Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 21: Against the Rising Tides
Hope is your survival
A captive path I lead
No matter where you go I will find you
I will find you
As the host trooped down the plains of Westfold nearing the Gap of Rohan, Éomer's apprehensions grew. He translated his fears into a scowl on his face, yet they were there all the same, growing with every league they crossed. For the past weeks, anxiety had been a constant company during the day and restlessness at nights.
The sun soared above their heads. It was already midday. His men were taking their break. Another half day, they would reach the Fords of Isen. His incisive glare scanned across the land and there was no sign of any sort. He peered into a distance over the narrow mouth between the mountains. There was a spark there. Something sparkling was there. There was a terrifying similarity about the sight in front of him – the vision he had yesterday.
He leaped Firefoot forward before Éothain could stop him.
"Lord Éomer!"
Firefoot sprinted down the earth. Patches of mud flew into the air under its hooves.
Éomer vaulted from his steed. His booted steps came in front of a tiny object. He kneeled down and his gloved hand dug into the damp soil. Unwrapping the content in his palm, particles of smut slid away and unmasked a glowing aureate hoop circling an engraved dawn-rose stone. His brows drew closer and his lips clamped tight in a thin line.
It was one of hers. Like her belt, it was one of those very few lavish items that she allowed herself to carry. In a way, she was very similar to Éowyn. His sister never liked jewelleries much either.
He had always said to her that she was stupid. He knew she wasn't. She was just reckless with no regards for her own being. No, she was not stupid indeed. She left them a sign to follow.
Dropping the earring into his leather pouch, he turned around to his men and shouted in a loud deep voice, "We are going to cross River-watch. Make ready!"
Gamling kicked his charge forward to meet his King.
"My Lord, it would be too risky to gallop in the valley. We are inviting ourselves into their traps if we are seen."
"I know, Gamling. We will camp in the bushes and trees next to the Ford at night. I did not go through Pelennor Field and Black Gate only to be spotted by a Dunlending scout!" he said in a disgusted tone.
"Do you think they are hiding in Isengard?"
"The Ents are guarding Isengard. They might go as far as the valley but they won't step into it. Ælfgar says they hide in pits and mines. There has to be some around somewhere. We will start from south."
Éomer jumped back on Firefoot and steered it around.
"Send the scouts and unearth every stone! Let this be the last time that our people shed their blood on this piece of cursed land!"
Éomer rode in front of his column, beneath the flapping green banner of the Mark.
They crossed River-watch warily, moving southward.
Gamling took his éored and raced ahead to screen their movements and scout the way, going as far as Dol Baran. The reports the riders brought back after a few hours later did little to reassure Éomer. There was nothing. Nothing at all. No news was disturbing news.
"Where are you?" he muttered to himself, grimace in his voice.
She dreamed an old memory, of her parents and her brothers, of the days before the injustice changed her life.
In her dream, she saw her parents riding down the sandy shore of Dol Amroth with her and her brothers. She was very young, sitting in front of her mother. Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos were all galloping around her in their beige ponies. The sea sang in her ears. The gulls were flapping their white wings above them. It was a pleasant day. The breeze was warm.
Her father went to the fisherman and brought back a big fish. It was a pink salmon. He said they would have it for dinner. She turned around and heard the giggles of her brothers. They dismounted from their ponies and had gone into the waters to splash each other wet.
Her mother's sweet laughter rang beside her ears. She remembered laughing with her, shouting at her silly brothers. But the years leeched her memories of her mother even though she had vowed never to forget her face. In the dream, she reached out to catch her mother but she was only shadow, merely a grey wraith made of mist.
The mist disappeared. Everything was gone. It was just the sea and the wind. She was all alone again.
A loud whiffling noise came close to her left ear. She saw a long object hurling ahead of her. She ran toward it. It was a spear, nailing on a piece of cloth. The tides came and washed, spreading the cloth. And she saw it – the white horse upon the green. A flow of scarlet petals bubbled from the tip of the spear spreading its crimson across the green, as red as blood.
