Chapter Six
During the long walk, Firefoot's big hooves thudding on each step in a gently rhythm, lulling him, Eomer turned over in his mind what could have caused the damage to the dwarf and elf.
If it had not been for the shorn head of the elf, he could well have believed some wild and fell beast had slipped away when Sauron had been destroyed, and was ravaging in Fangorn. That would fit with the damage done to the elf and explain how the dwarf had been overcome. Knowing the prowess of both Legolas and Gimli in battle, he assumed it would have to be a beast of fantastic size and ferocity, but a beast nonetheless.
He would not fall out of a tree, but Legolas could be knocked down or pulled out of one. That might account for the wounds on his back, the broken bones. Fighting down a spasm of guilt, he wondered just what Gimli's corpse looked like. It might give him some insight to what they faced.
The hair, on the other hand, was a deliberate insult, a humiliation. That signified cunning and intelligence. And hands. Elves never cut their hair, it grew so slowly that it took ages to get to any decent length. A head full of long and luxuriant hair was a symbol, of maturity, virility, desirability. For Legolas to have submitted to having his head shaved meant that he was either desperately trying to save Gimli, or he'd been unconscious of it when it happened. He'd never have sacrificed his hair for his own life.
Eomer came from a culture that understood honour and humiliation. He'd watched his family fall into traps set by it, choosing a path of honour rather than practicality Eomer saw things a little differently. As Malwyn, his sometime nurse, always friend and mentor used to tell him, "Sing over the dead, Eomer, lad, but fight like hell for the living!" He was bothered that he was here, on this slow plod back to Edoras, while the search went on in Fangorn.
Legolas was living, but Eomer had no doubt that Gimli had joined his forefathers. Legolas had pulled himself up that tree, limb by bloody limb, to die.
There was a definite bite in the wind now. Eomer shivered and signaled to Offa, riding over to the healer's side.
"We'll stop for a bit. I want you to make sure the rocks are still warm. We'll heat up a few more, and I'll send some of the riders ahead to set up camp a few hours walk ahead. That way the tent will be warm when we get him there."
Offa nodded, looking up at the still blue sky. "We can pray the weather holds a few more days."
"What if it breaks?" Eomer asked. "Or we get a frost?"
"We keep going. Unless we get a deluge or an early blizzard."
Eomer studied the landscape around them, the sweep of the gentle hills, the long grass turning brittle and bronze in the autumn chill.
"Two more days ought to get us there?"
"If nothing goes wrong."
Eomer called Lothar to him. The man's bay cantered, tired of the slow walk. "I need you to get to Meduseld quickly, but don't kill the horse. She looks like she's ready for a good run. Take a message to Malwyn for me. Tell her to get ready for the fight of her life!"
Lothar, familiar with the chatelaine's attitude, smiled at him. "I'll let her know, Eomer."
Legolas did not wake during the day. Eomer was concerned, but took heart from Hroth's placid position beside the litter. Offa explained that the drug he was using on the elf would make him sleep long and deep, keeping pain far from him. That night, the elf opened his eyes for a few moments.
"There you are," Eomer said, relief in his voice. "I've been waiting for you."
"Dreams," the elf said, fuzzily. "Arod...grass...running." He focused on the man. "'Mer, leg?"
"Broken, love," the man told him calmly. "But you'll be swinging back up on Arod in no time. Or outrunning him, if that takes your fancy."
"Outrun..." the elf moaned, panic filling his eye. Eomer gently touched the bandaged face.
"You don't have to outrun a thing, love. You're in the middle of an armed camp. Nothing can touch you here."
The elf closed his eye, sleep overpowering him once again. Eomer studied the face. What had the elf tried to run from?
Eomer, resigned that he could not rush them on to Meduseld or sprint back to Halma, spent a good hour grooming Firefoot, going over the horse minutely, talking softly the whole time. Firefoot, alert to the mood of his master, stood quietly, occasionally nuzzling Eomer.
"I don't understand any of it," Eomer said. "What could do this, what could leave a trail like that? Where is Gimli?" The thought of pieces of Gimli appearing over the next year, piecemeal, like parts of a puzzle horrified him.
