Chapter 34
Exhaustion dizzied her as Lori passed through the gates of Helm's Deep. She closed her eyes and dug deep for whatever vestige of strength she had left. Even if they'd made it to safety, the day was far from over.
Other people had already taken up residence in the fortress. They'd gathered near the gate in curious, fearful clusters. Some broke forward to greet friends and family.
Lori scanned the crowd for limps, bruises, old bandages. She would find someone who needed care, anything that would keep her hands busy.
She gave Hithui's neck a grateful pat and dismounted. Even the simple motion sent pain shooting through her legs, and when her feet hit the ground, her legs buckled.
"Fuck." She hissed through her teeth, jaw clenched in agony. She knelt there for a moment, breathing through her nose and hoping no one was staring.
"Lori?" Sárelle appeared at her side. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. Just lost my balance." She took Sárelle's hand and stood with a shaky breath.
"Are you certain?" Sárelle searched her face with a frown. "You look like you're in pain."
"My knees might be a little bruised." Lori hardened her expression. "I lost my balance and fell, all right? I think my pride is more wounded than anything."
Her lips thinned, and she took Lori's arm. "Let's keep out of the way for now. Éowyn said there should be a room where we can rest."
Dernhild joined them, holding the reins of her own horse, and exchanged a glance with Sárelle. "Everything all right?"
"Would you mind tending to the horses?" Sárelle handed her Hithui's reins. "We'll meet you upstairs afterwards."
"All right." Dernhild led the horses away without her usual quip. Lori frowned, unable to shake the feeling that she was missing something.
"I should make some rounds, see if anyone needs care," she said as Sárelle began leading her away.
"The villages have brought their own healers. No one will begrudge you a moment to rest."
Lori couldn't find it in herself to protest. In truth, her legs were shaking slightly, and she wanted a chance to check her bandages.
They made their way into the depths of the fortress. The place felt hard and unforgiving, all angular stone and narrow passageways lit only by guttering torches.
Sárelle led her into what appeared to be a small sitting room. It was minimally furnished, with a few beaten chairs around a worn table. While Sárelle bent down next to the unlit hearth, Lori sank into one of the chairs with a stifled sigh. She closed her eyes and took inventory of every ache and knot of tension in her body. The ride to Helm's Deep had been harder on her body than she'd realized, but now that the adrenaline had faded, she was feeling every bit of it.
She palmed the fabric of her skirt and looked around. At one end of the room was a narrow wooden door.
"Is that the washroom?"
Sárelle looked up. "I believe so."
Lori pushed herself up and peered behind the door. The room beyond was tiny and smelled of urine. The only light came from a slit of a window near the ceiling. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of miserable life the soldiers here led.
She sighed. It was the only bit of privacy she was going to get for the moment, so she closed the door and gingerly sat on the stone ledge that served as a toilet. She pulled up her skirt and inspected her bandages as thoroughly as she could in the dim light. To her relief, there were no noticeable spots of blood on the bindings. The dampness she felt on her skin could have been sweat.
Lori pushed her skirt down, but despite the stench in the cramped room, she made no move to leave. She leaned against the wall and pressed her dirty, shaking hands against her face.
Aragorn was a capable fighter. He'd lived in Rohan for a time, so surely he knew enough about mounted combat to fend for himself. He was going to make it to Helm's Deep. He was going to be all right.
She couldn't stop the image of Théodred's body from flashing in her mind. He'd spent his life in the saddle, defending his kingdom from every threat imaginable. He'd still been wounded and spent days wasting away in bed and died at the end.
It was easy to meld her memories with her nightmares, to imagine Aragorn with the wounded stomach instead. Maybe he would still be awake and she would have to see him in pain. He would see her too, all her desperation and panic as she watched him die with frantic, working hands.
Her chest seized with an unexpected sob, and Lori pressed a hand over her mouth. She wanted to cry, curled up in this dingy, dark room, but Sárelle would hear. Even if she managed to keep quiet, her swollen eyes would give her away once she emerged.
Lori closed her eyes and counted through her breathing until the pain in her chest had subsided. Her bandages were still clean, for now. She still had a job to do.
She braced herself, then rose from her seat and left the room.
Dernhild was sitting with Sárelle at the table, and both of them turned to look at her. Concern was evident on their faces, and it made her flush.
"Everything all right out there?" she asked, trying to force a semblance of ease into her voice.
"As well as it can be," Dernhild said. "The fortress is near bursting with refugees."