"My Lady," a voice spoke in Rohirric. Deep and rich it was. It was a man.
"Who are you?" she turned around, searching for the source.
"My Lady," a figure echoed from the dark. Or, it wasn't a man.
Groaning, Lothíriel opened her eyes.
"My Lady?" A shadow stood over her.
A dull throb of pain shot up from her back. She felt weak and her head seemed heavy. For a moment, Lothíriel ceased to be sensible of her locality. She tried to push her body upright before another wave of piercing pain screamed at her.
"My Lady, how are you feeling?"
Face of a Rohír woman came into view. She was the one who pulled Lothíriel when she nearly tripped over a twig when they entered the Gap of Rohan. Lothíriel remembered she was called Wynflaéth.
"How long have I been…"
She rubbed her forehead, trying to knock some sense into herself.
"Three days."
Three days. It felt like a dream so short and unreal.
The woman held a cup to Lothíriel's lips.
"You should drink, my Lady. It is only water. You have not had any fluid. You would be thirsty."
Instinctively, Lothíriel licked her lips. Wynflaéth was right. Her lips were parched and cracked. She took the cup and drank it eagerly. The water tasted sweet as honey.
"Thank you."
"You should rest, my Lady. Your wound is nasty. We tried to wrap a bandage around you. It is only time before it gets infected," Wynflaéth told her and removed the cup from her.
It was true. There was no medicine in this place. No herbs either and she started to feel a little feverish. Damn, this was not a good sign.
"How is Édhere? Any news about him?" She came to a sudden recall of her poor friend.
"He is fine, my Lady. The lads are taking care of him."
"Good, that is very good."
Lothíriel let out a sigh of relief. At least Édhere was still alive.
"We will all die here, we will not, my Lady?" The older woman could not help the grimace in her voice.
Cruel truth: they won't survive long here.
"We all have to stay alive regardless. Help is on the way, Wynflaéth."
"Nobody knows we are here."
"Your King knows. He knows."
It was that indefinable feeling again. He was coming to save them. She knew it from within. She just knew it.
She took the hands of her takecarer and gave them a firm squeeze before saying with iron certainty, "Spread the words quietly. Tell everyone that their King will come for them. Do not despair. Stay alive and aid will come."
Her low muttering with Wynflaéth did not go unnoticed. Though not able to understand their language, the two Dunlending guards came up to them and push them apart from each other. They towered over Lothíriel on the floor. They came in front of her and pulled her to her feet.
Lothíriel knew something was wrong. Peaceful moments were rare in this pit.
"Wait, please, what are you doing? She is injured. Please!" Wynflaéth came onto her kneels, begging for them to let the Gondorian woman go.
"No news from t'e Horse-men! She a liar! She is no diplom't! T'ere is no hope for you maggots!" said of the Dunlending guards before he kicked Wynflaéth off his feet.
"Remember my words, Wynflaéth!" Lothíriel turned her head around to take a final look at the older woman.
"No! Please!"
Wynflaéth's voice trailed off behind Lothíriel as the guards dragged her away.
"Where are you taking me?"
She was very weak, her feet had not strength in them, but she still found the need intimidate her captors.
She licked the blood of the corner of her lips when her words returned her with a slap.
"Your end," said one of the guards, smirking.
Whilst the Rohirrim watched in fear and horror, the rest of the Dunlendings laughed cruelly as Lothíriel was being hauled along the snaky path.
The pain was back again. Her wound must have been torn open. She could feel warm liquid dampening the bandage on her back. They continued to pull her around until they came to the entrance of the pit. There Tavu stood proud and tall, waiting for her.
He grabbed her by her hair. She was forced to stand with very little strength in her legs.
"See t'ere?"
