A/N: I know that elves do not get sick, but I assume that being severely wounded and poisoned, an elf may get feverish.
I have changed the chapters 34, 41, 58, 59, 68, 71 because of HoME 12. Imrahil has a damn (sorry) family tree in there. Elphir is his oldest son. In my story he is at the moment captain of the King's guard at Minas Tirith and he is the twin of the dead Lothíriel. The next two sons, Erchirion and Amrothos I killed at the Morannon. So you don't have to reread the chapters. Just remember that there is an additional brother, called Elphir, 32, and captain of the royal guard at Minas Tirith.
73. Miserable Me
Five days after Elladan had taken the arrow to save my life, I was allowed to visit him. When I entered the room, I stopped dead in my tracks. He was lying in his bed, the covers drawn up to his chin, his arms folded across his chest. He was very pale and his eyes were closed.
I gasped with fright. Elves slept with their eyes open! Was he dead? Elrohir had told me he was much better!
I rushed to the bed, and then almost jumped out of my skin again, when Elladan opened his eyes.
My heart was thumping madly, adrenaline rushing through my body. I slumped down on the wooden chair that had been drawn up beside the bed.
Elladan turned his head slowly, his grey eyes still slightly glazed with fever. "Scared you, did I?" He asked in a hoarse voice. Then he gave me a slow, lopsided smile. "Don't worry, I almost as good as new. A little black arrow and a drop of poison are not enough to get rid of me."
I exhaled deeply and folded my trembling fingers around my knee. "That's good to know. For a moment you had me almost fooled. I thought elves sleep with their eyes open."
Elladan's grin broadened. "That's true for the most part. But even a high elf will close his eyes to sleep when he is hurt or feeling very…relaxed and safe." There was a suggestive twinkling in his eyes as he said that.
I gulped and felt heat rush to my cheeks.
"But I for one prefer sleeping with my eyes closed at any time. Perhaps that's the human part of my heritage. Elrohir never closes his eyes to sleep," he added. "That's a good way to tell us apart."
I smiled at this joke. "And who might ever get the chance to see both of you asleep at the same time?"
"Man or elf doesn't kiss and tell," he replied.
Elves don't take lovers. They fall in love, and marry. But Elrohir and Elladan were terrible flirts. When they finally reached Aman, after Aragorn had passed away, they would be a disaster to the elleth there until they'd find their respective true loves. I had to grin at the thought. That would be a spectacle that I'd like to witness…
Well. I sighed. I knew that I could not get that opportunity. No dead humans in Aman. What a morbid thought! But mingled in the relief at Elladan's recovery was the strange realization that he would live on and look just the same, when I was a long time dead and gone. You may look at a tree, or a mountain, or a castle and think the same. I guess everyone does that sometimes. I assure you, it's different when you look at a person that looks not so very different from a human being. Immortality is weird.
"How are you?" Elladan asked suddenly, interrupting my musings. I looked up. I opened my mouth and closed it again. How am I. How am I?
"Castlebound. Frightened. Confused." I replied, rubbing my forehead with eternally cold fingers. Now, in the middle of November, it was cold in Dol Amroth, and although the thick walls of the castle prevented the rooms from getting really cold, it was also almost impossible to get the rooms really warm. Confusion and fear are not really feelings that make you warm and fuzzy. I felt pretty miserable. And there was still no letter from Eomer. Only the answer to that emergency message. A short 'thank you' and 'all necessary precautions are being taken'. Nothing of a personal nature. Well, I would have felt silly about an 'I love you' flashed from signal beacon to signal beacon. But I longed to hear from Eomer. And I woke every day with the fear that this would be the day a message would arrive telling me that there had been an attempt to murder Eomer. A successful attempt.
I gulped and forcibly turned my thoughts away from my fears.
"But I am getting better at my runes. And I still know how to hold a sword." I added, trying on a faint smile.
Elladan gave a tiny nod in appreciation of my answer. "Yes, my brother tells me that you are a quick study. You need to work with weights to strengthen you arm muscles."
I made a face at him. Imrahil had told me that only this morning. Númendil had given me his first weights to practice. The weights he had used when he was seven. The weights that wore me out at twenty-five. Lothíriel, the ranger out of Erlangen. Lothíriel, the shield-maiden. It's a constant wonder to me that they did not ask Gandalf to simply take me back to wherever he found me.
"It took even Elrohir and me years to build up our strength," Elladan told me in an attempt to cheer me up. Apart from moving his head, the elf was lying absolutely still.
"Thank you. Ada has assured me that in a year's time I will have enough strength for the ceremonial duties as a shield-maiden. I am just grateful that I don't have to actually join the ranks of the Rohirric warriors." I replied, shuddering at the thought. There was enough fighting required for the purely "ceremonial" position of the shield-maiden.
