A/N: A nice long chapter for making y'all wait. Reviews would be VERY helpful as I develop this part of the plot more. Does this make sense? Also, sorry for any mistakes/typos in this one – I'm a bit scattered brained with personal issues. Thank you for all the support and encouragement thus far!
Chapter 31: Unexpected Revelations
The wind beat furiously against the stone whipping the azuline banner into a thudding frenzy, the heavy fabric pitching against the iron rod staking it to the ramparts. Flashes of silver thread danced as the gusts successfully obscured the image stitched into the flag. Salt and sand flew up on the wind, striking the skin of men pulling against the ropes, orders shouted with grim efficiency. The clouds swelled above them in grey masses releasing thick raindrops, which fell on already drenched sailors.
Twelve year old Lothíriel braced against the squall as she followed her brothers hastily down the stone steps, her clothing already drenched. Behind her the Healers of Dol Amroth quickened their pace soon overtaking the girl as they hurried to reach the docks. The bodies of injured sailors passed from man to man until they were secured on cots and spirited away to the city. The Princess of Dol Amroth paused in her progress toward the ship as Erchirion shouted something over his shoulder, lost in the din of the approaching storm. Her expression bore frustrated confusion as his drowned words were followed by swift gestures indicating she depart with all haste.
Before she could object to this affront, Amrothos turned and pointed emphatically at the walls of Dol Amroth – his instructions clear. With a frown, the girl obeyed her brothers but not before giving them a proper scowl. This was clearly no place for a girl, much less the daughter of a prince. They'd received word only an hour before that a Gondorian merchant ship had been attacked by an Umbarian Corsair vessel with no clear provocation. The bodies of the wounded had been claimed by Dol Amroth's sailors and brought to the city for healing.
Despite knowing full well that she had no place on the docks (much less in the rain and wind), Lothíriel had trailed her brothers with the intention to assist as well as observe. But she'd been sent back to the Hall of Healing without much fight. Griping quietly at the injustice, the Princess allowed herself to be herded by her father's attendants, her wet hair wrapped in a towel and a fuss already ensuing.
"My lady," cried Ivriel, her expression hardly sympathetic. "Why must you put yourself in the path of peril?"
"For I am unruly and unwise," she grumbled. "I just wanted to see."
"There is nothing to be seen, my Lady," Ivriel affirmed as she clasped her hands around Lothíriel's narrow shoulders in attempt to guide her away from the chaos. Behind them men were carrying their wounded comrades into the Hall of Healing, groans and murmurs of pain reaching the Princess' ears. Snaking her way out of Ivriel's grasp, the girl turned on the attendant and pulled the towel from her head. Dark curls fell in disarray from the messy coronet.
"I have to help," Lothíriel reasoned, lifting her chin slightly. Already she was making her way in the opposite direction "I am a Healer's Apprentice and these men are in need of care."
"You're the imminent death of me," the woman muttered already following after the girl as she went to enter the chamber. The din of the storm was muted substantially within the stone and marble walls of the Healing House, lit by thousands of candles on sconces and chandeliers. A short narrow nave led to a small apse where the grey statue of Aglahad, the nineteenth Prince of Dol Amroth and the founder of the Hall of Healing, stood surveying the entrance. Great tapestries hung from the vaulted ceilings displaying the emblem of the city – a ship suspended on a sapphire sea floating beside a silver swan. Metallic tassels hung just high enough for a man of average height to pass beneath.
Flanking the nave on either side were deep aisles leading into the rooms and chambers for the sick. Already the Healers were making their rounds, servants scurrying from room to room with fresh linens, pitchers and all manner of medical supplies. The injured men were moved promptly to the cots and seen to immediately.
Rolling her sleeves up the young Princess accepted an apron from a servant, tying it as she walked toward the nearest room. Ivriel had long since disappeared from her peripheral, though she had no doubt the woman was nearby. The high windows offered no light, rain hitting the glass like a heartbeat. In this chamber six men lay on cots spread about, two Healers attending to them in rotation. Greeting the Master Healer, Galadain, Lothíriel joined him beside a patient who moaned in a state of unconscious, his weathered face foreign to the Princess. His garb had already been stripped from his battered body, his clothing nondescript and generally soiled.
