale forehead. "I know. It's stuck in the ground; I'll have to pull it out, get ready." He saw him tense as he grasped his shoulder, one hand around the blade and began pulling with a steady pressure, lifting the boy's upper body away from the ground, letting it slide a little further up the blade. Stellan gasped and jerked slightly and Feorl worked one knee under his shoulder and reached for his knife again, using the sharp edge to scrape away at the soil that held the blade. It took a few moments before the sword came free of the earth and mud and he could ease Stellan back down to the ground and roll him carefully onto his side. He saw the tear stains across the boy's cheeks but said nothing. There was little else to be done except get it out and he knew it hurt dreadfully. Stellan was breathing in short little gasps and his eyes were closed but as Feorl scraped the dirt from the metal that protruded from his back he opened them and looked up at him.
"I lied to you," he said quietly.
Feorl was only half listening, his mind intent on removing as much of the dirt from the blade as possible before pulling it back through the wound. "Shh, it doesn't matter," he said. He wiped the edge of the sword on a piece of Stellan's tunic he had torn loose and looked down at him. "I'll do it fast." The boy nodded and Feorl rolled him onto his back again as best as he could and stood, pressing a careful boot into his shoulder just below the entry wound and grasped the large hilt. The grey eyes that looked up into his were full of pain and trust and Feorl hoped he was worthy of it as he gave a tremendous jerk and pulled the blade out, feeling the broken collarbone grinding across the metal as he did, feeling Stellan arch up beneath his foot and cry out in agony before he fainted and went limp in the grass. Tossing the orc blade aside Feorl quickly knelt again and inspected the wound, his fingers carefully moving through the bloody gash, finding the sharp ends of the bones but nothing else. He let it bleed, hoping it might flush out some of the dirt that had been left there by the sword's backward movement, and bent to gather the boy up into his arms. Suddenly remembering, he turned and pulled Stellan's sword from the orc body and picked up the orc's blade, shoving both of them alongside his own sword in his belt, then lifted the unconscious boy and staggered out of the trees toward the valley and the rest of the eored.
Wulffon saw him coming, had been looking for him, and quickly ran across the grassy field to meet him, his face registering shock and dismay when he saw who Feorl was carrying.
"He killed one," Feorl grunted as he carried Stellan to where the other wounded were being cared for. Wulffon grinned. "Really?" His grin twisted into a frown, turning his scarred lip into a grotesque leer when he saw the blood on Stellan as Feorl gently deposited his burden on the ground. Theilon, the eored's man with the most healing knowledge, came forward to inspect the wounded boy, motioning for another Rider to help him remove the blood-covered leather jerkin Stellan wore and Wulffon's frown deepened as he took in the blood seeping down Feorl's side. "You're wounded, too."
"It's nothing."
The commander grimaced and took Feorl's arm, drew him away slightly and had him sit down on the ground. "Don't tell me it's nothing. Pull up your shirt." Obligingly Feorl obeyed and let his officer poke at the gash along his side, flinching slightly as the rough fingers examined the long slash. At last Wulffon sat back. "Not bad. Have Theilon stitch it up when he's done." He looked up to see the man he had just mentioned approaching him.
"Sir?" Theilon's voice was strange, high-pitched and nervous. Feorl sent a quick glance over toward Stellan, who was still lying unconscious, his jerkin tossed aside and the underlying tunic torn open at the shoulder. Wulffon stood up, waited for him to continue. The man looked back at Stellan, then at Feorl, then at his captain.
"Yes?" Wulffon asked impatiently.
Theilon shuffled his feet uncomfortably, then shrugged. "She's a girl."
Wulffon stood motionless, stared at Theilon, who made a helpless motion with his shoulders. "What?" Wulffon's voice was quiet, sure he had heard wrong.
"She's a girl," repeated Theilon.
Wulffon immediately turned to look at Feorl, saw the astonishment on his face and knew it was a revelation to him also. Without another word he strode back to Stellan's side followed by Theilon and Feorl. Theilon knelt down, motioning the other two men to do the same.
"I took off the jerkin, and pulled down the tunic, and, well," he blushed and stammered. "She's a girl, sir."
"But, why – " Feorl reached out and brushed dark hair back from the pale face, confused and more than a little bewildered.
"The bruises," said Wulffon brusquely. "If she was being beaten at home she must have been determined to get away. She knew we'd never take a girl with us, but a boy…"
Feorl looked up at him. "In the woods just now, he – " he stopped, "she said she'd lied to me."