Lothar returned the next morning, on a fresh horse, catching up with them as they broke camp.
"You're making good time, Eomer, but you might need to pick up the pace a little. There's storm clouds coming. Malwyn said she's ready for anything, she's got the Hall in uproar. She's got them scrubbing the King's Chamber inch by inch, every lambskin in Edoras is piled on your bed, bandages and evil smelling potions stocked and standing by. Eru help us all, I think she's even trying to make lembas."
Eomer laughed at that. Malwyn was a treasure. She'd spent her life in Meduseld, sometimes a cook, sometimes a nurse, taking over whatever job needed her energy and determination. She'd worked her way through all of them, and understood the workings of the hall better than he did himself. Since Eowyn's departure with Faramir, she was the unofficial and undisputed mistress, running things with a firm and practised hand, a delicious sense of humour and unbounded compassion.
"Did you mention the Horrors?" Eomer asked, in a tight whisper.
Lothar met his eyes with a steady gaze. "She was with Eotha till the last, Eomer. I doubt there's much about them she doesn't know."
Eomer sighed. "I can't wait to talk to her."
The wind picked up in the night, and the morning brought a white crusting of delicate frost to the grass. Eomer saw his breath as he poured his steaming coffee into his battered mug. Hot rocks and warmed furs were tucked around the elf, the litter the last thing to be moved. Offa looked at the sky, alarmed by the grey clouds, the metallic tang in the air.
"We have to chance it, Offa," Eomer said. "It's going to rain at best, but it smells like sleet to me."
Offa nodded gravely. "We'll walk faster. I'm not going to move them into a trot. If worst comes to worst, we wrap the tent around the litter."
Eomer would remember the nightmare slowness of that last day with horror. He willed the ground to move beneath the horses hooves, watching the litter swing gently, straining to hear the scream from the elf swathed inside. That it never came seemed to make things worse.
Malwyn met them on the steps of Meduseld, her skirts streaming in the freezing wind. Her boots rapped sharply on the stone as she strode down, her long hair tied back. Eomer was ready to collapse with the exhaustion of nerves strained to the breaking point. Malwyn took over at that point, sending the king into the hall for wine, decicing with Offa on the best course of action. If she could have managed it, she would have had the horses brought right up the steps. The sleet had started, and the tent wrapping the litter was starting to freeze.
She sent Offa and Eomer to the King's Chamber while she supervised the moving of the patient. The litter was carried into the room, Legolas unpacked, and moved gently to the bed. The fire had been stoked, the bed warmed and the room was hot. Offa watched as Malwyn situated the elf and checked him over.
"I think we've been replaced," Eomer told him, watching Hroth fall down in front of the fire, bits of sleet frozen in his hair.
"Good, I could use a night off," Offa told him, tiredly, stretching his legs out, warming his feet.
"Nonsense," Malwyn said, looking up from her charge. "It's not me he's going to be looking for."
Legolas woke to cold cloths washing his face. The could feel the great brown eyes of the dog as they stared at him, encouragingly. He swallowed dryly, and was relieved to feel the straw slipped effortlessly between his lips. He drank, gratefully, and was about to try and mutter his thanks. The voice in his ear was not Eomer or Offa, or even Higa.
"Yes, you were right, you great lug, he's awake," a woman's voice, rich with age and laughter and sorrows of her own. Legolas was confused, until he realized with a start that she was speaking to the dog.
"Don't try to talk just yet, my lad," the voice continued, as she sponged his face gently. It was cool and wet and soothing to the bruises there. "Let that settle in the throat before you say anything. Offa knows his work, there's none better, but he forgets a body likes a little sweetness too. That'll sooth that rasp of yours."
He opened his eye to look at her. She was tall for a woman of Rohan, her dark hair streaked with iron grey. Tendrils escaped the knot, curling around her ears, but the dark eyes were kind and full of care. Laugh lines creased the face.
"Who?" he asked, looking at her curiously. She continued to mop his face and looked at him fondly.
"You wouldn't remember me, Lord Prince," she said with a smile. "I'm Malwyn. Don't worry, I've some skill. He wouldn't trust you to just anyone."