He pulled her outside, forcing her to look at the direction he pointed at. She squeezed her eyes, blinded by the sunlight absent for the past few weeks. Then she saw it. It was a shallow stream - the Fords of Isen.
"T'e Horse-men will likely camp over t'ere, in t'e bushes and trees. But none of t'em will see t'e l'ght tomorrow. I have ev'ry trap, ev'ry beast, ev'ry arrow laid ready to welcome t'em. T'at is w'ere t'ey will meet t'eir deaths."
Her heart sank. Tactically, that place would be the ideal camping site but given the demographic nature, it would also serve as an excellent location for ambush. Knowing Éomer, she was almost certain that he would have picked the bushes to cover his trail. Dread coiled her like a snake.
Masking her fear, she forced herself to look at the wicked man next to her. With gathered wits, she cursed him, "No, it will be your end tonight. You will die."
The Dunlending berserker shovelled her back against the cave wall, his coarse hands clamped around her throat, tightening.
She felt the claws of death on her. The pressure was strong enough to almost snap her neck off. But she just kept looking at him with her cold eyes.
"Gondor whore! You just burnt off t'e last bit of mercy in me. I will make sure t'e Horse-Lord sees your bloated body b'fore his own."
Tavu turned to his two guards and said deliberately in Westron, "Take her up to t'e vall'y." And he turned back to her and grinned evilly, "You are not afraid of blade and fire did not kill you. I will let water ends your fate."
His two guards grabbed her by her shackled hands and pulled her down the slope, heading north into Nan Curunír where the river ran deep.
The Ford. The ambush. The trap. How could she warn them.
She screamed in her heart.
Éomer!
What was that?
He thought he heard someone calling him. He looked around and found nobody close enough to whisper.
"Lord Éomer?"
"Yes, Gamling?"
"We are ready to move to the Ford."
They were now at Brontrig, an abandoned Dunleding village, south west of Healthfells. The search brought nothing. There were no mines or pits. Not even a fox hole.
Éomer peered across the land, beyond the slope of Healthfell. The Fords of Isen laid just ahead. That eerie feeling crept into his skin, numbing his scalp. His stomach contracted.
"No, Gamling. Perhaps it is better that we check Forthbrond and we will camp at the southern feet of Misty Moutain tonight."
His adviser looked at him with a puzzled face.
"I thought the Fords of Isen would be the perfect location?"
"I have a feeling that something amiss is there, Gamling. Perhaps it is wise not to take the risk" he said, frowning.
He could not explain it. He did not even understand why he was thinking this way.
"If Forthbrond is clear, that will leave one place unsearched."
Éomer squeezed his eyes at the direction of Isengard.
The night came with unwelcome rain. By the time they finished searching Forthbrond, it was falling harder, stinging the eyes and drumming against the ground. Black waters were rushing down from the valley, flooding the overly shallow banks of River Isen.
They still found no pits, mines or outlaws.
Every minute ticked past weighed his heart even more. He had to find them tonight. He had to find her.
"Lord Éomer!"
Éothain came back with his scouts. Judging from his excited tone, Éomer became slightly hopeful.
"We might have found their nest. There is a slope just before the valley. I am certain that I have see torches lighting outside the entrance."
Éomer unrolled the map and spread it on a table.
"Where exactly is this cave, Éothain?"
"Here," the young Marshal pointed at a location on the map, at the mouth of Nan Curunir.
"That damned place served as the secondary forges of Saruman. No normal man would dwell there," Éomer looked at the map with narrow eyes and turned around to his bodyguard, "we must plan our next move, and quickly, so their victory will be short-lived."
Éothain stood up and gestured to announce the order.
"Éothain, there is no room for failure tonight," his King reminded him.
Whilst the Rohirrim prepared themselves for the rescue mission, Lothíriel was forced to face her worst fear.