Wulffon sighed and nodded. "Knew we'd find out when we cleaned out the wound." He shot a look at Theilon. "How is that?"
Theilon looked unhappy. "Broken bone, a good bit of dirt in it, could be better."
Wulffon turned to Feorl. "What happened?"
Feorl told how he had found Stellan and had to pull the orc sword from the dirt before he could remove it from the wound and Wulffon scowled. He stood thinking for a moment, then turned to Theilon. "Clean it out the best you can, bandage it." He jerked his head toward Feorl. "Then stitch him up." Pointing to three other Riders who were wounded badly enough that they would need time to recover he gave his orders. "You will all be returning to Edoras. I'll send along Hethorn and a half-dozen men to get you there. The rest of us will stay and see if there are any more orcs about." He looked down at Feorl, still seated beside Stellan and looking at her in disbelief and felt a twinge of amusement and sympathy. The growing attachment between the two of them had been evident to everyone for weeks. Now to discover she was a young woman would certainly put a twist in everything. He reached down and patted Feorl's shoulder. "I'm entrusting her to your care. Get her safely back to Edoras, find her a safe place to stay."
Feorl gave a slight nod, still overwhelmed by the news. "Yes, sir."
"I'm cold." Stellan's voice was faint, pressed against Feorl's chest and he wrapped his cloak tighter around her. It was a warm afternoon and he was worried. If she was cold it meant the fever was worsening. He glanced beside him, saw Hethorn give him an anxious look. They had been traveling south for three days, moving as quickly as they could with the other wounded, but both Stellan and another Rider had developed fevers in the last several hours and they were still at least another day away from Edoras.
Hethorn moved his horse over closer and looked pointedly at Stellan, swathed in Feorl's woolen cloak. "Worse?" he asked softly and Feorl nodded. Hethorn watched his friend as he gazed down at the girl bundled before him on his saddle. She'd ridden alone the first two days, silent and ashamed now that her secret had been discovered, refusing to say anything, her face tight with pain as the horse's movement irritated the wound and the broken bones. But this morning she had awoken with a fever and Feorl had insisted she ride with him, worried she would not be able to keep her balance on the horse.
Stellan shivered slightly and Feorl pulled her closer, his thoughts in a whirl as he rode. He had accepted the fact that she was a girl, more than that, a young woman, although it had taken most of the first day after the fight with the orcs for him to finally reach that point. Now as he rode he mostly thought about what would happen when they reached Edoras. Find her somewhere safe to stay, Wulffon had said. That was easily arranged in Feorl's mind – he was certain his sister would be glad to take in the girl, and that way he would be able to see her whenever he was in Edoras. The idea of not seeing her was unacceptable, he found to his surprise. His affection for the boy Stellan had easily transferred itself onto the girl Stellan, with the added advantage now that he could look at her from an entirely different perspective. He looked down at the dark head pillowed on his chest and felt a great surge of protection and concern. "All right?" he whispered and she nodded and cuddled closer against him.
They rode quietly for a while before she spoke again. "I'm sorry I lied." Her voice was soft and it sounded as if she might be trying not to cry. She had apologized to him at least a dozen times, and he had tried to reassure her just as many, but for some reason his assurances did not seem to placate her, rather even seemed to upset her more.
"It's all right," he soothed. "You were afraid." To his consternation she did start to cry, muffled little sobs that she tried to stifle by burying her face in his shirt. He shifted uncertainly, moving her injured arm carefully where Theilon had bound it across her chest and ran his hand through her soft black hair. "Shh, don't cry. Don't cry, Stellan." His words only increased her sobs and she wept against him and he heard her murmur "I'm a liar, Feorl, I lied to you, I'm sorry." Feeling distinctly at a loss as to what to do, he merely shushed her again and patted her uninjured shoulder awkwardly as they rode south, slowly making their way home.
Estel shivered as she felt herself being lifted down from the horse's back and couldn't stop the whimper that escaped her. Her shoulder hurt with a deep, throbbing hurt that seemed to pulse throughout her entire body, while there was a loud buzzing in her ears and a pain in her head that had grown stronger all day. "Feorl? Are we in Edoras?" Her voice sounded weak and shaky even to her own ears and she hated it, hated being weak, and she struggled briefly against the arms that held her. "Put me down."