And Eowyn had campaigned for years to turn the "ceremonial" to an actual rank. She had trained her hand-maidens for battle. She had plans for a Queen's company made up and ready in a drawer. I would be happy if I made it through the sword-dance of the king and queen on mid-summer's day unscathed. Well, I would only have to do that in two years. Ever since I had been told about the position of the "shield-maiden" of Rohan, I was grateful that my wedding would be in September next year.
"It will be interesting to see what Eowyn will be up to in Ithilien," Elladan commented, probably having read my thoughts. I chuckled at that. "Yes, most fascinating. Poor Faramir. – Can I get you anything to eat or drink? Or should I leave? Please tell me if you get too tired."
I searched his pale face and still figure for a hint how he was really feeling. But I just could not tell. Elves are too different from us, even though they look so similar.
"No, thank you, Lothíriel. I am really fine. My body is healing with the power and the speed of the grace of the Eldar. And although the healing powers are dimmed in a warrior, my brother is still an able healer."
"If you say so. I guess I'll never get used to you elves." I shook my head at him.
For some reason this made Elladan grin broadly. "You have no idea how refreshing it is, to meet a human being that is not intimidated by us." He told me.
I blinked at him. "But I am. Intimidated. In awe."
"But not in the same way as someone born here and raised with the idea of us being… a… hm… being of a higher order." Elladan replied.
I frowned. "But you are. Aren't you? You are the Firstborn, immortal, beloved by the Valar, and all that."
Elladan gave a slight shake of his head. "You are right and you are wrong. We are all that what you said, and more, but at the core we are the same as you are. We are children of Eru Ilúvatar. And He never said that the one or the other of his children were better than the other, in any way that really matters."
I pondered this for a moment. I am not good at philosophical questions. I mean, I have some thoughts about life and death and the meaning of this mess. But I am thrown when I only think about Elladan, pale, grey-eyed, wryly smiling Elladan living forever and sailing to a tangible, real-life paradise somewhere yonder. "Hm." I said. That was the best I could come up with.
Elladan's lips quivered in a grin. "I'm sorry, Lothy. I did not mean to get that philosophical. Lying here and waiting to be better makes me think too much for my own good. I guess I'll do better with some more sleep."
"I don't mind." I rose to my feet. "Sleep well. And thank you very much for saving my life."
"You are very welcome," Elladan replied, and then closed his eyes.
I left the room and silently closed the door behind me.
A few days later a messenger arrived.
Finally there was a letter from Eomer. There were actually two letters. One was addressed at Imrahil, the other was for me.
The first told of an attempt to kill Eomer.
Eomer had been travelling thought the five provinces of Rohan since we had parted. He had to show himself to his people, accept their oaths of fealty and collect the taxes. A dangerous thing. There are tales of assassination attempts of the king's marshals in the annals of Rohan. People don't like to pay taxes. Some people really don't like paying taxes. Therefore Eomer had taken the White Riders with him as his personal guard. This had saved him. But one rider was dead, three were severely wounded.
The assassins had escaped. They had been clothed in black, with masks covering their faces and hoods hiding their hair. There was no way to tell who they had been. Apart from the fact that they were excellent fighters to take on the White Riders, kill one, wound three and escape.
I was sitting on the edge of a chair in the library. My hands were shaking so hard that I could not open the roll of parchment that contained the letter Eomer had written to me.
Someone had tried to kill me.
Someone had tried to kill Eomer.
My life with Eomer had almost come to an end before it had ever begun.
This thought stuck in my mind like a pin. A sting that irritated shocked and made me flaming mad.
Whoever was behind that, they would pay for it. They would pay dearly. And I would not allow myself to be frightened off a life with the man I loved.
I felt hot anger surge through my body, blood rushing to my cheeks, my fists clenching involuntarily.
It was better to be angry than to be frightened.
After a moment, I managed to exhale deeply. I drew a long, trembling breath and exhaled again, willing some of the tension to drain away from me.
Eomer was alive. I was alive. We would stay alive. And we would find out who was behind this and they would pay for it.
I unrolled the parchment.
Eomer was a not a good letter writer. He had also made the mistake to write this letter by hand, instead of dictating it to a scribe. Did I mention that I was only beginning to be able to read the tengwar runes in books? Did I mention that runes in what passes as books in Middle Earth are written, no, almost painted painstakingly in the neat, clear handwriting of professional scribes?
To cut a long story short: I could not read that letter.
It was Míri who finally read that letter to me. She assured me that Eomer's handwriting was horrible and that he used runes that certainly did not belong to what she judged to be the proper script of Gondor and Rohan. However, she could read the letter.
"My dear Lothíriel," the letter read. "I hope you are well and I trust you do not venture from the castle and that you are never without your guards. It will be a long time until this hard-won peace is without threat. Don't worry about me. The life of a king is always at risk. My Riders are numbered among the best fighters of the West. I am safe enough. I miss you. The dogs come when I call their names. They are growing quickly. Eowyn sends her love. I miss you and I am looking forward to seeing your sweet face again. May Eru and all the Valar bless your every step.
Your Betrothed. Eomer. Son of Eomund."