She stood on a high cliff. She studied the rocky edge for a moment. The river was a long, dizzying distance below. The waters beneath were raging with wild rapids. Elphir used to say that she swam like a fish, but even a fish might have trouble in this river. She knew she would not survive against the treacherous flow. Her hands were still cuffed and her legs were weak.
She kept looking back and forth between the river and the Dunlendings in front of her. Together the outlaws unsheathed their swords and closed in around her.
She never thought it could end like this. Blade or water – both led to death. But blades would guarantee a certain death. So, she took her chance. She lifted her sleeve and bit the edge and tore it off. Her weak steps staggered to the very edge of the cliff. She let her final step slid. The wind went against her descending body.
She heard a short sharp woof, as if someone had blown in her ears. Bubbling noise shielded the upper world from her.
She struggled as she fell off the cliff into the quick stream. The cold liquid with much pleasure began to invade her senses, drowning her.
She held her breath.
The desperate need for air grew dire and overthrew her will. A gust of air bubbled violently out of her mouth and nostril. Her fight against the invading liquid was revenged by the turbulent ciele of river water biting into her nose, flooding her throat and piercing into her lungs.
She choked.
She kicked her legs and swung her arms vigorously. She had little strength left. No food since the days ago, ten or eleven or more maybe, she could no longer remember.
With the very final piece of her strength, she tried to open her eyes in search for the forlorn hope. Then she saw a tiny strip of cloth streaming in the water, down it went. She wished that the message would have gone through before it was too late for her.
The very warmth of her blood seemed to fade from the inside. It must reach them. It must reach them before the abyss took her. Her vision blurred. Her thoughts drifted. Parchments of memories were dancing in front of her sea-grey eyes. The pieces of yesterdays still seemed vivid and fresh. She fought with her arms and legs but none in which she could find leverage. Her body continued to burn asking for need for air and she got none.
How she wished it could have ended differently but it was too late.
She could feel the root of her hair starting to grow numb. The devoid of sensation spread from her ears, creeping into her head. She let out a whisper then darkness engulfed her.
"Forth Eorlingas!"
The assault began with surprised attacks. Being an Orc-hunter certainly paid off. The ability to surround your enemies in the dark and charge at them when they hear no sound of hooves or neighs is an advantage belongs solely to the Horse-folks of Rohan. The siege at the guards at the entrance went as easy as hurling a spear at an Orc.
The weak defence in the cave turned the tides quickly to Éomer's favour. By the time the hiding outlaws came out from the Ford, trying to save their kinsmen, they were besieged when Gamling led two hundreds men charging from behind.
But not all were good news. Éomer checked all the rescued captives one by one. He scanned over and over again. She was not here. The flame of rekindled hope started dying down within him.
"Hahaha! You are lookin' for th't Gondor wench, are you, Horse-Lord?"
Éomer turned around and saw the Dunlending whom he just pierced a spear through his chest.
Tavu choked, blood flowing out from his mouth. His ego brought the destruction on himself. He underestimated his opponent and that turned everything ill against him. But he felt victorious still. That woman must be dead.
"Where is she?" Éomer shouted, clawing for his sword, "tell me and I will grant you a quick death!"
"T'at is a pity, Horse-Lord. She is not alive anymore!"
"Where is she?"
Éomer, vexed by the speech, pressed Gúthwinë against the Dunlending's throat.
"All shall look upon Tavu and despair! Haha! She is dead! She is..de…ad.."
The man laughed. A spill of blood gushed out from his mouth and he went limp.
Anguished, he pushed the dead man away. He felt the world was collapsing on him. She could not be dead. How could she? Just when things were changing for good.
"Lord Éomer!" Erkenbrand came rushing to him. "One of the women says that she saw someone took Lady Lothíriel to the river, up the valley just less than an hour ago!
"Where?" Éomer shook the shoulders of his Marshal.
"Up in the valley, my Lord!"
"Tell Stán to ride back with the rest. Take your éored, Marshal. We are going down the river!"