"Shh, stop." Feorl spoke gently as he carried her through the doorway of the soldier's quarters in Edoras and headed for the medical wing. Down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and he could hear the other Riders from his company behind him, Hethorn making sure the injured men made it up the steps and then he was in the main ward and a healer was there to meet him and beckoning toward an empty bed and he placed Stellan carefully on it and stepped back when the healer motioned him away.
"No, Feorl, don't go." Stellan opened her eyes and reached out her hand for him and he quickly knelt by the bed and took it, curled his larger fingers around hers.
"I'm right here," he comforted. "Right here." The healer, an older man, gave him a look of annoyance but said he would be permitted to stay so long as he stayed out of the way and Feorl meekly agreed.
As the other injured Riders were given over to healers to be cared for, the one working with Stellan began to remove the bandage, frowning when he saw the bloody cloth. As he went to pull off the torn tunic, Feorl reached over and took his hand. "She's a girl," he said softly, narrowing his eyes so that the healer would know he was not to expose her in the ward before the eyes of other soldiers. The words had more than the desired effect, halting the man's hand in mid-air as he stared at Feorl.
"A girl? What are you bringing a girl here for?" The healer shot a glance at Stellan, then at Feorl again, who opened his mouth and shook his head as he realized how ridiculous his next words would sound.
"We thought she was a boy. She said she was."
"Even a boy," the healer grunted, "has no business riding with an eored. Who is your captain? What was he thinking, taking a boy along?" He turned his body to block the view of the girl and pulled her tunic back just enough to reveal the swollen area surrounding the wound.
Feorl gave the man an exasperated look. "My captain is Wulffon and he had his reasons." He lowered his voice. "She was being beaten, her father beat her. She said she was a boy and we believed her, let her ride along." From the corner of his eye he saw Stellan shaking her head slightly and leaned down. "What is it? Does it hurt?"
Stellan squeezed his hand and bit her lip as the tears trickled from her eyes. "I'm a liar. I lied to you, Feorl." The tears increased and she gulped for breath. "My father didn't hit me. I fell, that's how I hurt my face." Estel gasped as the healer took a wet cloth and began to clean out the blood-encrusted gash. "My father would never hurt me," she said with a sob. "My father loves me." Her tears fell faster, but whether from her sorrow at telling the lie or because the healer was probing the injury with his fingers Feorl didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't stand seeing her cry and he leaned over without thinking and kissed her forehead.
"Shh, shh, it's all right. It doesn't matter." He reached up and caressed her hair. "You just need to get better, and we'll work all that out afterward."
"I'm sorry," Stellan whimpered and clutched at his hand. "I'm sorry I lied."
"Hush, shhh." His hand moved down to gently stroke her forehead. "Hush."
The healer looked up from his work and motioned another healer toward him. He spoke quietly and the woman nodded and disappeared for a moment, returning with a tray covered with sharp instruments and various medicine bottles, a cup and a bowl of warm water. "This has clotted, but it is infected." The healer said regretfully. "I have to reopen it and drain it, and remove any pieces of bone." Feorl nodded and tightened his grip on Stellan's hand.
"Hold on, Stellan." She didn't answer, only swallowed and squeezed his hand harder, squinting her eyes shut. She wasn't ready for the red hot agony of the healer's necessary but painful therapy, however, and as the sharp edge of his instrument worked its way into her sensitive flesh she stiffened and moaned and the tears ran down her cheeks. Feorl put his head down on the bed close to hers and held her hand and whispered words of encouragement as the healer probed and prodded and pulled out several tiny shards of bone that he dropped into one of the small bowls on the tray.
At last the healer was satisfied with his work and sat back, wiping his blade. Feorl smoothed back Stellan's hair again and felt her relax a little. "There, done. Lay back and rest."
"Here." The healer lifted her head and held a small cup to her lips. "Drink this, it will help." Estel twisted her head away from the strange smell to hide her face in Feorl's shoulder.
Feorl took the cup from the healer and ran his fingers along her cheek, coaxing her to look up at him. "Come, now. I know you are tired, and this will make it stop hurting." He saw her lip tremble as she held back a moan and then gave him a faint nod and let him press the cup to her mouth. "All of it," he said as she swallowed, then he helped her lay back again. "Good girl." Her mouth trembled again at his words, his acknowledgement of her gender, and he gave her a smile and patted her cheek as he repeated himself. "Good girl." The healer gave him an approving look as he took the cup and Stellan gave a ragged sigh and soon grew calmer, lying motionless as Feorl repeatedly ran his hand through her hair in a soothing gesture. "Shh, there," he crooned, hoping the medicine would help her sleep.
