Chapter 19
"FOUR wagons bound for the Westfold, needing provisions!" the messenger called as he barreled through the door, panting in his haste. Eowyn glanced up from the other end of the warehouse as a servant girl took the piece of parchment detailing the supplies needed. The girl brought the paper to Eowyn, who scanned it twice quickly before slipping it into a pocket and giving her orders. "Rowena, put 300 blankets and 100 canvases in the first wagon! Erin, fill the second and third wagons with flour and sugar. I will aid you. In the last wagon, Lirwen, put 30 healing kits and as much salted pork as you can fit! Maran," she called to the messenger, "bring the wagons!" The women immediately gathered their teams of servants and sprang into motion, moving the required materials to the loading area.
Erin groaned as she stood from the sack of flour she had been resting against. She had thought the three-day ride to Edoras taxing, but she had been mistaken. At least she had not been expected to move much while riding, and her eyes had thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful lands they passed through. Erin was already in love with the land of Rohan; now she was beginning the long process of getting to know its people…especially its King.
Not that she had had as much time for that as she would have liked. Almost the instant the party arrived in Edoras, Eomer had disappeared into his council room among a gaggle of chattering advisors. For the past four days he had emerged only to sleep, preferring to take his meals as he worked rather than lose time. He had spent those days tirelessly plotting relief efforts, sending every man who could drive a wagon or hammer a nail to help rebuild the devastated outlying regions. In the absence of the men, the women had taken on the task of supplying these relief parties.
Eowyn had been the one to propose this to her brother, furiously defending the strength of women and pointing out that Eomer could not spare men to remain in Edoras to load wagons when so much labor lay ahead of them. Eomer had allowed it, albeit reluctantly. He knew his sister well enough to recognize when it was useless to resist her.
Initially Erin had approved wholeheartedly of this idea. She wanted to help in whatever ways she could, hoping to prove to the people of Rohan that she truly cared for their survival and felt their pain. Since her arrival she had been treated with cautious reserve, the people doing only what she needed, and volunteering no kindnesses. They were suspicious and fearful of her, she knew, because she was an unknown. But the welcome here had at least been somewhat better than that of Minas Tirith; in Gondor many people had regarded her with outright hostility.
Yet she was frustrated here in Edoras, confined within these walls, knowing that there was so much work to be done outside of them. She knew that what she did here was vital to the relief efforts, but she wanted desperately to go with one of those caravans.
There was also the fact that Erin was disastrously out of shape, even after all the war training she had received over the past few weeks. A few weeks of working out could not make up for nearly three years of relative inactivity, as her muscles were currently informing her. The constant work had left her no time to allow her muscles to heal, only increasing the pain as she continued to add to their strain. She feared to take the time to soak in a hot bath in the evenings; she was so exhausted by the end of the day that she was in serious danger of falling asleep in the bathtub.
Erin smiled to hear Eowyn mention the healing kits; those had been her idea, based on the concept of first aid kits. Erin had nearly glowed with pride when Eomer accepted her suggestion and ordered some of the maids to begin organizing them.
But now she had other matters to turn her attention to. "All right team," she called to the three maids who had been placed under her direction. "You heard Lady Eowyn. Each person carry 25 sacks each of flour and sugar out to the loading area. We'll get those loaded and then see how much space we've got."
The maids nodded and moved quickly to do as she had ordered. Erin sighed inwardly as she reached for another of the unwieldy bags. She lifted it, heaving it over one shoulder, and moved toward the loading area, where the first wagon was just pulling up. She dropped it heavily to the ground, massaging her shoulder as she stood, the muscles in her back protesting painfully. One down, 49 to go. You can do it, Erin, she told herself.
"Are you well, Lady Erin?" came a familiar voice from behind her. Erin turned with a wry grin.
"How many times must I ask you to call me Erin?" she asked as she faced Eowyn. The White Lady returned her smile somewhat sheepishly as she deposited her own sack.
"I apologize, Erin," Eowyn replied as she straightened. "But you shall not evade my question. You act as though you have injured yourself." Her gaze drifted pointedly to where Erin kneaded her shoulder muscles.
Erin forced a smile. "I am still somewhat unused to such strenuous work, but I shall be fine. Do not concern yourself for my sake, Eowyn."
Eowyn gave her a skeptical look. "Very well. I see that you too are loath to admit a weakness." She rolled her own shoulders slightly, and Erin's grin became genuine. If the White Lady herself was suffering sore muscles, Erin didn't feel quite so bad about her own.
Erin had come to like and respect Eowyn very much over the past few days. Eowyn was older than she, but not by much—the White Lady of Rohan was only 24 years old. This Erin had discovered yesterday during the lunch break, when Eowyn had finally spoken of herself. For the first couple of days of their acquaintance, Eowyn had asked questions of Erin. Yet Erin had received the impression that Eowyn was not merely curious about her and her world; Eowyn was judging her, scrutinizing her. From a few hints that Eowyn had dropped during her questioning, Erin suspected she had gotten wind of the deepening attraction between Erin and Eomer. Now that the interrogation was finished, Eowyn had seemed more relaxed and open; Erin took that as a good sign. Eowyn and Eomer were very close, and Erin was sure that Eowyn would let Eomer know if there was anything about Erin she didn't like.
Erin had received a much less friendly impression from the few advisors she had seen, as well as Eomer's commanding officers. She wasn't sure why, but they had seemed very hostile, almost regarding her as if she were the enemy. Perhaps they feared she was attempting to usurp the throne and somehow corrupt Rohan with the ideals and concepts of her world.
An hour later the wagons were filled to their highest capacity. Eowyn sent the messenger back to the Golden Hall to inform Eomer that the caravan was ready to depart. It wasn't quite lunchtime, but it was near enough, and thus Eowyn ordered everyone back to Meduseld for the noon meal.