Éomer pushed his feet into the stirrups and wheeled Firefoot down the slope. Gamling, Éothain and the Royal Guards, Erkebrand and his éored followed tightly behind.
They dismounted above the Ford and went on foot up stream. Anxiety and dread coiled him. The fast flowing water did little to calm his writhing mind.
The accursed water soaked through his boots. His feet slipped under the sinking rocky riverbed. The water was cold. He could feel the chill biting into his bones. He kept pushing himself forward. Then something caught his eyes. A white fish maybe. It was blurry and trapped between the rocks. He dashed forward and grabbed it.
It was a dagger in his heart when he saw it. Her sleeve, the unmistaken weaving of blue and white, the colours of Dol Amroth. A veil of fear gloomed above him. He had to hurry. Death might be close upon her heels.
"Move upstream quick!" He shouted again to remind his men.
His grip on Gúthwinë tightened. A calling force drew him to move forward. It felt like an invisible hand was waving at him, showing him the way.
He was startled for a moment and his hand let free of his sword. It disappeared.
Completely overwhelmed, he tried to convince himself. He placed his hand on Gúthwinë and the call came again. He followed it. His legs went deeper into the water. The flow was very rapid.
His eyes subjected every surrounding with upmost detail until a hazy reflection of black and white behind a huge rock came into view.
Her hair spread like a banner of darkness. She seemed still and stagnant in an almost vertical position.
No! His heart screamed.
"Lothíriel!"
He pushed himself into the deepening water, crawled over the rocks, and grasped her into his arms. He tapped her face. It felt cold and drained of the colour of blood.
Dragging her onto the riverbank, Éomer laid her flat and pulled his sword out, aiming the tip of Gúthwinë on the shackles. Gritting his teeth he pushed his blade down and the iron bands shattered like glass.
He took her abraded wrist in his hands. Her pulse was very weak.
He shouted at his Marshal, "Erkenbrand!"
All the men rushed towards him.
Éomer watched absent-mindedly as his West-mark Marshal leaned over Lothíriel and listened to her breathing. His knees gave way and he landed hard on the ground.
Éothain pulled his King aside trying to calm him, allowing some space for Erkenbrand to treat the unconscious woman. Erkenbrand was the few Rohirrim who knew water well enough. He might be able to save her.
"She will be fine!"
Éothain found his words neither comforting nor convincing at all. It terrified him to see his friend so pale and so lifeless. She looked almost dead.
"Someone gets me a piece of dry cloth or whatever!"
Erkenbrand barked at his men. A few riders came forward offering their wool cloaks.
Accepting the green fabrics, Erkenbrand looked up at his King and said, "I will have to roll her over on a horseback. Might be able to get some water out. And, no offence, my Lord, she needs to be out of these damp clothes! She is losing more heat if she stays."
Éomer made a loud whistle and Firefoot came galloping. He pulled his steed closer.
"Tell me what I can do."
Éothain had urged all the rest of the riders to move further away while Erkenbrand wrapped a few layers of dry cloaks around Lothíriel and Éomer stretched his hands beneath, tearing away her soaked robe.
"Her pulse is getting weaker, we have to be quick!" said Erkenbrand as he tightened the fabrics around the young woman.
He placed her stomach-down on Firefoot and began patting her back. Firefoot neighed nervously but did not move.
Each clap landed with increasing force. The Marshal of the West-mark cursed and kept patting.
Éomer locked his eyes on the motion of Erkenbrand's palm. Up and down it went. Everything seemed so slow. He did not hear Éothain talking to him. He heard nothing.
It was so silent.
Then, a little noise.
A very faint sloshing of liquid leaked from her mouth.
Erkenbrand wrapped his fingers around her neck. "Her pulse is slightly stronger. We need to get her back to Helm's Deep immediately before the chill takes her."
Éomer jumped onto Firefoot and turned Lothíriel over, sitting her in front of him. He could hear her faint breathing. Almost unnoticeable.