In minutes Estel felt herself drifting, exhausted by the previous days in the saddle and healer's ministrations, the pain now dulled by the medicine. The sound of Feorl's voice and the touch of his hand was comforting as her mind wandered and sleep beckoned. She fell into a light doze where the noise of the medical ward was no more than a pleasant hum surrounding her.
The healer poked through the tray, not finding what he wanted and motioned a passing apprentice toward him. "Take these to be cleansed," he said, dropping the probe and the knife he had used into the basket the trainee carried. "And bring me the peniblue salve and some bandages". The apprentice nodded before scurrying away on his errand and the healer took a moment to study Stellan. "So, she lied about being a boy, and about being beaten. Do you REALLY know anything about her?" He shook his head in bemusement, then eyed the dark hair spread across the pillow and suddenly sat up, looked intently at Feorl. "When did all of this happen?"
Feorl shrugged. "A little over a month or so ago. We picked her up in Osgiliath. She – "
"A month? In Osgiliath? Isn't that in Gondor?" The healer barked out the questions rapidly and Feorl was baffled by his sudden excitement.
"Yes, we had escorted a shipment to the city and had three days leave. She showed up at a tavern one night, asked to come along…" His voice trailed off as the healer snapped his fingers at a younger man standing across the room and motioned him over.
"Go find Marshall Elfhelm immediately," he ordered, his voice shaking. "Tell him I have a young girl here, black hair, grey eyes, from Osgiliath." As the other healer left the first apprentice appeared with the requested salve and bandages and the healer took them with a word of thanks and began to carefully spread the pale blue salve in and around the wound, mindful of the broken collarbone. As he worked the healer glanced up at Feorl, saw his confusion and gave a large sigh. "The King's niece has been missing for more than a month," he said quietly. "Everyone has been searching for her." He paused until he had Feorl's full attention. "She has black hair and grey eyes and was last seen in Osgiliath."
Feorl stared at him open-mouthed. "The King's niece? The Steward of Gondor's daughter?" He looked down at the sleeping girl, released her hand and suddenly stood up, took a backwards step away from the bed as the implications came to him. "Oh no, no, no." He turned back to the healer. "It can't be her," he whispered, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself rather than the other man, which in truth he was. This girl could not be the one they were searching for, he was sure of it. The Steward's daughter would be prim and ladylike, and used to a life of luxury, not a wild hellion who could ride a horse and kill an orc. "No," he said with conviction. "It's not her."
"That's why I sent for Marshall Elfhelm," said the healer, his voice calm as he tied the edge of the bandage tightly. "He knows the girl, he'll know if it is her or not. I don't want to call for the King and be wrong."
Feorl rubbed his head and paced a few steps, looking back at Stellan, feeling the faint niggling of doubt. He had noted her obvious education and her manner of speech, characteristics that pointed to a noble house, when she had first joined them, now it was suddenly making it all seem possible. "But she can fight like a warrior!" he said in bewilderment. "And ride like – " a comparison failed him and he fell silent.
The healer looked at him in surprise. "Isn't her mother Eowyn of Rohan? Surely she would train her daughter to be a shieldmaiden?"
Feorl had no answer so he merely sat down beside the bed and took Stellan's hand in his again. A flurry of activity in the hall brought him back to his feet as Commander General Marshall of the Mark Elfhelm strode into the room. The healer also leaped up and the Marshall, a tall, middle-aged man with the usual Rohirric mane of blond hair started across the floor toward them. Reaching the foot of the bed he stopped and stared down at the small, sturdy figure lying there, studying her for a long moment before turning to the healer. "Is she badly injured?" Feorl could see the Marshall's hand tightly gripping the wooden footboard.
The healer shook his head. "A sword wound, my lord; a broken collarbone, some infection. Nothing serious. We can take care of everything with no problem." Elfhelm heaved a great sigh of relief and turned toward the door. "See to it. I will return shortly."
The healer could not restrain his curiosity. "Is it her, my lord? Is she the King's niece?"
The fierce face of the Marshall softened and he smiled slightly, looked back at the girl and nodded. "It's her." The smile disappeared as he turned away again. "I will be back with the King." He left the room as quickly as he had come, leaving the healer to fuss over the sleeping girl's wounds and Feorl to sink back down into the low chair beside the bed and gape at Stellan.
