Chapter 18: The Bitter Taste of Appreciation
"Are you sure about this?" Beorn asked again, his expression skeptical. Had she been keeping count, this would've been his third time inquiring after her confidence.
"Why did you bring me here if all you seem to do is doubt my conviction?" Lothíriel retorted irritably. She felt the glower of his icy eyes as she rolled the wounded man's sleeve to his upper arm. "Removing his hand is necessary if you desire his survival," she explained slowly, hoping the measured length of her words would permeate Beorn's thick skull. She wasn't sure if it had the desired effect, for he simply slumped back on his heels.
"Is there anything else I can get you? A feather pillow and bath, perhaps?" he sneered as his men chuckled behind him. Lothíriel turned to him, her grey eyes catching his in a furious glare.
"I do not have to do this," she snapped. "I could leave him for dead just as you left my men. But I am doing my best to ensure his life is preserved. So it would be of great convenience if you would cease your rude remarks and do as I tell you."
Beorn kept his mouth shut and followed her orders. She could tell he did not enjoy being told what to do. Too bad. If he wanted her help, he'd have to deal with her rules. It's not as though she volunteered to do this. Well, not directly. Lothíriel indicated to Beorn that she would need the assistance of him and two of his men.
"Someone will have to hold him," she said. "He will thrash and scream. Make sure someone has his legs, because he's liable to kick. You," she pointed to Beorn, "will have to cut through the bone as I am not strong enough. Make sure the cut is swift and clean. It will be between the bone of his hand and his wrist." She took a breath. The knife had been sitting in the boiling water for many minutes to ensure it would burn cleanly through the muscle and bone. While Lothíriel had never actually participated in an amputation, she'd seen plenty. Hopefully her memory would transfer to her hands. She wanted this young man to live and she also wanted to prove herself to Beorn for Elfhelm's sake.
Not daring to think what would happen to either of them should she fail, Lothíriel directed the two Dunlendings, who held the young man's shoulders and ankles, waiting. She made sure the linens were within quick grasp as she tried to prepare herself mentally. She felt her teeth chatter softly though she couldn't tell if that was due to the cold or her growing apprehension. Elfhelm lay bound against the far wall of the cave, his eye watching her. She gave a quick nod to him and turned to Beorn, who was waiting on her instruction.
"This must happen quickly. There will hopefully be a fair amount of blood, meaning the ill humors have not spread beyond the injury." Beorn nodded and positioned himself opposite of her on the other side of his brother's arm, which was outstretched. Lothíriel knelt in the space between his arm and body, her back to the young man. He lay unconscious, breathing peacefully from an infusion she'd made of herbs in her pack.
Picking the knife's handle from the water, she saw the steam rise from the blade. Good. With a deep breath, Lothíriel proceeded, not daring to look at Beorn or Elfhelm until it was done. She held on to the injured man's forearm with one hand and pressed the blade to the skin below his wrist. The flesh sizzled and peeled away easily until she hit the bone. The young man twitched and Lothíriel realized this was the part she could not do. She motioned with her eyes for Beorn to take the knife, which he did gingerly. With a nod from Lothíriel, he sliced down.
The sound of steel grating and cutting bone was drowned by a pained wail. The two men behind her held Beorn's brother down as he began to thrash and convulse. Beorn did not hesitate in his task, seeming to ignore his brother's pained screams as he cut the hand off. Finally, it was done. The ruined limb fell like a weight, dark blood pooling around it. Lothíriel had the linens ready and wrapped them around his wrist and created a tourniquet.
The young man's screams diminished into whimpers, his agony written upon his face. Once his arm was fashioned with bandages, Lothíriel dipped a cloth into cool water and wiped the young man's sweaty brow. He moaned painfully in his sleep, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It calmed slowly as Lothíriel allowed him to inhale more of the infusion's steam, which pacified him. She now turned to Beorn, who was watching her intently.
"Bury the hand," she said wearily. He nodded and one of his men scooped the appendage from its place on the ground and disappeared into the darkness of the cave. "The linens must be burned the first chance you have." Her voice sounded distant to her ears as she stood and moved away from the pallet.
It was only then that Lothíriel realized the entirety of Beorn's company had witnessed the surgery and were completely silent, looking at her and Beorn's brother. She felt suddenly very tired. Her lids were heavy and she longed to lie down. She felt the chill of winter beneath her skin, having forgotten it in the intensity of her task.
"Once the bleeding has ceased, I can inspect the cut," she told no one in particular. She washed her bloody hands in a bucket of water one of the men had brought for her. After that, she cleaned the knife's blade and set it aside. She turned and nearly bumped into the blue eyed Dunlending as they stood in relative solitude near the back of the cave.
"Thank you," Beorn murmured quietly. She could see it was difficult for him to tell her this and she despaired that she was not in a mood to take advantage of his discomfiture. She shrugged and turned away. She still had to attend to Elfhelm. She walked to him, bringing her pack with her. Knowing it was forbidden for her to remove his bonds, Lothíriel focused on his face. She cleaned the wounds gently, telling him that soon enough he would be in the Golden Hall drinking ale and poking fun at Gamling.
"That lout always drinks more than his fill," the young Marshall rasped with a difficult smile. Lothíriel ignored the glances given to them by a few of the Dunlendings as she returned the smile.
"Indeed." She admired his reserve, aware of the pain he must be feeling, and bearing it with firm resolve. A true warrior of the Mark. Éomer would be pleased, though unsurprised she guessed. After all, they'd been friends since childhood.
"But I would see first that these brutes be slain for what they have put you through." His eyes (the swollen one a little less so) glared over her shoulder at the Dunlendings, who murmured together quietly near Beorn's brother.
"For what they have done to your men," she corrected mournfully, looking at the ground. With an irritated sigh, Lothíriel returned her gaze to Elfhelm. How dare she profess frailty and exhaustion when he remained strong for her? She gave him a gentle smile before standing. Beorn approached her again, his blue eyes regarding her with a mildness she'd thought impossible.
"You will sleep there," he indicated to a bedroll laid against the curve of the cave, far from the entrance. Beorn's brother lay to her left and Beorn himself was situated to her right. Strategic planning, she was certain. She was far too tired to argue so she followed him to the spot. Sitting down, Lothíriel glanced at him for a moment. He stared down at her, expression unreadable until she lay down and faced away from him.
She stared at the stone wall, her body and mind sore with the events. They were so far into the cave that she didn't know if it was day or night. But she knew it was still winter because she was chilled to the bone. She longed to be the warm bed in Edoras, her husband sleeping peacefully beside her. She wondered, with rising panic, what he would think if he knew she'd helped the enemy.
She prayed Beorn would be good to his word and release her and Elfhelm once he was certain his brother would survive. Lothíriel feared an encounter with the Riddermark and the Dunlendings. She realized, with a twinge of shame, that she feared it because she'd have to witness it. But also because she knew Beorn's brother wouldn't have a chance. The other Dunlendings, however, were more than capable in the art of murder. Lothíriel wanted no more Rohirric blood shed and certainly not on her account. With those thoughts, she drifted into a dreamless, cold sleep.