"Éothain, take your men. We ride through the night."
On the gallop back to Helm's Deep, Éomer never felt time was so short in his life.
Hannor stood impatiently at a doorway of Helm's Deep. Just before dawn, Éomer returned with a very unconscious Lothíriel in his arms. He rushed into the Healing Chamber. Hannor followed closely. He could a glimpse of Lothíriel. She looked frightening pale and her lips were almost purple. There was no sign that she was an alive being at all.
The healers had been with her for long time. Maids were darting back and forth with hot water and medical supplies. Hannor did not know it was morning already.
"Have they said anything?"
Éomer, now changed into dry clothes, emerged from the other end of the corridor and asked the Gondorian boy.
Hannor shook his head. He thought Éomer took a sudden toll of exhaustion. There were dark shades beneath his eyes. His face seemed more lined than usual.
"My Lord?" The door to the Healing Chamber opened and an elder healer stepped out.
She came in front of Éomer. Her face grimaced. "Could you come please, my Lord?"
But she stopped Hannor when he motioned to follow. "You are too young, my boy."
Éomer entered the chamber with the elder woman. He could see bandages unrolled and there were medical tools and jars of salves scattered on the table.
"What is this about?"
"Lady Lothíriel is very feverish. And I believe it is because of this," the healer went closer to Lothíriel, who was placed to rest stomach-down, she unfolded the blanket, revealing the disfigured blackened flesh beneath.
His heart clutched as if a claw just tightened around it.
"Her wound is infected," said the elder healer.
The horseshoe shape dark mark stood out as an awful haunting sight on her pale shoulder. The tissue surrounding it was blanched and swollen. Bloody blisters dotted along the scalded wound. There were also some dry and leathery patches struggled to remain attached.
The healer finished fastening the bandage, pulled her patient's shirt over the shoulder and turned to her King. She could see anger flashed in his eyes and he clamped his teeth so tightly that his facial muscle buckled up behind his jaw.
"I have applied some salves. She will stay unconscious. Her fever runs high and there will be waves of shock. She will shiver, feeling hot and cold at the same time. She…she… will need to pull through tonight…."
The healer could not bring herself to continue but simply nodded at her King and left.
Hannor heard everything from door. How could this happen? She was his only family. He felt tears stinging his eyes. He rubbed them away rudely, determined not to cry but dam of moisture burst down his cheeks. He slid down onto the floor and pulled his legs to his chest, weeping silently.
Éomer tried to swallow down his rage. His hands unconsciously curled into fists at his sides, itching to swing out and put a dent in the wall beside him.
He leaned closer to her, questioning himself from within. How could he have let this happen?
She smelled of heavy spirits and herbal ointment. He ran his knuckles along her pale face. There were lacerations on her forehead. Her cheeks, which were now burning hot, carried a pink tint among maroon bruises left by her captors.
Her breaths were short and swallow as if she struggled to breath.
"Lothíriel," he called her softly.
She laid still, irresponsive.
He kissed her on the forehead and pulled the covers to her neck and wheeled his feet around to the door.
A curled up body wept next to the door.
"Hannor."
He pulled the dark-haired boy into his arms.
The youngster sobbed silently, his tears trailing down, wetting the shoulder of the Horse-Lord.
Éomer looked up at the wooden wall and forced a lump down his throat, trying hard to fight back the contagiously dreadful emotions.
He drew a deep breath.
"Hannor," he said patting the boy's head, "I need you to do one thing for me."
"Yes, Lord Éomer," the boy now comforted found his voice.
"You will be Lady Lothíriel's caretaker from this moment forth. Nobody should come near her other than you and the healers."
Hannor looked lost at his words.
"Just you and the healers. Do you hear me?" he repeated his emphasis.
"Yes."
"Stay with her. I shall return later."
"How many?"
Gamling saw his King thumping down the hall to the throne room. He hurried his steps and joined Éomer.