Eomer and his advisors met them on the way to the dining hall. "I was just about to send for you!" he called, beaming as he strode up to them. He stepped between Erin and Eowyn and offered an arm to each. "Come, let us partake of the noon meal!"
The food was simple and somewhat less than usual, as Eomer informed them, but all were rationing their supplies in anticipation of the diminished harvest. Many fields and crops had been destroyed in the war, and Eomer was uncertain how many of the Rohirrim would be able to replant their fields and raise the usual harvest. Nevertheless Erin thoroughly enjoyed the fare, and finished the lunch pleasantly full.
When they were finished, Eomer turned to Eowyn. "Are you weary, sister?"
Eowyn smiled. "Somewhat, my lord. Yet I shall not cease my work, for there is more yet to be done. I daresay no man would be less weary than I after the labor I have done."
"You say there is more yet to be done, and in this you speak truly," Eomer replied. "Yet not here in Edoras; the wagons you supplied are the last party to ride out. I shall go with them, and I would have you ride at my side."
Eowyn bowed her head. "I am not too weary to serve my people," she said. "I will go."
Erin waited impatiently for Eomer to address the same question to her. When he remained silent, she spoke up. "And what of me, my lord? Am I not to go with you?" She was sure her resentment at his failure to address her was audible in her tone.
Eomer seemed slightly surprised when he turned to her. "I had not thought that you would wish to go."
"I am as Eowyn in this, my lord," Erin replied, somewhat angered that he didn't think she would want to help his people. "I too would lend aid to the people of Rohan. I know little of them, just as they know little of me; I would learn from them, as I am sure they would from me."
Eomer pondered this for a few moments. "I fear that they would look upon you with great scrutiny," he said finally.
"As they should," Erin countered. "They know me not. I will not break like glass beneath their stares. Rather I would give them a chance to learn that I empathize with them in their plight and want to aid them however I may."
Eomer smiled slightly. "You and Eowyn are much alike; I think that you shall become good friends." He paused a moment more in thought. "Very well. You may go."
Erin bowed her head, unable to refrain from beaming. "Thank you, my lord. If you will excuse me, I think I shall go change into a garment more clean than this dress." She rose and left the room, still smiling.
WHEN the dining hall was behind her, Erin could not help but let out a sigh of relief. Though she had conducted herself as well as she was able in speech and manners, she continued to feel as though somehow she did not quite measure up to the men's idea of a true lady. She supposed she probably never would; she hadn't been raised a lady and didn't have their conventions ingrained in her behavior like most of the ladies.
Eomer accepted her as she was, for the most part; however, there were times such as today when he seemed to forget that she was every bit as independent of spirit as his sister. Those were the times Erin became frustrated with him. Eowyn, however, had embraced Erin as a kindred soul once they had started to get to know each other.
And yet, Erin still felt the sharp pricks of hostile gazes upon her back nearly everywhere she went. For a moment she considered how unwise it might have been to force Eomer's hand in allowing her to accompany him. The scrutiny would indeed be worse in the country, and Erin caught herself wondering if she truly could withstand it without going crazy. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, she reminded herself. Nor will looks. Not to mention the fact that she had withstood plenty of unfriendly glances within Edoras. Eomer's advisors especially seemed to have taken an instant disliking to her, except for one: Elfhelm, Eomer's second-in-command, as well as leader of the eored in which Eowyn had hidden. He alone of Eomer's advisors had endeavored to entertain Erin along the ride to Edoras when Eomer was occupied. In appearance he was the typical soldier: honest, plain of face and speech, and utterly devoted to his King. But Erin had discovered a witty sense of humor and quick smile beneath the simple exterior, and had found she liked him as well.
Erin reached her room and rummaged through her saddlebags, finding several suitable dresses. And yet…she didn't want to ride sidesaddle, and those dresses would be hard to ride normally in…
When Erin reentered the hall dressed in leggings and a tunic, a small knife strapped to her waist, she could feel the tension in the room rise noticeably. Eowyn raised an eyebrow and then winked knowingly at her; Eomer and his advisors merely stared. Most were doing a fairly credible imitation of a landed fish.
Erin decided to play the fool, though it was difficult for her to restrain a chuckle at the men's expressions. "My lord Eomer," she said as she took her seat again. "is there something wrong?"
Eomer stared for a moment longer before returning to his meal. "No…no, not at all…" He sounded anything but sure of his statement.
One of Eomer's more senior councilors spoke up. "My lord, 'tis a disgrace! A woman in men's garments—it cannot be allowed!"
Before Eomer could answer, Erin spoke up. "I apologize, my lord, if I have caused offense by dressing so. In my world, women often wear pants; it is simply more practical. I was merely attempting to prepare for the labor that I will be performing, much of which I thought would be more difficult to do in a dress. Also, I am afraid I have few dresses, being but newly arrived in Middle Earth. While I have been here for nearly two months, I have had access to a tailor for only a few days."
There was a pause of several seconds as the flabbergasted advisors absorbed her words. She suppressed a giggle; they were so shocked it seemed they couldn't even comprehend her little speech!
"Well, my lady," the councilor said, making the title of respect sound like a slur. "if you are so ignorant of our ways, it is our duty to inform you. Women do not wear leggings. You will return to your rooms and change into appropriate clothing immediately."
As Erin struggled to suppress her irritation at being addressed in such an authoritative manner and devise a reply that would not insult the man, Elfhelm came to her rescue. "I believe, Councilor Ernfryd, that in one reason Lady Erin is correct. Her current garments are far more suited to the tasks she will perform at Eomer King's side. Also, I beg you to remember that she is under the protection and favor of the King Elessar, and we cannot and should not force our customs upon her."