"They're in a safe place, at least." Sárelle gestured for Lori to sit.
"Is there a plan for how long this is going to take?" Lori asked as she lowered herself into the remaining chair.
"I imagine the king will have some information once he joins us," Dernhild said.
A silent if hung heavy in the air. Lori's stomach dropped. She hadn't even considered the possibility that Théoden would be killed. Or perhaps he would be the one to arrive injured, just like his son, and if she wasn't able to save him—
"Lori," Sárelle said, softly but with enough firmness to pull her out of her thoughts. "Something is troubling you."
She huffed out a bitter laugh. "Where should I start?"
"It's not just our situation." Sárelle gestured to the barren room. "You've been acting differently since…since before we left Edoras."
"Before Théodred, too," Dernhild said. "I won't deny it's been a horrendous couple of weeks, but there's something else, isn't there?"
It was the gravity in Dernhild's tone that made the reality of the situation sink in. The two of them must have discussed this beforehand. Perhaps they'd even talked to Éowyn. And now they were staging some sort of intervention on her behalf.
Lori took a deep breath. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"Perhaps you could tell us whatever it is that's been tormenting you." Dernhild gave her a pointed look. "Even if you are ashamed, I hope you know we would not pass judgement on you."
Lori bit the inside of her lip. Dernhild had trusted her with her own secret, something that had been eating at her for years. What kind of friend was she if she couldn't do the same?
"I…" She shook her head helplessly.
Where to begin? Which wound do I reopen first?
"I don't think we should discuss this right now," she said, hardening her resolve. "There are people outside who need a healer. I need to get back to work."
Sárelle pursed her lips. "Tonight, then? Once you've finished your work?"
"All right." Lori stood. She just needed some time to figure out what to say.
She couldn't meet Dernhild's eyes as she left the room.
As she emerged into the blinding sunlight, a voice rang out from below.
"Make way! Make way for the king!"
Her heart leapt into her throat. The riders had returned already. Théoden was alive, and hopefully unharmed. She could find out now if Aragorn was all right.
As quickly as she could, she maneuvered down the narrow stairways and crowded passages, moving with the flow of people who had been drawn by the call.
A crowd had already formed around the front gate, where mounted soldiers were streaming in. Lori spotted Éowyn's blonde head at the top of the stairs and moved to her side. She acknowledged her with a glance, but her attention was focused on the men.
"So few of them have returned," she said softly.
Lori searched the faces of the men filing into the courtyard before a bolt of terror made her pull her eyes away. She was desperate to see Aragorn alive, and equally afraid of finding that he hadn't returned with the others.
A man stumbled off his horse, his sleeve soaked with blood from the elbow down, and Lori pushed herself into motion.
He's all right. I'll see him once I'm done with my work.
She would not look.
An hour passed in a blur, her hands busy with stitches and bandages and her mind occupied with the wounded instead of the front gate.
He's all right. He's busy with something else. I haven't seen him tending to the other soldiers because—
Lori swallowed and found that her mouth was dry. Her legs burned, and she kept glancing down to make sure blood wasn't visible on her dress. She wanted to sit and rest without fear of drowning in her own thoughts.
And then her hands were empty. Lori rose to her feet with a wince. She wasn't sure how long it had been, but the sun had disappeared behind the mountains cradling the fortress. She turned to move to the next patient, but there were none.
"Lori?"
She looked up as Éowyn approached. Something in her gaze grew hollow as their eyes met, and Lori wondered what it was the other woman saw in her face. She felt as if she was hanging on the edge of a cliff, bloodied fingers gripping the precipice, knowing she was going to fall.
"Is, um…" Lori began, her voice slightly hoarse. She licked her lips, unsure of what question she wanted to ask.
Éowyn took in a deep breath and stepped closer. "Lori…"
Don't. Don't say it. A tremor passed through her chest, but she could only stare as Éowyn continued.
"Gimli brought word to me that Aragorn did not survive the ambush. I am sorry." Her voice broke, and she lurched forward, wrapping her arms around Lori.
No. Her lips formed the word, but she couldn't find her voice. Her next breath felt like inhaling fire.
He's gone.
Dizzily, she clutched at Éowyn, sobs knifing through her chest.
He's gone, and I couldn't say goodbye.
She wanted to faint. She wanted relief from the horror, the pain, the truth that kept slamming itself into her mind every time she took a breath. Her nails dug into her palm, and the pinching sensation grounded her, but it wasn't enough. She didn't know how to get away from it.