"Erkenbrand reported a hundred and seven all together. Sixty one men, thirty eight women and the rest are children."
"Only?"
His King stopped and turned around to look at him.
"That is all we saved from the pit, my Lord," Gamling grimaced, "they are being tended and taken care of as we speak."
"Are they all from Snowbourn?"
"All of them."
"A hundred and seven only! Béma's mercy!" Éomer cursed.
Snowbourn, though not as popular as Edoras or Aldburg, was still a populated village with a few hundred habitants.
The young Rohír pushed his brows tighter, weaving his supposingly young forehead with lines of frustration.
"Have you spoken to any of them?"
"Soon, this evening, my Lord."
"Make it so. See to each need."
That day was exhausting and difficult.
By the time, Éomer and Gamling finished settling the needs of the rescued Rohirrims, it was already past supping time.
He ate just enough to stop Erkenbrand nagging at him. Éomer's heavy steps climbed the stoned corridor leading to the healing chamber where Lothíriel was resting. Outside the fortified keep, the wind howled and rain swirled, loud and chaotic; but inside the thick stone walls it was still warm and quiet. Too quiet like a dead man's grave.
He reached in front of the door and stood for a moment. His eyes landed on the bronze knob. He let out a long breath and took courage from that. He straightened and entered the room.
Hannor was there beside her bed. He had been there, the whole day since he told him to stay with her. Not for a moment had he left Lothíriel's side. The maids had brought him his meals there, and some salves as well, and a small bed to rest on, though he had scarcely laid in it at all.
Hannor raised onto his feet immediately, a damp cloth in his hands, when he saw Éomer from the opening door but sat down again when motioned to do so.
"How is she?"
"Her fever has not gone but not worsened either. She has not stirred at all. I have been feeding her the honey, water and herb mixture. The healers say it sustains life."
The young boy paused for a while and asked Éomer an impossible question.
"She will be fine, won't she?"
"Hannor," he took the boy's hands and shook his head, "I don't know."
He bit his lips and his chin twitched. The orphan threw his arms around Éomer's neck and sobbed. "I don't want to lose her."
"Shhhhh.." Éomer gave the boy a tight hug. "I will take care of her for tonight. You should go and get some sleep."
"But I want to stay."
"I will send someone to fetch you first thing tomorrow morning. It is no use to me if you fall ill too. Go and get some rest," he urged.
He pushed the boy to the door and closed it after the boy's small figure completely disappeared into end of the corridor.
He crossed the room again and looked down at the bed when Lothíriel lay.
Perhaps it was his illusion that he thought she looked better than when he left her this morning. Her face was less pale and colours were returning to her lips.
Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.
"Lothíriel," he called softly.
Her eyelids fluttered. She let out a small breath.
He sat next to her and put a hand on her head to feel her heat. It was chilled with damp. She was breaking out in cold sweat. He lifted her head to rest her on his lap.
Her fever runs high and there will be waves of shock. She will shiver, feeling hot and cold at the same time. She…she… will need to pull through tonight. He remembered the words of the healer from this morning.
Taking the damp towel that Hannor left, he dipped it into the warm water, dried and wiped it gently across her forehead. His other hand took her hand in his to hold and he began rocking her slightly as he tried to choke back a sob.
He brushed her hair away from her face and saw patches of livid scattered on it. Every bump, every bruise reminded him of the torment her wilfulness brought upon herself and of his haunting failure at keeping her safe. He bit his lip to fight back the rising anger from within.
Her body twitched. She whimpered a cry of pain. She curled up.
He pulled her into an embrace. He could feel her body trembling in his arms. Instinctively, she gathered herself around the warmth.
"Lothíriel," he whispered again, slipping his fingers through her midnight hair.
"É..o…mer…"
It was a very weak reply, almost inaudible. He was not certain if she was calling him in her sleep or she knew he was there. He cared no more.