As he seated himself, Erin bowed her head quickly in thanks; he winked at her and returned his attention to the discussion. The councilors were whispering among themselves, plainly agitated, but seemingly unsure what to do about it. Erin decided to "help" them a little.
She leaned over to Eomer, and in a tone carefully calculated to be audible across the table if all fell silent, said, "It's really quite barbaric of you, treating women as you do." Those nearest to her quieted, then shushed the people around them, until everyone was watching her "whispered" conversation with Eomer. "In my world, there was a time when women were regarded the same way: useless, suitable only to care for house and children. But about, oh, half a century ago, the men in society came around. You see, there was this huge war that lasted for several years. So many men left to fight, that the weapons factories and other vital operations were left without workers. The women stepped up and took the men's places, and lo and behold, we're still there!" This last she addressed to the whole group, most of whom suddenly acquired a tinge of shame that they had been caught eavesdropping.
Eowyn rose, failing utterly to hide her mirth at the councilors' reactions. She bowed shortly to Eomer. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I believe I shall change as well. I will meet you in the stables."
Eomer sighed and waved her absently away. "Doubtless you'll be wearing the same improper garments," he muttered mock-severely.
Eowyn's laugh drifted back from the doorway. "Practical, my lord, practical garments!"
Eomer gave another long-suffering sigh. "Come, my lady Erin, let us adjourn to prepare our horses."
Eomer was silent on the trek down to the stables. He had seemed so merry before lunch, Erin was not quite sure what to make of his brooding. "Penny for your thoughts," she said finally, teasingly, unable to endure the silence any further.
Eomer looked up suddenly from the floor, which he had been studying most intently. "Pardon?"
"Penny for your thoughts. What are you thinking about?" Erin clarified, and Eomer's lips twitched in a smile.
"Curious phrase." he muttered, pausing to gather himself. "I was thinking of Eowyn," he said eventually.
"Of Eowyn, my lord?" Erin pressed him.
"Aye. When she was younger, she was much like you; independent, headstrong. She tricked me into agreeing to teach her swordfighting, considered improper for a high-born lady. But then, much of what she did was considered improper for a high-born lady." He paused again. "Then she grew old enough to see the men around her, and to recognize her own qualities. For a while I did not know her, so taken with womanly ways had she become. Her dresses, her hair, her paints…" he trailed off, then continued after a moment. "Then came the War, and with it the old Eowyn whom I had taught the arts of horse and sword. I thought to lose her when all was over, but I did not know you then, my lady Erin. You have influenced her much. I daresay she shall never return to that "proper lady" I knew so briefly."
By this time, they had reached the stables. Erin thought she heard tones of wistfulness in his last statement, and resentment compelled her to speak before she went to her horse. "Perhaps, my lord, the reason she shall never again suffer to be the "proper lady" is because to do so would betray all she has learned of herself. Perhaps she has realized that to live such a life is to live a lie." Perhaps, Erin continued to herself, she has found a man who can appreciate that. Then she turned, hoping that Eomer did not see the faint glimmer of tears in her own eyes, and made her way to the stall of her own horse. Eomer made no move to speak or follow her.
ERIN looked down on the town of Regold from the top of a nearby hill, a thrill of excitement shooting through her as she surveyed the bustling people working in the dewy morning. The day had dawned bright and clear; the very sun seemed to smile upon the village's work.
Erin was looking forward to helping the people of Rohan recover from the war. When the party from Edoras had first entered the town, Erin had been moved almost to tears by the undying gratitude and joy with which the people had welcomed them. They had swarmed over the supplies, expressions of thankfulness tumbling from their lips as they dragged away whatever they could carry. Erin had helped several families stock up, carrying sacks of flour and sugar for them and setting up their tents. Indeed, the village proper was a ghost town of charred wood and blackened ground on the plain behind her now; the majority of the people had little but tents and food, and had set them up on the other side of the hill.
But lack of shelter was not the only problem for the people of Regold. Erin had also noticed upon their arrival that the number of menfolk was very low. The mayor had confirmed her suspicion that evening, when he met with Eomer to work out a plan for rebuilding the town. "The Orcs came upon us suddenly, my lord," he had said. "We had no time to flee. The menfolk took up what weapons they had and tried to hold back the horde, while the women and children ran. Most of them got away, but the menfolk…" the mayor had shrugged expressively. "We're somewhat short of labor."
"That is why we are here," Eomer had said, his expression betraying his anger and sorrow at the tale. Erin had felt a similar mix of ire and pity. So many children growing up without a father…and some without a mother either. Perhaps she would speak to Eomer about creating an orphanage. It would give the womenfolk, at least those who were too old to help in the fields, something rewarding to occupy their time.
But she had had no time to speak with Eomer of such things. Eowyn had approved of the idea, but had cautioned her that there were other matters that required their attention for now. Erin had agreed, of course; they had an entire town to rebuild.
And so she found herself here, surveying the Rohirrim below and watching for someone who seemed in need of aid. She wouldn't be able to help with the more complicated or specialized parts of the process, but she could wield a hammer and saw as well as the next man. Practicing archery and swordwork had strengthened her arms, not to mention the hard labor she had done preparing supply wagons. Her muscles had finally been given a chance to heal during the journey here, and now Erin was ready to push herself again. No hot baths here, she lamented for a moment. Ah well. I think there might have been some sort of salve in those healing kits…
Suddenly she caught sight of a man attempting to cut some planks for the frame of a house using what was quite obviously a two-man saw. Erin smiled to herself as she descended the slope and made her way to his workstation. "Hello, sir!" she called when she was within earshot. He turned, somewhat startled, and she smiled winningly at him. "Mind some help?" she asked.