"Multiple lacerations to his torso, bruises along his back and a nasty head wound," the elder Healer stated as he indicated to the injuries. The girl nodded and examined the man in silence as her mentor looked on. She'd been Galadain's pupil since she was seven, assisting him as her skill and intellect improved. He was among the best healers in the West and was often called to Minas Tirith to the House of Healing to lend his expertise. Lothíriel took a rag infused with herbs and began the task of cleaning a long cut on the sailor's neck. While she wasn't surprised the man's face was unfamiliar to her, there was something exotic about his general appearance. He didn't seem a man of Gondor.
"Bed rest with a steady infusion of elderberry and white willow to stave off a fever," she answered Galadain's unanswered question, pleased when he nodded and began to depart for another patient. A thought gave her pause and she glanced over her shoulder at the Healer. "He is not a man of Gondor."
"Indeed," Galadain replied with a frown. He turned back to the girl and approached the wounded soldier again. "I observed this as well."
"Who is he?" Lothíriel asked with childish curiosity, her grey eye gazing up at the man who served as a second father to her. Galadain took a steady look around the room before returning his gaze to the sailor.
"An Umbarian Corsair, I reckon."
"What?" Lothíriel nearly cried, immediately checking her tone, though unable to hide the surprise from her expression. "How can we treat him when his pirates did this to our men?"
The girl chanced a look hoping no one heard her outburst. It seemed outlandish that Galadain would even think to bring an Umbarian into the Hall of Healing, much less ease his misery. The aged man took a seat beside the Princess, catching her gaze with a patient expression.
"My Lady, we are healers. We do not discriminate among our patients."
"But –"
"Whatever his actions, he ended up in our care. It would be wrong to deny him the attention he needs." He held up a hand to arrest her next objection, a sad smile gracing his thin lips. "Let your father determine this man's fate for his sins against our countrymen. Until then all we can do is give him the tending we would ask for were we in his situation."
-o-
Lothíriel folded a beige towel before setting it in the shallow basket. Filling the space with tinctures, a knife, salves and other medicinal items, the Queen of Rohan stood in the storeroom of the Healing House. Her initial decision to leave Beorn to his misery was plagued by guilt from the moment she left him in the prison. The memory of Galadain's words hung heavy in her mind and it was clear she could not deny the wisdom of his judgment. She could not recall what happened to the Umbarian pirate found among her father's men but she did remember taking care of him as Galadain instructed. And she knew she could not fault the old Healer's certitude.
Gathering these items to her Lothíriel exited the Healing House of Edoras, shielding her eyes against the spring sun as she closed the door behind her. Several hours had elapsed since she first viewed the prisoner. It took her some time to struggle with her decision but she had other duties to attend to, which allowed her to ponder the conundrum. Once she decided she would heal the Dunlending she could not convince herself otherwise. It was the right thing to do.
This time she went without a guard. It would be odd enough for the Rohirrim to see their Queen easing the suffering of Rohan's enemy. Odder still that it was the same man who'd abducted her and sought Éomer's despair. But Lothíriel knew what Galadain would tell her were he still alive in this age. And Beorn's actions would be accounted for in due time.
Crossing the hill with an even pace, the Queen did not appear particularly suspicious or in a hurry. While she didn't wish to cause a scene, Lothíriel was also confident in her convictions. Met with any opposition she would explain her intentions and continue on. But no opposition came, the folk of Edoras attending to their daily schedules without much concern for a prisoner behind Meduseld. Pulling the navy cloak against her body the Queen made her way toward the small building, her feet crunching pebbles and dry grass underfoot.
Since their last meeting in the morning, the Queen had donned warmer clothes: a long sleeved woolen dress of deep grey with a silver belt beneath the navy cloak. Her dark hair had been re-braided down her back, a narrow silver coronet adorning her head and crossing her forehead in the Rohirric style. Though the quality of the clothing was befitting royalty, the simplicity of the attire was in keeping with Lothíriel's desire to remain unassuming among her people.