"Co….ld…"
She dug herself deeper in his arms, searching for more warmth on his chest. Her fingers clutched on his shirt.
He tightened his arms around her, rubbing her back carefully not to touch her wound. For a moment it seemed to have eased her. But it was short-lived and she began trembling in his arms again.
"….co..ld…"
Another whimper. The shivering worsened.
"Shhhh…." He soothed her.
He straightened himself up and pulled off his shirt. He wrapped her back in his arms, laying her on his bare chest; and pulled the blanket over them both, hoping his body heat would be sufficient for her.
She sank into him, locking her arms around him and greedily seeking the heat from his body.
He slid his fingers along her face, jaw line, down to her neck; he wanted to feel her being alive, his hand finally rested on her heart to feel the beats beneath and slowly and gently he rocked her back and forth.
He breathed her hair, calling her name quietly in her ears.
Her tensed body began to relax slightly. After a long moment, she calmed and deep breaths returned to her chest.
He came to admit the truth that he could no longer deny or escape.
That she meant dearly to him.
TBC
More intimate moments to follow in next chapter! And it leads to a sour turn?
Gamling's past unfolds?
Footnote:
Wynflaéth: (Old English, feminine name) Fair and beautiful.
The drowning process: (as per Wikipedia) When one starts drowning, the larynx or the vocal cords in the throat constrict and seal the air tube. This prevents water from entering the lungs. Because of this laryngospasm, water enters the stomach in the initial phase of drowning and very little water enters the lungs. Unfortunately, this can interfere with air entering the lungs, too. In most victims, the laryngospasm relaxes some time after unconsciousness and water can enter the lungs causing a "wet drowning". However, about 10-15% of victims maintain this seal until cardiac is called "dry drowning", as no water enters the lungs. In forensic pathology, water in the lungs indicates that the victim was still alive at the point of submersion. Absence of water in the lungs may be either a dry drowning or indicates a death before submersion. The lack of leg movement, upright position, inability to talk or keep the mouth consistently above water, and (upon attempting to reach the victim) the absence of expected rescue-directed actions, are evidence of the instinctive drowning response.
According to a recorded document, ancient/Medieval way of saving a drowned unconscious victim (if he/she is pulled from the water soon enough) includes hanging him/her upside down, applying sufficient force to the stomach/chest to push the liquid out. So I pushed it a little further by utilising the horses as the platform.
Biological reaction to fight against an infected wound: Based on commonly known symptoms.
Body heat: Best form of heating you can get - personal experience when my boy was born with a low body temperature (34C), my midwife told me to wrap him beneath my clothes and it brought his temperature back to normal. And nothing is more soothing that an embrace when you need it!
Acknowledgements of reviews:
Once again a big thank for all who have continued to support this story. Registered or anon, all are welcome to drop your 20 cent!
BrightWatcher: Feel free to comment whenever you can :) Life is a learning curve! 2 pints of honeybrew will cost you 20 silver. Cash on delivery please! ;)
b5delenn: Yeah, I always feel he is an educated man. I don't think Morwen (the grandma) would leave her children uneducated. My LOTRO main character is a Guardian of Dale! We have just entered Gap of Rohan. The next expansion is coming this Fall, themed "Riders of Rohan!"
Mary07: Oh thank you! I hope you like what you have read so far!
Talia119: Just a conspiracy. The medieval, scouting paths are often defined and allocated to designated individual. Such can only leak from within.
LadyAvi: It is indeed a twist and I feel bunch of my hair fallen off just writing this chapter!
xmmara: Thank you! And the fact that they try to defy their feelings is just so my way :D
Cherrie: Thanks for liking it :D Hope you like this update too!
Rogue's Queen: I think that cheese is fairly priced. =p If only you have seen the price of an Elven dress you will think food is so cheap in Middle-earth! Certificate of authenticity? Like a wax seal on Parma Ham? :D
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