He shook his head slightly, plainly confused by her sudden appearance.
"Looked like you could use another man," Erin offered in explanation as she took up the other end of the saw. He gave her a strange look as he grabbed his own end, saying nothing. There were men calling for more planks, and they needed to get sawing.
For two long, tedious hours Erin's full concentration centered on her task. It was far harder than she had originally thought, leaving no breath for conversation, and Erin already knew her arms and back would be in agony tomorrow. Her strength left her in minutes, but a strange kind of adrenaline kept her going. She couldn't think beyond the next plank, focused only on making certain none of the builders had to wait for their wood. She was aware of very little around her except for her partner, the current piece of wood they were cutting, and the pile of waiting planks that they strove to keep constant. She was caught up in the sense of teamwork and the feeling that she was accomplishing something good, so preoccupied that she didn't realize how tired she was until someone called a halt.
The men immediately gathered around the woman whose arrival had prompted the stop. She had two pails of water and a drinking cup, and her young daughter carried two baskets of rolls. Erin and her partner laid the saw down carefully on the ground and joined them, Erin fighting back a groan as her back muscles protested her straightened posture. She refused to give into the compulsion to throw herself out on the ground; she would not show weakness, not to these men. She was all too conscious of the looks she was getting; her dark hair and foreign speech made her stand out, and it was not difficult for the men to figure out her identity. They were watching her suspiciously now, judging her. That made it all the more necessary for her to work without complaint. She had to prove herself to these people.
She took a quick drink of the clear, cool water, relishing the feel of it traveling down to her stomach before she cupped her hands and splashed more on her face. She walked away, stretching absently, rolling her shirtsleeves up and fanning herself. She wished some clouds would come and save her from the sun; though she had admired it this morning, its glaring heat was now nothing more than a nuisance. All right Erin, she told herself. You're not weak, by any means. Take some deep breaths, get your breath back, and then go back and do some more work. They need you.
Suddenly a man cleared his throat behind her. She turned, schooling her face into a calm, interested expression, betraying none of her exhaustion. It was the man who had sawed with her, an apologetic look on his face. "Lady, if you are willing, the men are returning to work."
She could clearly hear the hope in his voice; he wanted her to aid him again. There was obviously no one to take her place. Sighing inwardly at her own weariness, she twisted one last time in the hope of relieving some of the pain in her back before replying. "Of course, ah…." she waited.
"Jarem, lady," he supplied, dropping his gaze in deference.
Erin smiled. "Well then, Jarem, shall we return to our saw?"
But Jarem hesitated. "If I may ask, lady, why are you aiding us?"
Erin could surmise the thoughts behind the question. She had no stake in this town, nor did she know any of its people. She had no obligation to help them. "Why does your King aid you?" she retorted with a kind smile.
Jarem's brows creased. "But this is not your land, nor are you of the Rohirrim," he protested finally.
Erin closed her eyes briefly against the pain that rose up in her heart suddenly. "No land, no people are mine here," she said quietly, meeting his eyes. "I fought in the War of the Ring, you know," she continued. "I was there, upon the Pelennor Fields and at the Black Gates. Your king saved my life once. I saw the destruction wrought upon the land and its people by Sauron's armies." She paused, struggling to vocalize her thoughts. "I just…I just want to do what I can to heal that."
Jarem held her gaze a moment longer, and then nodded once. "Thank you, Lady," he said, and in that reply Erin heard not only gratitude, but acceptance. At least to this one man, she had proved her intentions.
"Please, call me Erin," she said lightly. "I'm not highborn. Never have been, and hopefully never will be."
Jarem grinned. "Of course…Erin."
And as she went back to work, Erin's fear of being shunned was briefly forgotten in the warm glow of achievement.
"HEALER Lindir!" came the deep baritone voice from the doorway of the herb closet. Lindir, facing the doorway, stopped his diatribe on the merits of immediately and bowed as much as the room's confines would allow. That alone told Megan it must be someone important. She paused in her work, cutting and preparing the for storage and use, and glanced over her shoulder. A glance was all she would spare; Lindir was often visited during their lessons by other healers wishing to consult him on some problem, and he expected the girls to listen and continue their work, though if they had something to contribute he had asked them to speak up.
Megan froze when she realized that their visitor today was no mere healer. She tapped Kavila, who stood next to her engaged in the same task, on the shoulder. Kavila glanced back as well and gasped when she saw who had interrupted their lesson.
It was Aragorn.
Immediately Megan's mind began to race. The King did not come all the way down to the fifth level for small reasons. Surely he wasn't here to request aid, for himself or others; he looked to be in perfect health, and he was quite a competent healer in his own right. If a soldier or civilian were injured, it would be another soldier or civilian who came to ask for help—not the King himself.
Unless…unless he was here to inform the girls that one of their friends was hurt. Perhaps Adrienne had been injured in a swordfight with Dregor, or Sarah had had an accident in Kalva's shop.
Megan went cold all over as another possibility occurred to her. Maybe he had just received a dispatch from Rohan with news of Erin—bad news. Had she fallen ill? Erin hadn't sent a single letter in the three weeks she had been in Rohan.
But Aragorn smiled to see Megan and Kavila. "Ah, ladies! I had forgotten this was your lesson time. Forgive me, but I fear I must take your teacher from you for a moment. But then, you appear to be occupied," he said, coming closer to look over their shoulders. "advice about leaf." He drew back somewhat reluctantly; Megan realized with a brief pang of sympathy that he probably missed the days when he might retreat to a place like this, with no further responsibilities than to learn and complete the tasks that were set him.