With a decisive breath, she allowed the guards to open the door to the prison for her, stepping confidently into the dark room followed by one soldier. Golden light filtered through the dusty ridden windows allowing for modest lighting and heavy shadows. Stepping up to the cell, the Queen tried to discern Beorn's body amidst the grey darkness. She could barely make out his seated figure though he made no movement to acknowledge her.
"Here I thought you'd be leaving me to rot," he intoned from somewhere near the back of the enclosure. His voice held a note of challenge despite the hoarseness. Lothíriel said nothing but indicated to guard to open the cell door. "Come to tend to my decaying wounds have you, Healer Queen?"
"Shut your miserable trap," the Rohirric guard snapped, his head resting on the sword's hilt. Lothíriel stepped past him with nod, setting the basket on the floor near the entrance. Without a glance to the prisoner she began unpacking the items, setting the waterskin aside and laying the objects in a neat row. Once she finished the Queen knelt in the narrow beam of hazy light, staring at Beorn with an even expression.
"You may yet rot," she stated as she waited for him to come toward her and the guard. She knew his shackle would not allow him to get near the cell entrance, but it seemed he could at least move from the shadows. "But I will treat your injuries if you would bring yourself closer."
The man snorted but slowly gathered himself to scoot closer. He would not crawl, she observed, but push his hands against the ground and move his bottom toward her. He stopped just shy of the light, those blue eyes illuminated against the dirt and blood on his face. Seeing that she intended him to sit within the beam of sunlight, he sighed heavily and moved another few inches until half of his body was bathed in light. He looked paler than before but the spark in his gaze was not lost on her.
"Don't let your guard dog fret, Queen," he murmured with a jerk of the head at the Rohirric man standing at attention behind her. "I know my boundaries."
"A consolation to him, no doubt," Lothíriel replied as she readied a compress. After using a bit of water on the linen, she leaned forward to offer the skin to him. When he turned his face from her she pulled back for a moment, her grey eyes catching his. "I do not know what state you will be in when my husband comes for you so you'd best drink this. It may be the only water you are afforded."
With a frown he turned his face back and allowed her to bring the skin to his cracked lips. Without removing his eyes from her he let her dispense the water slowly into his mouth. She could tell his body needed the hydration desperately but he was measured in his swallows, not permitting her to see any hastiness on his part. When he'd finished a substantial amount he pulled his face away. With a nod, she set the skin aside and leaned forward again to press the water-logged cloth to the gash on his cheek. The muscle in his jaw clenched when she applied further pressure but no sound of pain came forth. Patiently the Queen of Rohan began the process of cleaning the wounds the Dunlending suffered her concentration focused on the task, though she did not miss the intensity of his gaze while she worked. For his part Beorn barely let out a hiss of pain, his tolerance rivaling that of the Rohirric soldiers she'd tended.
"Provided you don't go rolling in filth, the wounds are clean," she announced as she sat back on her heels. Her knees were sore from pressing against the hard ground, and her fingers were red with his blood. A bead of sweat ran down her temple despite the chill in the cell. Beorn had remained motionless for the duration of her ministrations and now let his shoulders hunch slightly.
"Finished are you?"
"Unless there are more wounds elsewhere to attend to."
"Those were the most unpleasant."
"Are you sure?" she eyed him with a frown. Sullied cloths lay near them, stained with his blood and dirt. She'd spent a good portion of time simply cleaning the wounds before applying the salve and herbs to help the skin heal itself. There would be no bandaging these injuries. Neither abrasion was terribly deep nor was the cut on his mouth too unsightly.
"I am," he replied, one side of his lips pulling into a crooked smile as if he found her concern endearing. "A few bruises and scrapes but nothing that your royal eyes need to see."
"You asked me to tend to your wounds," Lothíriel reminded him as she began collecting the soiled linens. "I will finish the job if there is more to be done."
"I am well cared for, Queen of Rohan. I am in your debt."