"The King's niece. The Steward of Gondor's daughter." His voice was slow and thick with shock and disbelief as he reached for her hand, then reconsidered and snatched it back. Nearly royalty! And she'd been sharing a tent with him, cooking his meals, polishing his armor! What would the Steward of Gondor think? What would the King say? Feorl swallowed down the lump of panic and nerves that suddenly rose into his throat. He hadn't done anything wrong, really, but still, royalty was touchy, and she was the King's niece. He looked up to see the healer eyeing him sympathetically and remembered his description of the King to Stellan that night in the tent, about his temper, feeling more than a little sick at the thought of facing the King's anger. Then he remembered who she was and felt foolish. She would have known about his temper! No wonder she did not want to be seen by him in Edoras!
He rubbed nervously shaking hands across his face, his thoughts in turmoil. Why had she lied to them? He felt a flash of anger that only lasted for a moment, disappearing the instant he looked down at the dark lashes against her pale face and the bandaged shoulder. He lowered himself carefully down onto the bedside and ran a tentative hand through her hair. She was so young, so vulnerable, she must have had a reason. The healer gave him an odd look as he gathered up his instruments and supplies but left him without a word as Feorl stared down at her, lacing his fingers through hers.
Less than fifteen minutes later there was another disturbance in the ward as people flooded through the door and Feorl looked up to see the King and Queen of Rohan heading toward him, the King's face grim and terrible and Feorl loosened his grasp on Stellan's hand and went down on one knee. But the King had eyes only for the girl as he rushed to the bedside, taking the hand Feorl had just released and sliding his own large palm gently beneath her head.
"Estel!" Eomer's voice was harsh with emotion even as his thumb lightly stroked along her cheekbone. He leaned closer as he felt Lothiriel press against him from behind and he squeezed the small, limp hand and spoke her name again. "Estel!"
Slowly the grey eyes fluttered open and Estel looked up into a familiar face and smiled sleepily. "Uncle," she said, feeling the tears slip from her eyes as Eomer lifted her gently, and hugged her, pressing his face into her black hair to hide his own tears as he felt the weight of worry lift. Lothiriel edged around him to press a kiss to Estel's forehead and the girl smiled. "Aunt 'Thiri."
"Where have you been?" Eomer's voice was ragged and he held her close against him as though to reassure himself she was truly there.
"We have all been so worried," chided Lothiriel gently as she cupped Estel's face between her palms and kissed her again and saw the grey eyes fill with tears once more.
"I'm sorry," said Estel in a small voice. Feorl raised his eyes and watched in amazement as his King, Eomer of Rohan, known for his temper, his aggressiveness and his ferocity in battle, held his niece in his arms and kissed her face and hair and let the tears fall freely from his eyes. "You're going to be all right now," he said gruffly, kissing her once more before he picked her up and got to his feet. Feorl felt a strange pang of jealousy when he saw Stellan rest her head trustingly against the King's chest. No, not Stellan, he realized, the King had called her Estel. Feorl's shoulders slumped sadly; he didn't even know her true name. She had lied about that, too. Perhaps the healer was right, did he really know anything about her?
Eomer held Estel tenderly, circling his arm carefully around her bandaged shoulder, and started out of the medical ward, heading for the royal apartments, but Estel pushed away from him and looked around blearily. "Feorl? Wait, Uncle, where's Feorl?" She reached out a shaky hand and her voice was querulous and irritable from pain and the effects of the healer's medicine. "Uncle Eomer! I want Feorl!" The King halted and looked behind him, saw the young Rider looking after him uncertainly and frowned and Feorl shivered under his hot gaze. The Queen, however, did not. She glanced from Estel to Feorl and understanding dawned on her and she instantly walked back to the bedside.
"Rise, Feorl." She gave him a smile as he scrambled to his feet. Behind her the King looked him up and down.
"You brought her here?" His words were neutral, neither laudatory nor accusing, and Feorl wished he had stayed on his knees.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Feorl." Eomer-King spoke in a commanding voice and Feorl looked at him and swallowed, knowing for certain her would never want to face this man on a battlefield, and was nearly as sure he did not want to face him now. But as he met his gaze he realized the King looked stern but not angry and he felt slightly heartened, until Eomer motioned for him to follow him. "Accompany us." The Queen gave Feorl an encouraging nod and turned to follow her husband and Feorl fell in behind her.