"But I cannot tarry, I am afraid. Lindir, I need to speak with you," he said, nodding toward the door. Lindir bowed his head in acknowledgement and followed Aragorn out the door.
"What do you think that was about?" Kavila said as she returned to her work.
"I don't know," Megan murmured, somewhat consoled that Aragorn had not immediately revealed some sort of disturbing news. If anything had happened to one of her friends, Aragorn would not have hesitated to tell them.
ARAGORN led Lindir to an adjoining room where their conversation would not be heard by inquisitive ears—specifically those of the two girls down the hall.
"Healer Lindir, I am organizing a delegation to accompany Prince Legolas to Khand on Kingdom business, and I need a healer to accompany them," he stated when Lindir had shut the door.
Lindir nodded cautiously. "You wish me to recommend someone?" he asked.
"No, I have already decided who I wish to send," Aragorn said. Lindir nodded, apparently unsurprised. Aragorn had, after all, met many of the healers when he had worked for a few days within the Healing Houses after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and again after the Battle of the Black Gates. However, Aragorn was quite certain the person he had selected would be at the bottom of Lindir's list of candidates. "Kavila will accompany them."
Lindir's gaze shot up to meet Aragorn's, his eyes wide with astonishment. "Kavila! But, my lord, she is not ready for such responsibility! I have only begun to train her in all the things she would need to know!"
Aragorn suppressed a laugh at the man's reaction. "Nonetheless, she is the best choice for this delegation, I believe. The envoy I spoke with was somewhat similar to her in appearances and dress. I think that she may be…more familiar with the customs of this land than any other I might send, and any aid I can offer the Prince will be better than none. He will leave in one month. Will you have time to instruct her well enough?"
Lindir sighed a little as he thought. "I…yes, I suppose, with a great deal of extra lessons. She must be willing to dedicate herself to this, however. I assume you shall ask her today?"
Aragorn nodded. "I would not send her unprepared. The earlier she begins these intensive lessons, the more ready she will be to serve as Healer to the delegation."
Lindir bowed slightly. "Then, if you wish, I will return and ask her to come and speak with you."
Aragorn smiled. "That would indeed suit me. Please, go. I would not keep you from your duties."
"Thank you, my lord. I will send her immediately," Lindir said and left, already planning how to instruct Kavila in the necessary techniques and medicines in a single month. It would be difficult, yes, but it could certainly be done…
SARAH regarded the bow laid out on the table before her with profound satisfaction. The honey-brown wood curved gently from one tip to the other, smooth and gleaming in the sunlight. At the thickest part, carved to fit snugly in a person's hand, she had wrapped black leather. Just above the leather, a deep notch had been made—the arrow shelf, she reminded herself. Kalva had taught her all the parts of the bow as he guided her through the steps of construction.
She had helped him with various other projects, minor tasks on bows that were usually nearly finished. But one day she had arrived at the shop and Kalva had presented her with two relatively unfinished bow staves. He had told her that she was going to learn the process of creating a bow from start to finish, and she couldn't have declined even if she had wanted to, though of course she hadn't. She had awakened every day the past few days with an image of the finished bow in the forefront of her thoughts, excitement plastering a smile on her face that nothing could remove.
Now that it was done, her only thought was that her imagination had been nowhere near the reality. It was beautiful. The grain swirled into a graceful spiral in the front of the bow, partially covered by the grip. She couldn't get over how smoothly it curved; she felt like she could run her hand up and down it for hours without getting bored. She beamed as Kalva came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder.
Kalva was smiling just as much as she was. His pride in her was evident in his voice when he spoke. "A fine bow, Sarah. Might even be better than my first one."
Sarah bowed her head shyly. "You gave me all the pieces, and you told me what to do."
Kalva chuckled softly. "Ah, but you did all the hard work, piecing it together and sanding and polishing it. Don't turn modest on me, Sarah. This is your work, and fine work it is." Sarah just beamed. "Shall we try it out?" he said finally.
Sarah whirled to face him. "Oh, could we? Maybe we could close the shop early and go practice?"
Kalva just laughed. "We'll take our lunch break at the range. It's only another hour." He paused. "If you could decide on fletching colors, you could fletch some arrows for your bow."
Sarah felt a thrill of pride run through her when he said "your bow." She thought for several minutes as she went about the task of sweeping up sawdust, remembering all he had taught her about arrow fletching and the colors that were best for daytime and nighttime archery. Finally she approached Kalva. "I know what colors I want to use," she said.
He glanced up from the bow limb he was carving from a piece of yew. "You know how to fletch an arrow, do you not?" he asked pointedly, softening the question with a smile. Sarah beamed back; nothing could dampen her spirits right now.
She went to the chest of drawers against one wall where Kalva kept his feathers for fletching. Each drawer held feathers of a specific length and color. Over the past few weeks she had learned where all the colors were, since she had fletched hundreds of arrows for various clients. Each person had a distinctive fletching pattern, and she had used all the colors at least once.
She carefully selected a half-dozen of the reddish turkey feathers; she had always marveled at the mottled patterning on them, and had decided to use them as the distinctive cock feathers for her arrows. She then chose twelve bright blue feathers as her second color. She trimmed them carefully so that all the feathers were the same length, then set to work preparing the shafts. She figured six arrows ought to be a good start; if she had time before lunch she would make more, but she didn't think she would.
She took more care with these arrows than she had ever used before; she would accept nothing less than perfect arrows for her bow. Her bow. It still made her giddy to think of it. She smiled and concentrated on placing the fletching just right.
She was on the last arrow when Kalva cleared his throat behind her. With a great effort she prevented herself from jumping; this was a critical stage of the fletching process, and she had been utterly lost in a trance of focus. "You should know better than to disturb someone when they're fletching arrows," she murmured without turning around. "especially when those arrows already have points attached."