"Lori, breathe." Éowyn smoothed the hair at the back of her head, and there was an edge of worry in her voice. "Just breathe. We'll find somewhere for you to rest."
The words sounded like they were coming to her from somewhere far away, through a layer of ice-cold water. A wave of numbness submerged her, suspended her, and time pressed forward in a feverish lurch.
Éowyn was guiding her to sit, and pain pricked at her legs. They were in a small room, Dernhild and Sárelle hovering nearby with wide eyes. She only vaguely remembered walking here, past other women bent double with sobs or huddled with their children close by. The whole fortress was saturated in grief.
Aragorn was dead.
Lori pressed both hands to her mouth, her breaths coming short and shaky. They were all watching her, witnessing her crumble piece by piece. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to be gone.
Éowyn sat beside her and wrapped both arms around her. Dernhild moved to her other side and placed a comforting hand on her back. Sárelle joined them, gentle fingers carding through her hair. Lori squeezed her eyes shut, torn between pressing into the comforting touches and tearing herself away from them. This wasn't like Théodred's funeral—all the pain in the room belonged to her.
Moments later, a knock at the door startled all four of them.
"Lady Éowyn?" a man called from outside. "The king requests your presence."
Éowyn withdrew her arms with a muttered Rohirric curse, then hesitated.
"We'll stay," Sárelle said softly, and Éowyn rose and left the room.
Lori realized she was sitting on a cot, that Éowyn had brought her to a cramped room that would serve as bedchambers for the ladies. She looked at the coarse, rumpled sheets and was overtaken by a wave of exhaustion.
Sárelle seemed to understand, and put a prompting hand on her shoulder.
"Sleep. We'll still be here when you wake up."
She slumped onto her side, and Dernhild drew a blanket over her. She closed her eyes and wished desperately, fervently, that she wouldn't wake again.
The room was quiet, so quiet she could hear the dull roar of blood in her ears.
Her heart was still beating. Lori pressed her fingers to her wrist, measuring the rhythm of her pulse, the blue in her veins. She could still breathe, blink her eyes, watch the last of the sunlight fade to gray through the tiny window.
She could still feel the pain, pressing hard right beneath her collarbone. Just lying with it was draining. It took more strength than she could even conceive having.
She remembered her first morning in Rivendell, when Aragorn had first explained to her that elves could die of a broken heart. She hadn't understood then how any grief or pain could cause someone to just pass away.
She understood now.
Dernhild and Sárelle were sitting together at the other end of the room, speaking in whispers with each other. Perhaps they thought she was still asleep, though Lori knew she couldn't have been unconscious for more than an hour. It seemed especially cruel for her to wake so early, to find that there was still time to fill when she could barely move.
She stayed where she was, staring listlessly at the wall. She tried not to let the thoughts rush back in, but it was like patching a dam with an open palm.
Aragorn was dead. Had they brought his body to Helm's Deep, or had the survivors been forced to leave their fallen behind? Gimli must have seen the body, perhaps seen the moment of death as well. Perhaps Aragorn had lived for a while after he was wounded. Or it could have been quick. Either way, it would have been violent, painful. And there was no one left to build a cairn for him.
Lori pressed the blanket to her face as she began to cry again.
It wasn't until late that evening that Éowyn returned to the room. She brought with her the orange glow of a lamp, and began speaking quietly with the others.
"How is she?"
"Asleep, perhaps," Dernhild murmured. "She hasn't moved since she lay down."
Éowyn let out a shaky sigh. "We do not have enough men to send out a party to retrieve the…the bodies."
"And what of Éomer?" Sárelle asked. "Does he know to bring his men here?"
"Word will not reach him quickly if he is still in the north. Once he finds Edoras emptied, he will know to come to Helm's Deep."
"And until then…" The cot creaked as Dernhild stood. "We are trapped in this lovely place."
"We are safe," Éowyn said lowly, though her voice carried an edge of something like resentment. "All we can do now is wait."
Wait for what? Lori watched the light of the lantern waver against the wall through heavy-lidded eyes. For salvation? For death? What would kill them first? A slow descent into starvation? Another warg attack? Disease?
Someone extinguished the lantern, and the room was plunged into darkness.
A spear in me, Lori decided silently. Through my stomach and back out, so I bleed out more quickly.
Where was her bag of supplies? She couldn't stop thinking about the knife, tucked beneath the herbs and bandages.
Sorry for the short depressing chapter :( I promise Lori's grief won't last long. I should have the next chapter up in a couple weeks.