""Mer?" the elf whispered, feeling a panic rise.
"Oh, he's in the cot, sleeping." She motioned with her head. "Dropped from exhaustion and I'll not wake him, even for you, my bonny lad. I'm right here, I know exactly what to do and Offa's down the hall. You just give me a moment, here,"
She was quick and efficient with strong hands. Finishing his face, she gently tilted his head, bracing the pillows under him, so that he could see Eomer's big body curled in the cot. "There," she said, gently. "You can watch him, while I see to the rest of you."
As she worked, she kept up a continuous stream of soothing chatter, that somehow managed to relax Legolas. He watched Eomer's form rise and fall slowly, soft snores emitting on occasion.
"Always did snore, that boy," Malwyn went on, "but at least you knew where he was. Don't know how many times I've found him curled up with the dogs in the kitchen. Came in for a bite, and stayed so long he'd fall asleep. It was just after he'd lost his mother, and was missing a woman's voice."
Legolas watched as Eomer caught his breath, rolled, the blanket falling away. He twitched, trying to remember the talking woman's name. She noticed the movement, nodded to herself and left the elf for a moment to pull the blanket back up. She placed a gentle, almost unconscious caress on the man's head.
"Now, that's this side all done, and I'm going to roll you to do your back. Offa's potions may be bland, but they work. You'll be asleep again, before you know it. Don't worry, I'll get you situated so you can watch him while you drop off."
With the skill of years of practice, she moved the elf so smoothly he barely registered it. The drink was working, his eyes were closing, as she positioned him. He looked at her, seeing the look of understanding in her dark eyes.
"He'll be here when you wake up again, don't fret. So just rest, and let yourself heal."
She began to replace the dressings on the cruel wounds on his back, the coolness easing the pain away, as Legolas drifted, wondering once more why he was in the great bed alone.
The wind drove the rain against the window, pattering with tiny pings and streaming down. The fire burned hot, Hroth had retreated to the side of the bed, head on paws, his intelligent brown eyes flicking between the woman in the chair and the elf sleeping in the bed. Malwyn knitted, her eyes on her charge, the lamp light bright beside her.
Eomer stretched and rolled over, his arm falling off the edge of the cot, jolting him awake. Malwyn shushed him before he spoke, her hand motioning to the still form in the bed.
"He's sleeping easy," was her first remark, knowing it would be the first question out of his mouth.
"How long did I sleep?" the king asked, swinging his legs around and speaking quietly. His hair was tousled and he looked as if he could sleep for another day complete before being rested.
The woman stood, stowing her knitting in the chair and crossed to the door of the chamber. "Not as long as I'd like, but enough for now. I'll have a decent meal sent up for you, you've not eaten properly the whole time you were gone." She opened the door and spoke quietly to the boy waiting outside in the hall. A draft followed her back to her chair and she stopped to tuck the blankets more firmly about the elf.
Eomer grinned at her. "How would you know that." He accepted the cup of ale she poured for him, noticing the slight spicy odour. He sipped at it appreciatively, feeling the warmth run through him.
"By the state of our lad, there. You've got him home, Eomer, and that's half the battle won." She poured herself a cup and gave him a little toast with it. "I don't think he's any worse for the long march."
Eomer sighed. "It could still go bad, Malwyn. He wanted to die, and I begged him not to."
"Of course you did," the lip twitched. "It still depends on him. Life is not so terrible we let go of it easily."
"Malwyn," Eomer asked, his eyes troubled, "tell me about the Horrors."
She gave him a sad smile. "I've never had them."
"I know, but Eotha," he said, mentioning her man for the first time in years.
"Poor Eotha. It was hard, to watch him. Mind you, when it was good, it was good. When it went bad, well," she sighed. "You don't know that he's got them, yet."
"Offa seems to think so."
"Offa is a good healer, a good man, but he's not infallible. What's important is that you're here for out lad when he wakes up. He's going to be muddled for a while yet, and we don't know how he's going to take it."
"Take what?" asked a raspy voice from the pile of bedclothes.