A/N: Firstly, I suck at titles – as you've noticed. Secondly, a couple people were asking for a good physical representation of Beorn (since we pretty much know what the other characters look like). It took me a while to decide but I finally settled on an actor that most people don't know about and only in a certain photo do I think he captures Beorn's essence (imagine a scruffier beard in these scenes). The actor is Colin O'Donoghue and for the sake of visual deliciousness (since I can't upload the photo here), Google his fine self and there's a photo of him in a black jacket with some stubble and gorgeous blue eyes. Enjoy! :)
Chapter 34: The Hand that Heals
Pulling the shearling jacket closer to her body Lothíriel ducked her head against a gust of bitter wind. Spring claimed Rohan in earnest but the mountains sent a wintery gale into the valley this morning, reminding them that winter was not long departed. But the overcast skies that blanketed the dawn had parted, an April sun shining down optimistically on Edoras and warming the hopes for spring renewal. One hand holding the taupe jacket against the honey colored gown, the Queen blinked as strands of dark hair fell into her line of sight. She was dressed for comfort rather than prestige this morning, knowing full well the prisoner would use her status against her if he could. She appeared both warm and ready to begin the day's work, her aged calfskin boots having seen better days beneath the narrow skirts. No jewelry adorned her on this day and her curling hair had been plaited loosely and wrapped into a coronet about her head. It was her intention to seem as any other woman in Edoras, rather than a Queen.
Clutching the basket to her the Lothíriel blinked against the brightness as she traversed the narrow road to the jail. A guard accompanied her silently, though she wondered if he thought his Queen mad. It seemed absurd to the Rohirrim that a prisoner (especially a Dunlending) would be treated with such mercy. Lothíriel could sympathize with such bewilderment but she was a Healer at heart and could not overlook the suffering. And, she reasoned, if Beorn managed an infection before Éomer returned he'd likely not make it long.
Elfhelm had departed before dawn to make good on his promise to the Queen, bringing with him scouts to search for answers. She was indebted to the man for his loyalty, knowing he was doing this more out of deference to herself and Éomer than his own desire. If it were up to him the Marshal would probably have Beorn tied to four horses and quartered. Either way she couldn't be sure a fate wouldn't befall the Dunlending. Éomer's temper was easily fuelled at the thought of his enemies and she didn't know if the very sight of Beorn would blind him to caution.
Lothíriel had spent the night warring with herself over this situation. What if she was making a mistake? Playing right into Beorn's hands. He was exceptionally devious and intelligent – attributes that'd been made apparent during their first unceremonious meeting. Elfhelm still harbored a cavernous hatred for the ills Beorn and his men put them through that night. The Queen herself could not deny a thudding resentment and ire toward the Dunlendings. The Marshal was probably right to be cautious and hostile toward the prisoner. There were deep-seated prejudices above Lothíriel's head that made her feel childish in her relentlessness to heal Beorn.
"Hail, Lothíriel Queen," the jail ward greeted as he unlocked the door. She inclined her head in response and stepped into the musty, rank prison. The stench was strong and the light poor. The scent of putrid rotting flesh was not foreign to her, having borne witness to the foul humors of injuries from her days in the Healing Hall of Dol Amroth. She was thankful such experiences prepared her but it was not all together pleasant. And the light filtering through narrow slits in the wall made it difficult to ascertain any measure of detail.
The morning light illuminated the entrance of the jail, shrouding the cells in darkness and making it near impossible to see the prisoner. Only the sound of his measured breathing gave any indication he was present. Nodding to her guard to unlock his cell, Lothíriel swallowed her trepidation and began the work. Her plan for the Dunlending was straightforward but she wasn't entirely confident he or the Rohirrm would be amenable to it.
"Good morning," she began, unable to hide the hesitancy in her pitch. Beorn grunted in response prompting her to continue, her voice adopting a conversational tone. "No doubt you've acquired a new set of injuries to mend. I would see to them here but the light is so poor I'd end up doing more harm than good. The day is pleasant and there is a measure of privacy here so I will be tending to you outdoors."
As she spoke, the guard entered the dark cell and hauled the captive up, their shadowed forms interacting in the tenebrous light. The sound of chains and iron clanked in the confined space as Beorn was released from the manacle that bound him to the wall of his cell. As the guard marched him out of the aphotic space, Lothíriel could see his wrists were still shackled behind his back and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief. His composure was that of a prisoner, head hung in exhaustion or defeat, his feet dragging against the dirt floor. She noted his breathing was laborious though he made no attempt to hide a defensive growl at the Rohirric guard.
Lothíriel stepped out first, basket in hand as the spring morning greeted them with brilliance. The wind had dissipated leaving a briskness in the air, tempered by the warm sun. Beorn reacted strongly to the light, pulling away from the entrance as if to return to his caliginous cell. But the guard pushed him on, bidding him follow the Queen as she rounded the side of the jail. Several bales of hay lay piled beside the wall, some low enough to act as benches. Beorn was shoved upon one, his immediate response to keel forward with lack of balance and strength. The Rohirric man pulled him sharply up by his shoulder and steadied him on the bale. Lothíriel remained standing as she surveyed the Dunlending.
