Chapter Fifteen: The Hall of Healing

Théoden stared in disbelief. "What… how…?"

"It's a very long story, sire," I told him. "Perhaps another time."

Théoden nodded as he advised me, "If you're going to keep fighting, you'll need that armor, no matter what's painted on it."

I shook my head. "I've done enough fighting to last me quite awhile, thank you sir."

"Very well," the king nodded. "Put it here if you're not using it again."

I discarded the breastplate gratefully, wishing that my clothes were dry, and not clinging damply to my body as they were. It was very uncomfortable.

I shuddered slightly as a voice yelled from outside, "They're breaking in!" Others cried out in Elvish, "Drégad! Drégad!" (Retreat! Retreat!)

As the door shook yet again, I turned to the king. "What do we do?"

Théoden opened his mouth to speak, but no sooner had his lips parted than three figures entered the keep. It was Elrond, supported by an elf I instantly recognized as Legolas, and accompanied by Gimli.

Aragorn rushed forward, carefully holding Elrond upright as he asked urgently, "What happened?"

Elrond's face was a mess of bruises, and a long cut slanted down his cheek. Beaming in triumph, he gazed at us with his only good eye – his right (the left one was blackened and puffy) – and gasped, "Gandalf came… the orcs… all retreating… we won!"

Then he slumped lifelessly to the ground.

"Is he all right?" I asked in alarm, moving to the limp elf's side as Aragorn bent over him. The man looked up after a moment and sighed. "He's only unconscious, but that cut looks bad. If it were anyone else but him…"

"It can't be helped," said Théoden. "I'll help you carry him; we must get him to the hall of healing."

The king looked at me as he, Aragorn and Legolas picked up Elrond's body and carefully inched backward. "Isilden, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, sire. What is your wish?" I stepped toward him questioningly.

"You should come with us," he told me. "No doubt you will have some explaining to do once Lord Elrond wakes."

----

I hovered apprehensively nearby as my companions laid Elrond down gently on a soft mattress in the hall of healing. Théoden turned to the nearest unoccupied healer and ordered, "Bring clean linen and dressings, and some ice."

"Yes, milord," said the healer, bowing and darting away. He was back a minute later with the dressings and a bowl of cold water and ice, and reported, "We've just run out of clean linen, sire, unless you want us to use blankets…"

Théoden sighed, handing the healer's findings to me. "All right, then. Be quick!"

"Sire," I spoke up nervously, before the healer could depart, "I don't think that will be necessary. You see, this cloak is well beyond repair, and it's quite clean, so perhaps you could use it." I unfastened the ragged garment as I spoke, holding it out to the king.

He nodded slowly. "Yes, it may suffice. Very well."

My comrades proceeded to tear the already fairly shredded cloak into broad strips and dipping them into the icy water. Aragorn carefully placed a few pieces of the damp cloth over the bruises that covered Elrond's face, and the elf slowly opened his good eye. "Aragorn?" he rasped uncertainly.

The man nodded. "I'm here, mellon nin." (my friend)

Elrond managed a weak, hoarse laugh as he sat up. "Well, isn't this a twist," he said dryly. "The healer has become the healed. How ironic."

"Healing," Aragorn corrected him. "You're not well yet. But I think you'll be fine."

"That's good news," the elf replied. His gaze flicked over to me, and he smiled. "Ah, Isilden. Good to see you're alive."

"And you, my lord," I said, smiling politely as I came nearer. "I was worried you weren't going to make it."

"I appreciate your concern," Elrond told me gratefully. He winced slightly as Théoden carefully cleaned dried blood from the cut on his cheek and applied a dressing. "Ah, thank you. Well, Isilden," he said, gazing intently at me, "I have been wondering about you."

I knew just what was coming next, but I merely smiled and asked politely, "What have you been wondering, sir?"

"Many things," the elf answered. "But first, how do you know Sindarin? Aren't you… well…" Elrond hesitated slightly, looking a bit uncomfortable, and I could tell that he didn't want to offend me if he accidentally said the wrong thing.

"An orc?" I finished for him. Elrond nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.

"I'm not really sure," I replied truthfully. "I know I was an elf once; I can remember that. But then my family was attacked by orcs, and…" I swallowed the lump that was clotting my throat and went on, "…my sister and I were captured. They took us both to Orthanc…"

I began recalling the story of my life for the third time. Both Elrond and Théoden listened attentively; I saw the pain in their faces when I detailed my failed transformation, and their quiet sorrow at my separation from Elennar. I detailed my jointure with the Fellowship, and how I had nearly slain Gandalf, thinking he had been Saruman.