My sweet face…
Better than nothing, I suppose. And he did say that he missed me.
Míri took a look at my face and laughed. "What did you expect? A poem? A ballad? Eomer is a good man, and he will be a good king. He is a wonderful singer, dancer and warrior. But he is not a man of the letters. If you are looking for minnesang, you would have to ask Faramir to compose a piece for you. Much to the dismay of his father, Faramir acquired quite a reputation as the writer of songs about courtly love in his youth."
"I bet Eowyn doesn't give a damn about poems or the romantic content of letters," I grumbled.
This made Míri chuckle again. "No, I don't think she does. Life's unfair, isn't it?"
I gave her a wry grin. "Horribly. I can only hope Eomer does not expect a long flowery letter in return. Something like that," I pointed at the letter, "I think I can manage. The kind of letter I would have loved to read I could neither read nor write at the moment. I'll just have to take the good with the bad."
Nevertheless I spent the rest of the day in the library, composing a draught of the letter I wanted to send to Eomer.
Although, of course, there was not really much that I could say in that letter, even if I had been fluent in the use of that dratted runes. Letters can get lost. Letters can fall into the wrong hands. So there was little I could really say in that letter. But there was so much I wanted to say.
I sat at the desk in the library and stared at the wax tablet I used to practice my runes on and that was now furrowed with the draught for that letter.
I showed the draught to Elrohir. He corrected it. Only twelve mistakes in twenty sentences. My best result so far. Elrohir gave me a parchment for the letter and a fresh inkpot.
My head hurt and felt utterly frustrated at the slow, painstaking way I drew those runes.
When I was finally finished, my hands were stained with black ink. I sealed the letter with my new seal, the seal with the ship of Dol Amroth and the blossom for my own name. I used the blue wax of Dol Amroth. But today I found no joy in the seal or the wax.
With all my heart I wished I was with Eomer. And how I wished we had thrown all caution to the wind and made love that day on the road from Tarnost to Minas Tirith. The thought that I might never feel his naked body close to mine, if the assassins succeeded, made me feel icy and sick. I wanted to live. I wanted him to live. I wanted to live with him. Right now.
I covered my face with my hands. My palms smelled faintly of the wax from the tablet.
I felt silly tears pricking behind my closed eyelids.
What the hell was the matter with me today?
After a moment I rose from my seat and carried the letter to Prince Imrahil, who promised to pass it on to the messenger. The messenger would depart before the break of dawn. Eomer would probably read my letter within two weeks.
I miss him so much, I thought, and felt like crying again.
I found out what was the matter with me, when I went to use the privy. The privies at Dol Amroth are pretty good. You have one on each story of the castle, set in the outer walls. The sea is almost as good as a water closet. I narrowed my eyes and looked closely at the condition of the wooden seat before I sat down. But I needn't have worried. Míri has drilled the servants very well. Everything was clean and neat.
I sat down. As I looked down at my trousers and my underwear I noticed red, bloody stains on the fabric.
At the sight I felt utterly defeated.
Not that on top of everything else. It should not come back so soon. Damn. It was only a few weeks that the Implanon had been cut out of my arm. I should have had a respite of these fucking monthlies and all that bother. Especially since it was still ten months until I was married. Until I had to get pregnant.
But here I was, sitting on the toilet, feeling my stomach cramp up and the almost forgotten feeling of a monthly nausea rising up inside of me. There was a basket with small squares of old cloth set aside to be used for cleaning yourself. And a bucket with cold water. One session, one piece of cloth. And that is luxury. In most places you get only a bucket of water. You have a hand, so why should you need anything else?
I cleaned myself up and hurried to Míri. I had no idea what to use as sanitary napkin.
It turned out that the word "napkin" was a very fitting description.
Míri was immensely pleased. In retrospect, I think she was pretty worried that I might not be able to conceive, having no monthlies for such a long time. She simply could not believe what I had told her about the Implanon thingy.
But I digress. Back to the icky business at hand.
In a way, I was lucky.
I was lucky that in Middle Earth – not as in the Middle Ages on earth – there is actually such a thing as underwear. Perhaps Gandalf brought the idea with him from a visit to Nuremberg. Old folks need their warmth, especially the tender parts. Anyway, there is underwear. Female undies have two loops on the underside. Until the moment I stood in front of Míri, watching with flaming cheeks as she showed me how those silly stuffed napkins worked, I had not realized what those loops were for.
Now I knew. The napkins used by the human females in Middle Earth to catch the mess of the monthlies are stuffed little squares of cloth, which have strips at the front and at the rear. Those strips are slipped through those loops and tied in place. It is almost comfortable. And being a noble lady, I did not have to do my own washing. Thank God for small mercies!
With the blood came the cramps, with the cramps came the feeling of nausea, with the feeling of nausea came up everything I had eaten that day.
My dinner was a cup of tea, an insidious mixture of vervain mixed with athelas. It did help, but I felt absolutely miserable for five days.