Welts of violet and scarlet marred his skin, his tunic ripped and abused such that it offered little warmth. Dried blood caked his neck and clumped his hair in tufts; his skin stained a ruddy complexion. The bruises flowered across his chest and up into his hairline, pallid yellow outlines denoting the older abrasions. His left eye was slightly swollen, the skin angry and abused. The wounds she'd seen to the day previous were hidden by bruises and fresh cuts. It seemed ridiculous that such a short beating could result in this array of injury but she recalled turning away from the worst of it.
"Thank you, Ion," she spoke kindly to the guard, setting her basket of implements down before the prisoner and taking a seat on a bale opposite him. "That will be all." She knew he would not depart but she wanted Beorn to not feel threatened by the Rohirric man's presence. With a stiff bow, Ion backtracked his steps to stand nearby but not close enough to breach privacy. Lothíriel suspected this was the best way to get Beorn to speak openly about his visit to Edoras. She felt confident that he would not attempt anything stupid what with his hands shackled behind his back and Ion within close proximity.
After tying an ivory apron at the small of her back the Queen pulled the heavy canister of warm water from the basket and set to work preparing her tools. She felt his sapphire gaze on her, harsh in its appraisal but nonetheless unthreatening. She dipped a linen cloth in the steaming water and leaned forward slightly to press the compress to the side of his face. Careful not to push hard, Lothíriel stroked gently across his skin to remove the blood and grime. Beorn said nothing, his eyes fixated upon her face as she worked. It was a challenge not to wilt under his fierce gaze but she steeled herself to remain in control. He would not make her feel like some demure lady self-conscious and timid. The muscle in his jaw clenched against the pain causing her to withdraw her hand from his brow, an eyebrow raised in question.
"Get on with it," he muttered his voice much hoarser than before. There was a note of desolation within his statement but Lothíriel said nothing. She continued her progress until his face was clean of blood, sweat and dirt. He still looked worse for wear, the bruises now more illuminated against his complexion. She'd gone through three squares of thickly woven cloth, soiled and discarded at her feet, before she was satisfied.
"Once I finish, you will be given food and water," Lothíriel informed him briskly, her voice both authoritative and curt. "I hope you do not intend to inspire these men's wrath every evening. I do not think there is enough linen to patch you up each morning until the King returns."
"Then we must hope I succumb to my injuries and drop dead in my cell," he muttered, finally averting his eyes to stare at the ground. Lothíriel sat back to observe him before she administered the healing salve, the small jar resting in her palm.
"You could hold your tongue," she reminded him.
"No doubt you think that an simple task," he remarked sullenly before letting out a frustrated sigh. "When have you ever come face to face with your enemy and let him humiliate you like a beast?" he paused to take in a rattling sigh. "No, lady, I do not think you understand just what I have endured to ensure the safety of my people."
"You play games, never giving a straight answer when it could save you from their fury," Lothíriel commented with a frown. Beorn looked at her and for the first time she saw sorrow in his eyes. It was not the sorrow of unrequited love or a painful memory. It was the grave mourning of the inevitable.
"It is true," the Dunlending replied quietly. "Time leaks away as I wallow in this prison, my people living on a fool's hope that your husband will put aside our primordial resentment and unite against a common enemy."
"What do you know of this enemy?" she began applying the salve to his face gently, hoping her renewed activities would prompt him into explanation.
"Hooded men speaking in strange tongues," he answered softly. "Three of them on horseback came directly to kin of mine near the ruins of Isengard. They told him the time to unseat the King of Rohan was upon us."
"Isn't that your desire?"
"Since I was a babe," he affirmed with the hint of a grin, which faded with a wince as the salve stung an open cut. "But these foreign riders spoke of an allegiance between man and orc – a prospect I find suspicious. If I am to overthrow your King I will do so without the assistance of dim-witted half wild orcs. It was their kind that got us into dark dealings with the White Wizard. No, I would not place my trust in them."
He fell silent as she smoothed the last cut with a film of salve, blue eyes breaking from their gaze as his lids fell in exhaustion. A slow breath issued from his cut lips and he appeared almost peaceful in that moment, her fingers moving gently against his cheek. Lothíriel pulled her hand back and his eyes opened once more, lips parted as if to object to her departing. But he must've caught himself before the words could escape, his mouth shutting and gaze turning to a glare.
"It didn't fit together," he began again, a harshness coloring his tone. "We are few compared to the Easterlings and seemingly insignificant. I do not expect them to maintain the allegiance long after they get what they desire. As for the orcs – " he shook his head with a jerk "I wouldn't trust the bastards farther than I could toss them."
"Beorn you must tell this to the King when he returns," Lothíriel murmured, wiping her hand on the apron. "He would not break a sworn oath."
"It's getting him to swear the oath that might prove difficult," he muttered with childish scowl.