"I don't think I'm in a great deal of danger," Kalva returned in the same soft, low tone as he rested his hands on her shoulders. Sarah couldn't help a little shiver.
"If you want to go to lunch, I suggest you let me finish this arrow," she said in an effort to get him to leave so she could recapture her shattered concentration.
Kalva chuckled. "Very well. I will collect our lunch." He moved off into the back room where he stored a supply of simple foods for late nights. Sarah managed to finish her sixth arrow before he returned, and occupied herself gathering all six into a bundle which she tied to her bow with a cord. She didn't have a quiver yet…maybe Kalva could teach her how to make those, too.
Kalva nodded approvingly at the way she had bound everything into one manageable bundle. He had a basket tucked under one arm which was emanating some tantalizing smells. Sarah was very hungry; she had known she was close to finishing the bow, and hadn't eaten much breakfast this morning. She had been too eager to get to work.
They quickly slipped next door to the armory. Vilad was sitting in the sun polishing some blades; he looked up with a wide grin when he realized who had come to visit. "Kalva, Sarah! Welcome! It has been too long since I have seen you."
Kalva laughed. "It has been less than a fortnight, my friend. And a busy fortnight, too. Sarah has finished her first bow."
Vilad smiled at her before looking carefully at the bow. Sarah waited nervously for his opinion. He rose and ran his hand along the smooth surface of the wood, brows knitted in thought. Finally he met her gaze, his expression completely serious. "This bow shows a great deal of work. Fine work." He smiled as Sarah grinned with relief. From the look on his face she had thought he was going to list off all its faults. Of course, she couldn't see any faults, but she knew she was biased.
Vilad's stern expression returned. "I must warn you, however, if you want this one to teach you archery—" he nodded at Kalva, who was watching him with a mixture of surprise and amusement, "he is not an easy instructor. I've had many a cadet leave in tears after one of his lessons."
Sarah giggled; she couldn't imagine Kalva ever making anyone cry, much less a military cadet. Kalva was rolling his eyes as Vilad turned his gaze to his friend. "You go easy on her, you hear? I'll not have her leaving in tears." Then he stepped closer to Kalva and whispered something in Kalva's ear that made the younger man blush heatedly. "Vilad! For goodness' sake, go back to your polishing and leave this to me! I think I know just as well as you how to tutor someone in archery—and in swordsmanship!" Vilad's serious countenance broke into a wide grin as he laughed heartily.
"Very well, I shall leave archers' business to the archers. The targets are yours for as long as you wish." He returned to his seat and his swords.
Kalva moved toward the targets, and Sarah followed him, heart pounding with anticipation. Kalva and Vilad had both said it was a good bow, but they hadn't actually tried to shoot with it. She wondered if it would actually work, or if the wood would snap or the string break when she finally used it. When they reached the target area, she untied the bundle of arrows and sighted down each of them, finding slight defects that only heightened her anxiety.
Kalva's hand on her shoulder startled her out of her worry. "Come. Do you wish to learn to shoot or not?"
"But…what if it doesn't work? What if it breaks?" she burst out without thinking.
Kalva smiled kindly. "Have you no confidence in your work? It will not break. And if you have no confidence in yourself, believe that I would not allow you to make such a grievous mistake that the bow would break upon use. Come, pick up an arrow."
When she had done so, he stepped up behind her. "Now, hold the bow in your left hand, nearly vertical but tilted slightly to the right, like so." He reached out and adjusted the angle at which she held it. "That is so the arrow will remain on the shelf. Now position yourself just so, with your feet apart that much—" he positioned himself, his left foot forward and his right foot about two feet behind, turned to the side for stability. The rest of his body was turned completely to the side, so that only the left side of his body faced the target and he could pull the string directly across his body. She followed his example.
"Good. Now take the arrow and place it on the shelf, and hold it there with the forefinger of your left hand. Grasp the arrow with the fore and middle finger of your right hand, like so, and pull the nock back to the string. Make sure the cock feather points outward." He reached around her and adjusted the position of her right hand, his chest warm against her back. She had to remind herself not to lean back into him. "You see how that keeps the other feathers from hitting the arrow shelf as they pass over it, because of the way they are angled?" Sarah nodded. "If they were placed differently and one feather hit the arrow shelf, it would make the arrow fly off to the left. That is why they are angled so." Sarah nodded again, and he stepped back briefly. "Now, make certain the arrow is straight and level with the ground. Otherwise, the arrow will fly too high or too low." When she had checked it, he moved forward again.
"Now, pull the string back to your ear. Remember where you stop; that is your anchor point, and if you change your anchor point you will change the flight of the arrow. The goal of every archer is to be consistent in his shooting; once you have learnt that, you may begin to adjust your aim." Sarah pulled back on the string, her hands shaking slightly as she held it back. Kalva touched her right elbow, which was angled upward as her arm bent to pull back the string, and brought it down until it was parallel to the ground. Though she couldn't imagine why, she realized that this made it easier to hold the string back. "Keep both eyes open, and place the point of the arrow in the middle of the center ring. You must always aim with the point of the arrow. When you have aimed, then you may release the string." Sarah let go with a sigh of relief. Her muscles had been quivering with fatigue from holding the string in that position. To her dismay, the arrow flew wildly to the left. She glanced up at Kalva, disappointment shining in her eyes. "What happened? Why didn't it hit the target? I did everything you said!" she exclaimed.
Kalva smiled a little. "You did not wait to hear the rest of my directions," he answered. "When you released the string, you plucked it." He demonstrated with an imaginary string. "You must grasp the string with the first part of each finger, by merely curling your fingers around the string. You do not need to grasp it, really. And you must be careful to let go quickly by uncurling your fingers, rather than pulling at it. That will throw the arrow off-course." He nodded toward her first shot, which had embedded itself in the wood fence about four feet to the left of the target. "You understand?"