"Don't jump to gratitude so quickly. You are still bound to punishment for your acts. I have no power over the King or his men to stand in the way of their justice."
"Would you?" Beorn looked at her now with interest flaming in his azure gaze. "Would you prevent them from delivering me to my fate?"
"You are not innocent of the deeds they would punish you for," she answered carefully with a frown. "I cannot say I would catch the hand that wielded the executioner's blade but I would not be that hand."
"A diplomatic answer, indeed," he murmured with a twinge of bitterness. Lothíriel began wiping her hands on a clean rag, removing his blood from her skin when she paused to look at him.
"I cannot overlook what you did to my men. All for the concern of a brother you threw into the jaws a peril before he was ready."
"Do not think you can understand the choices I had to make," he snapped a shadow of his former self slipping through as he leaned toward her. "Eofer knew the risks as well as any man in my company. You gave him the opportunity to live through his folly so do not pretend you are any less guilty than I. We both did what we had to for him to survive."
"And did he?"
"Yes," he murmured with a lowered tone, his gaze dropping. "His arm is well healed and he retains a fair amount of strength despite the loss of a hand."
"I am glad," the Queen answered earnestly. They sat in silence as the moments stretched by, heaviness in the air between them. Lothíriel placed the rag in the basket and met his eyes once more. When he held her gaze she spoke in a quiet assured voice. "Why are you here, Beorn?"
"To warn your King."
"Of?"
"The devices of his enemies."
"You are his enemy."
"Yes," the Dunlending agreed with a disappointed frown, his brow knitting despite the gash above his eyes. "But I fear his enemies will soon be mine. And we cannot dispatch them with the might your husband can."
"Beorn, tell me what you know."
"I will but know this," he paused to make sure she was looking him in the eye before continuing. "The disagreements between your husband's people and my own run deep. This does not discount what I have always believed in regarding the Rohirrim. This threat, however is greater and more pressing. To keep the Dunlendings from mass slaughter I fear I must lay down my sword for the time being and seek the counsel of Rohan's king."
"What is this enemy?"
"Easterlings that have joined forces with the orcs of Mordor. They have haunted the edges of Rohan for some time gaining strength to over throw your husband's rule."
"They have attacked your people?"
"Not yet," he replied before shifting his position with a glance beyond her. The guard behind Lothíriel hadn't moved but she knew he was prepared to draw his sword should Beorn pose her any harm. "They have sent emissaries requesting an alliance between Dunlendings and their forces. No, you don't need to say it. I realize this is precisely what I have wanted since I was a child. But it will not last, my lady. As soon as we did the dirty work they would slaughter my people and claim the power for their own kind. We are their machines of war and I cannot allow it."
Lothíriel stared at him with renewed respect. Beorn didn't appear entirely comfortable with her gaze, his hands twisting against their bonds as he sighed uneasily. His explanation wasn't entirely understandable yet but she didn't press it until he was ready to speak again.
"Between Rohirrim and Dunlendings we can keep these foes from gaining access to seat of power. Believe me this is not an ideal alliance but it is the lesser of two evils."
"You allowed yourself to be caught to deliver this message?" the Queen asked quietly. "You let my husband's men beat and chain you to seek an audience with Éomer?"
"There was no other way to gain his attention. Letters wouldn't be believed and I should think it would send a better message if I sought his counsel directly." A sly smirk crossed his features as he tilted his head, watching her. "Besides, I knew you wouldn't let me suffer too greatly before I received an audience with him."
"Do you know their intentions?" when he didn't answer she posed the question differently. "Why take up a seat in Rohan?"
"Rohan is the weakest of the lands of Men," Beorn murmured with another frown. "I do not know their intentions with certainty. But with Mordor turned to wastelands I suppose they are looking to avenge their defeat. Perhaps it seems an easy target."
"These are tidings the King will wish to know immediately, though he won't return for some time," she mused out loud. She was perplexed when a hopeful grin crossed the Dunlending's split lips, a strand of dark hair falling over one eye as he regarded her.
"Then I have enough time to heal before I'm beaten to a pulp for my trouble."