When they arrived at the King's spacious apartments Estel was quickly tucked into a large, comfortable bed in a room near the King's private chambers. The Queen stayed behind with her as Eomer directed Feorl to another room nearby. The Rider stood uneasily as the King seated himself and looked at him with piercing eyes. "So, Feorl, tell me what my niece has been doing for the last six weeks, and how you came to bring her to Edoras with a sword wound."
Hesitantly the Rider told of the boy who had appeared at the tavern in Osgiliath with bruises, bringing a grunt of disbelief from the King. "Beaten? The Steward of Gondor would sooner slit his own throat than harm a child of his." His eyes studied Feorl. "Your captain believed this lie?" Feorl dropped his gaze for a moment and shrugged. "She had cuts and bruises on her face, my Lord, Wulffon just assumed…" He trailed off uncomfortably, realized all of them had heard her speak of her father, seen the marks on her and jumped to a conclusion. "She never corrected us," he said a bit defensively. "She wanted to come along."
"No doubt she did." The King leaned back in his chair and considered the Rider before him. Aragorn's letter with the news of Estel's disappearance had been circumspect and discrete, but the added information in the short note from Eowyn had let Eomer know that things were far from well in Ithilien. Eomer knew the kind of black despair he had feared might overtake his reserved and self-contained brother-in-law because of Barahir's death and especially after Eomund's parting words, and from his sister's letter it appeared to be all and more than he had imagined. The girl had been desperate to escape the mood of the house, probably, and a small part of Eomer admired her recklessness. He said nothing, however, and merely motioned for Feorl to continue.
The younger man told of the weeks on patrol, "Stellan's" easy adaptation into the eored, her willingness to do whatever asked, and finally the fight with the orcs earlier in the week when her true sex had been discovered. Eomer listened quietly, interrupting a few times to ask questions. As Feorl spoke his nervousness eased and when he finished his tale, the King was shaking his head in grudging amusement. "She killed one, did she?" Feorl couldn't help but return his sovereign's grin.
"Yes, my lord. And she made sure I took the sword for her as a token." Feorl thought of the sword, strapped to the saddle of the horse he had ridden to Edoras, and hoped it was still safe.
"My thanks, Feorl." The King rose from his chair and gave the Rider a thumping pat on the back. He smiled at the young Rider, then laughed, his relief at Estel's return easy for Feorl to see, and with a shock he realized his fabled King had been frantic with concern over his niece. The formidable monarch suddenly became human to him, and the thought seemed strange to Feorl and he smiled shyly at the King.
"I am glad she is found, my lord."
The King smiled back and gestured toward the door of the chamber. "Thank you for all you did. You can go on back to the barracks, now, but keep the sword for her, I'm sure she'll want it in a day or so."
Feorl hesitated, his reluctance instantly noticed by the King, who gave him a strange look and raised his eyebrows as thought to invite a comment. Feorl bit his lip before finding his courage. "If it's all right, my lord, I'd rather stay here, with her, Estel." He blushed as he said her name and looked at his hands.
Eomer made a thoughtful face and stared at him, and Feorl's face went a darker shade of red as he waited. At last Eomer put a hand on his shoulder. "You cannot stay with her, Feorl." Feorl nodded in understanding, had known when he had asked it was impossible. She was no longer Stellan, but Estel, the King's niece, the Steward's daughter. He thought of his plan on the ride home to settle the girl with his sister so that he could see her often and felt a great sorrow as it all vanished before him and he knew he would never see her again and his thoughts were in such a whirl he missed the King's next words and looked up at him anxiously.
"My Lord?"
The King shook him slightly, a friendly shake Feorl realized. "I said, Feorl, you can come and see her tomorrow, all right?" He gave the Rider a mock scowl. "You should listen more closely to your King."
Feorl's eyes went wide with surprise and pleasure. "Yes, my lord. I will, be back, I mean, and listen, also, I will."
Eomer laughed and gave him a little push toward the door. "Tomorrow then. And Feorl?"
"My Lord?"
The King motioned toward the dried blood on Feorl's breeches. "Take yourself to the healers, and get some rest." He spoke in a quiet voice that Feorl still knew to be an order and he bowed.
"Yes, my lord." He looked down and realized his own wound was sore and itchy and his back and shoulders ached with weariness. A soft bed of his own in the medical ward sounded good. He bowed again and smiled at the King. "I'll be back, tomorrow," he said, in a determined tone that brought an amused smile to Eomer's face and he waved him away.