I told them what had occurred in Minas Tirith, from my near murder to my return to Orthanc with Merry and Pippin. Here Legolas interrupted; his voice fraught with disbelief and anger.

"You took them with you to the tower?" he cried. "What on earth were you thinking? You could have gotten them killed!"

"They wanted to come!" I protested. "I told them they didn't have to, but they said they would. It wasn't my fault!"

Legolas sighed heavily, calming down again. "Go on."

I did so, recounting with a shudder the arrival of the orc-horde, and my ineffective "conversations" with Lunk. I told of the murder of Tharv, and the orcs' treatment of his carcass. I recalled my second encounter with Saruman, and his interrogation of Merry and Pippin.

Next I described my reunion with Elennar, and my failure to get even with the wizard. Then came how I was a commander in the horde ("Well, more like commander-in-chief; Zharag was the one who gave all the orders").

Finally I detailed my struggle to reach the fortress, and my first meeting with Elrond. When I stopped for want of breath and lack of words, Théoden spoke to me.

"That is a grim tale," he said. "But tell me, how did you plan to escape the tower, even if Saruman did let you out of his sight long enough?"

"I saw a whip hanging on the wall," I explained. "It had nine thick strands, about this long." I held my hands apart to indicate the length. "I had planned on taking it apart and tying the strands together to make one long rope, and climbing down the tower until I reached the balcony below. Then Elennar, Merry and Pippin would all come down, and we'd keep going like that."

Théoden nodded, and Elrond spoke. "But what about after that? Once you reached the ground, there would still be danger to contend with. The orcs, the wizard… and the Ents."

"Ents?" I frowned.

"Yes," Elrond replied. "They are known as 'shepherds of the forest', because of how they guard and care for the trees in their realm. Saruman has been cutting down trees for use in his tower, and if the Ents ever found out, they would be furious. They may even attack Isengard for revenge."

"Well, we have something in common, the Ents and I," I said bitterly. "I want revenge on Saruman as well. He destroyed my life and took everything away from me that I ever loved. He made me this. He turned me into an orc."

"You said yourself that you weren't," Elrond said calmly.

"No, I didn't," I told him. "I said I wasn't sure. I don't know what I am. I'm an orc on the outside, but I don't know what I am on the inside."

"Well, I don't recommend cutting yourself in half to find out," the elf laughed. I smiled slightly, and Aragorn addressed me.

"Where do you plan to go now?" he asked me. "The war is over; Helm's Deep is safe, but Merry and Pippin – and your sister – are still in Orthanc, are they not?"

Panic suddenly closed its cold fist over my heart. "But what if they're…" I swallowed the huge lump in my throat and went on, "I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to them, especially Elennar. I promised I'd set them free, if it was the last thing I did."

"Then you should go back," Elrond told me. "I think—" He broke off, glancing around as footsteps sounded, accompanied by the noise of wood clunking on stone. A man in snowy robes was approaching, using his tall white staff as a walking stick.

I tensed momentarily, but soon remembered Gandalf. The wizard nodded to acknowledge me as he moved up to Elrond's bedside, gazing at the elf in concern. "Are you all right, Lord Elrond?"

"I will be," Elrond replied, smiling. "Thank you for asking."

Gandalf nodded. "You're welcome."

Elrond nodded, reaching up to peel the bandages away from his face. He protested politely when Théoden dissented.

"With respect, sire, I'm a healer. I'll take care of it," he assured the king, lifting his hand to his face and frowning slightly as the gash closed cleanly and the bruises faded. Then he glanced down at the damp cloths he held. "These bandages look very familiar."

"They should," Aragorn told him. "A few minutes ago, they were your cloak."

"My cloak?" the elf frowned. "Then what happened to the clasp?"

I held out the leaf-shaped brooch, apologizing humbly. Elrond waved my confession aside, glancing over at Aragorn as he spoke to Gandalf.

"What happened?" he asked. "Have the Uruks left for good?"

"Yes," said the wizard. "They won't be back."

Théoden sighed in relief, and Gandalf spoke again, more solemnly. "Sauron's rage will be terrible, and he will strike back swiftly. The fight for Helm's Deep is over, but the fight for all of Middle-earth will soon begin."