Sarah nodded. "Should we go get it?" she asked.
Kalva shook his head. "Shoot a few more times, and then we shall collect all your arrows."
Sarah took up her stance facing the target and began the process over again. And if she didn't learn quite as quickly as she usually did, well, she could be forgiven for enjoying Kalva's attentions as he corrected her, whether or not Kalva realized her real motives. Gradually she began to tire, her aim becoming more shaky as her arm strength diminished. When the bow visibly trembled in her hand, Kalva pointedly suggested she rest and take some lunch, and she agreed without complaint.
She laid the bow against the wall of the armory and sat down next to Kalva, who was unpacking the lunch he had brought. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the stiffness that signaled sore muscles later. She had been placing a great deal of the strain of drawing the bow on her shoulders, and now she was paying for it. Oh well—it had been well worth it. She smiled to herself, remembering, as she reached for the cheese that Kalva was slicing up.
Kalva glanced up, noting the way she leaned back against the sun-warmed stone. "Are you sore?" he asked her as he scooted back beside her.
Sarah smiled ruefully. "Yeah. I probably should have stopped about a dozen arrows earlier, but—" She shrugged and winced. "Damn. I might not be able to do more than fletch arrows for awhile."
Kalva grinned back. "Would you like me to see what I can do?" When she raised an eyebrow in question, he motioned with his hands as if kneading bread. He wanted to give her a massage, she realized.
She only hesitated a moment. It wasn't often she was offered massages, and she figured Kalva wouldn't volunteer unless he knew what he was doing. "Sure." She presented her back to him, and a moment later his hands descended on her. She gritted her teeth as his talented fingers found all the sore and tight spots in her shoulders and back. But once he had worked the rough parts out his hands gentled up, manipulating her muscles into a loose, relaxed jumble of nerves. She wasn't exactly experienced with massages, but she thought he might have drawn it out somewhat longer than he had needed to. Not that she was complaining; when he finally removed his warm hands she sighed at the loss and tried in vain to come up with reasons why she should convince her relaxed muscles to lift her back into an upright position. Her growling stomach was the deciding factor; she had eaten breakfast several hours ago, and had worked steadily since then. There was also the fact that she could then see his face...
Sarah moved herself back up against the wall next to Kalva, smiling contentedly. "Thank you," she said as she grabbed a hunk of bread. "I think that might have been the best massage I've ever had."
"And I'm sure the fact Kalva was giving it had nothing to do with it," Vilad said wryly from the doorway of the armory. He stepped out, smiling down at them. "I'm afraid I've a class coming in very soon, and you shall have to vacate the range. But then, I'm sure it's time for you to return to the shop." He cast a pointed look at Kalva, who sighed reluctantly.
"I'm afraid he's right," Kalva said. "Let us return and finish our lunch in peace. Besides, it is too painful to watch this imbecile attempting to teach archery."
Vilad raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching suspiciously. "Ah, but this is not an archery class. 'Tis a class in swordwork, a subject in which Kalva is out of his depth, as I'm sure you will find, Sarah."
Sarah glanced back at a furiously blushing Kalva and regarded Vilad with confusion. "Kalva is a perfectly competent swordsman. He fought at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and the Black Gates."
Vilad broke into loud guffaws. Kalva snatched up the bow and arrows in one hand and the lunch in his other hand, brushing past Sarah with a muttered entreaty for her to follow before she made things even worse. She cast one last bemused glance at Vilad and then followed Kalva back to the shop. When the door to the street finally closed behind them, she turned to Kalva. "What was that all about?"
"I would rather not explain it to you," he said as he handed her bow and arrows to her. "Go put this in the back."
She did so, returning quickly. "Kalva, seriously, what happened? You can tell me."
Kalva set the lunch basket down heavily on a table, turning to face her. His face was still bright red. "He was making a pun. On swordfighting." Sarah waited for further explanation, and Kalva sighed resignedly. "Swordfighting is often used to mean something…less proper. I…look, it was just banter between men. It's not something proper to explain to women."
Sarah's brows creased as she tried to make sense of the somewhat convoluted explanation. "I…what…oh. Oh. Oh!" she finally realized what Kalva was getting at, and her confused expression was replaced by one of utter mortification. She was sure her face was cherry red, and probably warm enough to cook something on.
Kalva turned back to the table, absentmindedly fitting together the bow pieces laid out on the table. "Is your back up to filling an order of arrows?" he asked finally. She replied affirmatively, and he detailed the order. She had been working for perhaps ten minutes when Kalva spoke again, so softly Sarah almost couldn't make out the words. "I haven't the faintest idea where Vilad was getting that. It's not as if I've ever had any complaints."
Sarah glanced up, hardly able to believe her ears. "You…what?"
Kalva met her gaze, flushing all over again. "I didn't say that out loud, did I?" Sarah nodded, and he dropped his gaze. "Please ignore me. I was merely thinking out loud." He sounded as if he were about to cry, he was so embarrassed.
Sarah hid a smile; he was so cute when he was embarrassed! But she knew he was mortified at having to explain the pun to her, and she felt bad for forcing him into doing so. She also knew that he was still uncertain how to treat her, still trying to convince her that he wasn't a complete lower-class buffoon, as if she were some highborn lady he had to impress. He probably worried that she thought he was crude or something because of the way he and Vilad had talked. Well, it was time to let him know once and for all that not only would she not shrivel up in horror at hearing someone jest about such topics, she could flirt and tease with the best of them.