"Tomorrow, Feorl."
"In Edoras." Eowyn's voice was faint as she repeated the words, saying them almost as if they were in a strange language. Beside her Arwen nodded and Aragorn handed her the letter with her brother's seal.
"In Edoras," said Aragorn. "She's been riding with an eored." He refused to release the smile that played about his mouth. "Apparently she cut her hair, dressed in Sam's clothes and joined the Riders."
Eowyn looked at him and her own mouth twitched, then broke into a relieved grin. Arwen thought she could actually see the weight of worry lift from her as she realized her daughter was found, and was safe. "Where would she get such an idea?"
"I cannot imagine," Aragorn replied dryly.
The grin faded from her face as Eowyn read the rest of Eomer's letter. "She killed an orc?" Her voice rose in shock. "Broken collarbone? A sword wound?"
"But recovering," said Aragorn reassuringly, pointing further down the page. His finger stopped over a sentence near the end. "And a suitor." He shared a quick look with Arwen and they both smiled. "She's been a busy girl. Takes after her mother."
Eowyn blushed and then immediately got to her feet. "I am going to Edoras." Aragorn nodded. "I expected as much. Preparations are being made, you can leave this afternoon."
Eowyn gave him a brief nod of thanks, her eyes scanning the letter again before she turned to the King with a start. "I must let Faramir know." Aragorn could hear the slight catch in her voice, knew she was missing her husband, regretting he was not there with her.
"I've already sent a messenger," he said softly. "And I've notified all the governors in the major towns, wherever Eomund is, he'll get word, also."
"Thank you, Aragorn," Eowyn's eyes were brimming as she looked at him. "Arwen." She reached over and squeezed the Queen's hand. Arwen gave her a return squeeze and rose to her feet, hugged Eowyn tightly.
"I am so glad she is found," she whispered. Eowyn said nothing, could only let the tears fall into Arwen's thick hair. When she raised her head she wiped at her reddened eyes and gave them both a tremulous smile.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll go pack my things, and tell the rest of my children." Aragorn took her hands and smiled down at her. Eowyn suddenly burst into tears, feeling foolish when the King and Arwen both hugged her close. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" Arwen stroked her hair. "Now there is one less thing to worry you. You can relax a bit." Eowyn nodded wordlessly, still trying to control her tears. Aragorn still held her hands and he squeezed them encouragingly.
"Estel is found," he said, "And Faramir will be coming home soon."
Eowyn's eyes filled with tears again. "I hope so, my lord, I hope so."
Celeborn watched with amusement and wonder as Pippin filled his plate once again with food. The ability of hobbits to eat more than their own weight at one meal never ceased to amaze the Elf Lord. He had finished his own meal nearly thirty minutes ago, but he had stayed to talk to the hobbit.
"So it was a bad night?" he asked, his face creased with concern.
Pippin hesitated, then nodded. "I think so. It's hard to always know, but he didn't want to come eat, and it didn't look as if the bed had been slept in."
Celeborn gave a gusty sigh. Another bad night for Faramir. A bad night, and there had been several lately, meant he either had slept very little or not at all. A good night was one where Pippin managed to talk him into lying down in the bed and then he slept there at least part of the night. Often after a good night he could be coerced into eating breakfast with Pippin and Celeborn, either on the porch or in the garden. After a bad night he usually kept to himself the rest of the day, either in his room or wandering along the stone bridge.
"Do you see any change in him?" Celeborn asked the hobbit. "I see none, but he rarely lowers his guard around me."
Pippin chewed the last of his sausage and swallowed, then took a large drink of tea as he considered. "A little," he said tentatively. "He is eating, at least some of the time."
The Elf gave him an appreciative look; knew that in itself was a success he owed to the hobbit. Pippin managed to get Faramir to eat most of the time by merely acting on the assumption that he would, filling his plate and passing him the dishes, and most of the time it worked, to one degree or another. He ate, usually, and had gained a little of the lost weight back although he was still painfully thin.
"I'm not sure if he is sleeping more," the hobbit said thoughtfully. "He tries, I think."
"The nightmares?" Celeborn asked. He did not know much about them, nor did Pippin. The Halfling had only learned of them from a passing reference Faramir had made, after which he had refused to elaborate any further, but both Elf and hobbit suspected the bad dreams haunted the Man's sleep almost nightly. Pippin made a face.