"He will understand the need to unite."
"No," Beorn corrected with a furtive glance at her. "You will convince him to understand. He'd just as quickly accept our aid then slaughter us after we dispatched the enemy."
"I cannot advocate your cause," Lothíriel stated with a guarded tone, pausing in her preparation of a compress for his ribs. "You came here to speak your intent and you will do so before the King. You cannot expect me to champion your purpose before my husband."
"My lady, do you honestly believe I came directly to the King of Rohan without a strategy to gain his ear?"
Lothíriel's grey eyes widened as the realization crystallized. He'd planned to use her to sway Éomer. And there she was like a half-wit playing right into Beorn's hand. To his credit he didn't seem to take pleasure in her sobering comprehension, his blue eyes watching at her intently.
You idiot, she chastised herself bitterly, her expression faltering. But she returned his gaze with a new question, dark narrow brows arching with curiosity.
"Seems foolish to tell me your plan before it comes to fruition," she challenged, hoping to sound partially confident. A dark smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he attempted a shrug, the pain of said action causing him to rethink it. Instead he opted for a slight canting of the head.
"Yes," Beorn conceded quietly. "But I find I do not enjoy manipulating your sympathies. If you speak on my behalf before your husband I would be grateful. If you do not I will try to persuade him to understand the situation as it is."
Lothíriel couldn't tell if he was genuinely accepting failure of his original plan or if he was just using this as a con to incite her pity. He was exceptionally crafty, which made her wary to trust him at all. But the way he spoke of his people and the passion he'd expressed in his hatred toward this new enemy told her he was not here simply to inveigle her and Éomer into helping.
"I figured you were the most apt to assist me in my cause," he continued quietly. "After you displayed compassion and kindness toward my brother I knew I could convince you our peril is real. And in that I did not deceive you, my lady. I will do everything in my power to protect the Dunlendings from the evil that seeps out from Mordor."
"Who are you, Beorn?" she inquired slowly, her tone implying interest rather than suspicion.
"No one of great distinction in this age. But I claim Wulf son of Freca's bloodline on my mother's side," he murmured without looking at her. "That lineage is meaningful to your husband, I'm sure."
"He is not ignorant of the past," she agreed, offering him a flask of warm tea. He accepted tilting his head so she could pour it steadily. After finishing a healthy gulp, Lothíriel returned the cork to the skin and set it down.
"I have no interest in taking up a seat in your hall, my lady Lothíriel." Her eyes jumped back to him as he intoned her name, his own gaze trained on her face. "Your people face the same threat as my own. I ask only that your husband consider an alliance. If not, I fear Dunlendings will be wiped from the land, lost in the records and known only as irritants and thorns in your side."
"He will do right by your people, Beorn."
"Thank you, Queen of Rohan."
Beorn shifted against his bonds and they sat in silence as Lothíriel readied the next items. It felt oddly comfortable to interact thusly, as if they were old friends. She couldn't quite explain it to herself but she felt at ease with the Dunlending before her. Though she'd never admit it to anyone she was becoming fond of him, though not enough to forgive him for his actions against her men. But he was growing on her in an uncanny and significant way. His drive to keep his people out of harm's way was impressive and, had they not started out as enemies, might inspire a friendship between himself and Éomer. Both were annoyingly stubborn and strong willed. And they shared a strong sense of leadership, forsaking personal pride to better the state of their respective followers. It was a strange situation, indeed.
Lothíriel prepared the next set of linens to begin bandaging his middle. It appeared he broke a rib or at least bruised the bones at the hands of Elfhelm's men. She set out the long strips to wrap around his torso and keep the bones in place while they healed before drawing more warm water from the canister, though his expression gave her pause. An arched eyebrow indicated an unspoken inquiry, which encouraged a sly grin from the man.
"Tell me, am I to suffer a sponge bath next, my lady?"
A/N: Excuse the inevitable typos in the chapter! I will fix them sooooon. Okay, so I deviated a teensy bit from the original regarding the Dunlendings after the defeat of Sauron because I felt it added good conflict to the story. Just sayin' it so I don't get harangued for veering off canon-course. Also, I'd like some important input from you lovely folks so kindly respond to these two queries:
Should I continue writing witty banter between Lothy/Beorn in this setting/scene (I have no problem writing it, but if it's becoming boring to read, I can move right along)
Would you like to see a chapter/section from Beorn's perspective?
And have no fear, Lothíriel only has eyes for Éomer. But there will be further angst and emotional despair on Beorn's part for his untouchable (but clearly very touchable) Queen. And I will bring her pregnancy in more later on but refrained from doing so since this bit takes place in a short time span. And Éomer will be gone for a month, so she won't be eight months along by the time he returns. At this point she's like… two months-ish? And more angsty missing-his-wife from Éomer soon. And a reunion with Eowyn. And Lothy's brothers. Hurray!
But yes, please answer the two questions above so I can plan my next few chapters. Loves and cupcakes!
~ S