Keeping her gaze firmly on her work, she spoke up. "Vilad may be right, I suppose. It's not as if I would know, after all; I haven't anything to judge by."
Kalva froze, bent over his work. After several seconds he rose, his face blank with astonishment. She glanced up at him once, quickly, unable to keep her lips from twitching impishly as she dropped her gaze to her busy hands again. As he stared at her, his expression gradually transformed into one of mixed amusement and something else Sarah couldn't identify. A smile grew across his face, and he shook his head slowly as he sauntered toward her. She looked up at him, allowing a playful smile to surface on her face. "How about this?" he murmured, leaning closer.
And then he kissed her, and she had all the proof she needed.
KAVILA glanced up quickly as Lindir reentered the room, lost in reflection. She wondered what that expression meant. He didn't appear angry or worried, just…thoughtful. Before she could say anything, Megan spoke up. "Is anything wrong, Lindir?"
He looked up, his lips quirking into a brief smile. "No, not at all. However, the King wishes to see you, Kavila." Megan and Kavila exchanged an apprehensive look. Why would Aragorn need to see her? And why not Megan as well?
Megan gave Kavila a reassuring smile as Kavila rose and left the room. She walked slowly down the corridor, running a mental inventory of all her activities in the past few days. If it had been a problem with one of their friends, Megan would have been allowed to come. Therefore, Kavila reasoned it must be some problem with her. Yet she hadn't done anything wrong recently—not that she knew of. Had she violated some custom or offended someone? She certainly hadn't done so on purpose, but one never knew—especially since they were in a completely different world that could have been relatively easily mistaken for a medieval court. She was utterly out of her depth here.
She didn't want to consider the other possibility, but she couldn't help thinking that it might have something to do with her skin color. Every time she went out she was painfully conscious of the way people stared, and it wasn't just because she was one of "those girls from another world." The plain fact was that people with dark skin were not only rare in Minas Tirith but were associated with Sauron, and put together those qualities made her an object of suspicion—no matter what the King's opinion on the subject was. And it wasn't just the common people; the nobility looked down on her as well. The only places she was safe from the scrutiny were her room and the Houses of Healing.
Then she came to the doorway flanked by two of the distinctly armored Tower Guard; it was not difficult to discern which room the King was in. With a deep breath and fervent prayer for courage, she entered.
Aragorn rose to meet her with a warm smile. "Ah, Lady Kavila, come in and sit down. How do you fare?"
"I'm well, thank you," she muttered, keeping her gaze to the floor as she perched nervously on the nearest chair. No matter how friendly he behaved toward her, Kavila always felt like a little child facing a stern elder when she came before the King. She couldn't forget even for a moment that he was the ruler of the vast Reunified Kingdom, as it was being called now. He had led armies of thousands of men, killed plenty others, and had even faced Sauron. To have the gaze that had once opposed the Dark Lord himself turned upon her made Kavila tremble.
"Lindir told me that you have done exceptionally well in your studies," Aragorn said as he took his own seat.
"Thank you, my lord, but I have done nothing exceptional," she protested. "I merely learn what he teaches."
"Ah, yes…modest as always," Aragorn said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Well, I am very pleased with your progress in your studies. In fact, I have brought you here to ask you if you would be willing to accelerate your studies in healing."
Kavila glanced up involuntarily, caught off-guard by the unexpected twist of the conversation. "Why, my lord?"
"I am sending a delegation to the land of Khand in a month, and I need a healer to accompany them," Aragorn replied, holding up a hand to stop Kavila's protests that there were others far more qualified than she. "Hear me out. I am asking you not only because of your interest in the healing arts, but also because I believe you may be able to aid the envoy in other ways."
"Other ways, my lord?" Kavila was quite confused by Aragorn's wording.
"I noticed that the envoy from Khand was similar to you in skin color and dress—traditional dress," he clarified when Kavila's gaze flicked over her conventional tunic and leggings. "It is my hope that you might be able to recognize and advise the delegation on some of the customs of Khand."
Kavila nodded slightly. It occurred to her suddenly that Aragorn was, ironically, treating her unique qualities as assets rather than liabilities. It lifted the cloud of doubt over her thoughts just a little bit, but even that slight change was a relief for her. "I…this is rather…sudden," she said finally. "May I—"
"Of course you may think on it, my lady," Aragorn interrupted. "I did not mean to require your answer immediately. Send me your answer when you have decided—but do not take too long, for you will have much to learn before you leave. Lindir has agreed to teach you, but it will require many extra hours of intensive studies nonetheless, and the sooner you begin the more prepared you will be."
Kavila nodded again. "Thank you, my lord. I will return to my lessons now; I am sure you have duties to attend to."
Aragorn sighed wearily. "Yes, I do. The work of the King is never done. I had hoped that I might escape for a little longer…ah, but listen to me, I sound as if signing papers and presiding over councils is hard labor. I would do well to remind myself of the true nature of hard labor, do you not agree?" Kavila said nothing, unsure of the proper response. Aragorn chuckled. "Perhaps I will go and ask your weaponsmaster for a sparring match…Vilad was his name, was it not?" Kavila nodded and rose, but made no further move toward the door.
Aragorn closed the distance between them with a few long strides, placing a finger under her chin and lifting her face to his own. His green eyes were soft with understanding. "You need not fear me, Lady Kavila."
"Please, my lord, call me Kavila," she said, trying desperately to evade his statement. "I am no lady."
Aragorn smiled. "Only if you will call me Aragorn." He dropped his finger from her chin and turned to the door. "Farewell, Kavila."
"Farewell, my l—Aragorn." Kavila caught herself at the last moment. Aragorn turned back in the doorway and grinned at her, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment. Then he was gone, leaving Kavila with a mind full of questions and no answers in sight.