"I think so." He studied the table before him a while, and Celeborn assumed he thought he had answered the question and was looking for his next course, when Pippin surprised him by sitting back in his chair and crossing his hands over his stomach.
"He needs something to fill his time," he said forcefully. "I noticed the other day in your library," he looked suddenly nervous, not quite sure he was supposed to be wandering about the room filled with ancient texts. "I was looking to see if you had a copy of old Bilbo's book."
"We have one," Celeborn assured him.
"Yes, I found it," the hobbit answered. "I had talked Faramir into going with me and while I was there I noticed him looking at some of the old scrolls of poetry and ancient tales. Some of them are quite tattered and in poor shape." He raised hopeful eyes to the Elf and Celeborn smiled.
"Perhaps if I could find someone to copy them?" he suggested. "Someone with an elegant hand and time to devote to carefully duplicating them?" Pippin wagged his head vigorously. "It would give him something else to think about," mused the Elf.
"And he talks more when he's doing something else," said Pippin, then frowned. "No, not more, but, more real talking." The hobbit's brow puckered. "Do you understand?"
"Not polite niceties?" Celeborn hazarded a guess. "Actual conversations?"
"That's it!" Pippin sat up in his chair and dumped the rest of the blueberry pie onto his plate, sending a quick look at Celeborn to see if he minded, but he held up his hand to indicate he was full. His mind was already working on finding a way to get Faramir into the library and working on the old scrolls, as well as Pippin to keep him talking.
As he had studied the Man over the weeks Celeborn had come to the conclusion that his grief was like an infection, deep inside, poisoning his soul. If the poison could be lanced, drawn out, the healing could begin, and to Celeborn's mind, only by speaking of it could the grief be released from Faramir's heart. He knew Faramir resisted such measures, having been taught from an early age that it was weakness, but perhaps this was a way to circumvent the wary defenses that he had raised so long ago. The Elf had already seen that Pippin had been able to break through a little, perhaps with time and the distraction of the scrolls, he could reach down further and open the carefully guarded door to the place in his heart where Faramir hid his sorrow.
The sound of galloping hooves clattering across the stone bridge and through the gate of Rivendell turned him in his chair.
A dark-haired man wearing livery emblazoned with a White Tree threw himself down from his lathered horse and hurried up the steps of the porch, pulling a piece of parchment from a pouch at his side as he approached. "My lord," he said with a bow, presenting the parchment to Celeborn. The Elf Lord saw the King of Gondor's seal and broke open the letter hurriedly to read it contents. Pippin also recognized the seal and stopped chewing to wait anxiously. At last Celeborn looked up and smiled.
"She is found," he said simply. Pippin leaped from the chair and rushed across the porch to read over the Elf's shoulder. Aragorn's letter told of Estel's discovery in detail and stated it was to be handed over to Faramir immediately. Within it was a folded letter from Eowyn, sealed with Faramir's own crest. Pippin was trembling with anticipation. "Let's go!" he squeaked, racing ahead of Celeborn to enter the house. "I want to see his face when you tell him!"
"Safe, safe in Edoras." Faramir read Eowyn's words on the page once more, letting the words disappear as his eyes grew blurry and he shifted on the bed where he sat. He had sunk down there in shock when Celeborn had happily presented Aragorn's letter to him while Pippin, nearly dancing with excitement, had bounced beside him on the mattress as he read the King's words. Estel had been found. Faramir had mutely accepted the Elf and the Hobbit's congratulations and after they had left him alone he still sat there for the next hour, reading and re-reading both Aragorn's and Eowyn's letters. He read the descriptions of Estel's adventures and Aragorn's assurances that she would be closely watched as she recuperated, but he kept returning to Eowyn's last sentence. "She is safe, safe in Edoras, my love, and I am going to her, and will see you soon." My love. He felt his heart contract. Estel safe and Eowyn reassuring him of her love. The tiniest of smiles crossed his lips and he lay back on the bed. Last night there had been no sleep, the nightmare had stalked him through the dark hours, hounded him relentlessly, but this morning the sun was out and his daughter was found, and Eowyn called him My Love. For the first time in months Faramir considered the possibility that things would get better, and the thought surprised and comforted him and soothed his wounded spirit, and he fell asleep on the bed, clutching Eowyn's letter.
To Be Continued…
Once again - thanks to all my great Beta'ers (is that a word?) And for all of you who review! THANKS!!