Sorry for the delay, I wanted to get a few chapters ahead, which paradoxically delayed things a bit. Hope you enjoy it regardless.
Chapter 26
Morloth finished her note in the ward log, recording which patients had died and how many new patients had been assigned since the previous entry a few hours before. She rubbed her eyes and sighed in relief; the end was finally in sight, the battle won and the fighting over—for now. Boromir had sent word of their victory a short time ago, with assurances that he would visit as soon as his duties permitted.
Her heart clenched, she longed to see him with an almost physical ache, but dreaded telling him that there had been no improvement in Faramir's condition, or Merry's. She stood wearily, intending to check her patients one more time when she was startled by a heavy hand descending on her shoulder.
She turned and looked up into the face of a very tall man, his bright blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He had come directly from the battlefield, that much was certain; she had never seen anyone so filthy and gore-spattered who was not injured himself, though no wounds were apparent.
"My sister…" he croaked.
Morloth stared at him blankly for a moment, and then realization struck her. Of course! He was clearly Rohirrim. His hair, though currently as filthy as the rest of him, was golden blond, and she had seen enough of their armor over the last few hours to recognize it immediately. Only one man of Rohan would be seeking his sister here, Boromir's friend Éomer, now the King of the Mark since his uncle's death that morning.
Sensing her confusion, he repeated his request with a hint of desperation in his voice, "My sister Éowyn; I was told she lives and was brought here. Is that not true?"
Morloth bobbed a quick curtsey out of habit, though she doubted that the honors due his new rank were on his mind. "Oh yes, my lord, she is here, I will take you to her immediately."
With a gentle hand on his elbow, she guided him out of the ward to the corridor of private rooms nearby. Morloth knew that the Lady Éowyn had been placed in the care of Hedron, a very senior healer and a good friend, and that her room was near his ward. She found the correct room with no difficulty; it was empty except for the patient, lying still and silent as she had been since her arrival.
On seeing his sister, King Éomer let out a choked sob and all but fell into a chair near the bed. "Éowyn!" he cried in a voice that made Morloth's heart break in sympathy, clutching her slender hand in his large, battered ones.
Fighting back tears, Morloth told him, "I am certain you wish to speak to Lady Éowyn's Healer, I will bring him right away." He nodded absently in response, his eyes never leaving his sister's face.
She found Hedron giving instructions to an aide in the main ward. As soon as he was finished she pulled him aside to a quiet corner. "Hedron, King Éomer has come to see his sister. The poor man looks to be at the end of his strength and was desperate to see her, so I hope you don't mind that I took him directly to her room."
"Not at all, Morloth, there was no reason to keep him waiting." He shook his head, "A sad case; the men who brought Lady Éowyn here say that he had no idea she traveled with the army, it is no wonder he was distraught!"
"I told him I would bring you to speak to him about his sister's condition."
"Of course, I will go immediately." He sighed, "I just wish I had better news to impart, his sister has not moved or spoken since coming here. Her broken arm will mend, but we have no treatment for what truly ails her."
"I know," Morloth replied, her thoughts drawn inevitably to Faramir and Pippin. She laid a hand on Hedron's arm, "But I think we must do something for her brother's comfort as well; he's come directly from the battlefield, exhausted and grief-stricken."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Washing water and something from the kitchen, for a start. And although he may not wish any assistance, we can at least offer to provide an aide to help with his armor." She paused thoughtfully, and then exclaimed "A cot, the very thing! We can set up a cot in his sister's room."
He stared at her, aghast, "Morloth, we cannot ask the King of Rohan to sleep on a cot! I'm certain they have a suite prepared for him in the Citadel!"
"Hedron, at the moment the King of Rohan is a man bone-weary from fighting since dawn, bowed down with grief for his uncle and fear for his sister. I doubt very much he will consent to leave her side. If we don't provide a cot we'll have a king sleeping on our floor!"
Hedron sighed heavily in exasperation, "I expect you are right, I will ask him if he wishes a cot for the night." Then he caught Morloth's eyes, his own glinting in amusement, "I suppose I should know better than to question your superior expertise on the subject."
At Morloth's baffled look, he continued, "After all, I imagine the new King of Rohan is well acquainted with our own Lord Boromir…"
"Well, yes, they are good friends," Morloth replied, still confused. "But what does that…" She broke off, blushing furiously. She knew it was too much to expect her fellow Healers not to notice that her relationship with Boromir was unusually close, but this was the first time any of them had commented so pointedly on it.
With all the dignity she could muster, she murmured, "Excuse me, Hedron, I have patients to attend to," and fled to her own ward.
-ooo-
Boromir paused at the door of Morloth's ward and told the guardsmen curtly, "Wait here, please."
One of the men looked concerned, and murmured, "My lord, are you certain…" but a quick head shake from Beregond, who had much more experience with the new Lord Steward's preferences—and temper—caused him to subside.
Boromir rolled his eyes and turned to find Morloth approaching. "What was that about?" she asked in surprise.
He smiled at her through gritted teeth. "Your friend Beregond is all too conscientious, and pointed out that my father was always accompanied by two guardsmen, and so should I be as well. Gandalf and my uncle agreed," he added glumly. What Boromir did not add was that Gandalf and Imrahil were also quite displeased to learn that he had risked himself by going into battle alone, no matter how welcome the result.
"What do they think will happen here?" he fumed. "Our own wounded will attempt an assassination, or the Healers decide to assault me?" Then Boromir leaned close with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Though I would not object in the least if you were to assault me," he murmured.
Morloth blushed and glanced around anxiously, "Not here, Boromir!"
He sighed, "No, I suppose not." Too buoyed by the exhilaration of victory to remain low-spirited for long, he grinned at Morloth, "I have wondrous news, my lady! Aragorn has come, with a company of his kinsmen from the North, and Lord Elrond's sons as well."
"Oh! Some of the wounded brought in recently spoke of ships that bore the banner of the White Tree—but showing the crown and stars of the King as well. So I wondered…"
Boromir nodded, "Yes, that was Aragorn. He brought ships filled with men from the southern provinces, those that could be spared once the threat of the Corsairs was eliminated."
"So he plans to claim the throne?" she asked in a whisper, her eyes wide with wonder.
"Eventually, if all goes as we hope. But for now, he is the Captain of the Northern Dúnedain, and is camped outside the walls with his men."
Morloth's face lit and she laid a hand on his arm, "Boromir, that reminds me, your friend Éomer, the new king of Rohan, is here with his sister." She shook her head, "He was quite distressed when he arrived; the presence of a friend might bring comfort."
"Of course, Morloth, I'll go straight away." He sighed, "Tis no surprise he was distraught, he assumed she was safe in Rohan until he found her lying next to his uncle, and then he thought her dead!" Boromir met Morloth's eyes, "How is she—and Merry?"
"They are both alive, and unconscious," she said, choosing her words with care.
Boromir's eyes searched her face, looking for assurances she could not give. "We will speak again after I see Éomer," he said.
"Of course, Boromir, let me show you to the Lady Éowyn's room." Morloth guided him to a private room not far away, which they found guarded by two Rohirrim soldiers.
"Oh my," Morloth murmured. "He came by himself, they must have arrived in the meantime."
Boromir chuckled mirthlessly, "It seems the necessities of rule have caught up with Éomer as they have with me."
"Boromir," Morloth whispered urgently, "I…I suggested to Hedron that we provide a cot for King Éomer; he looked so exhausted and I didn't think he'd want to leave his sister. Do you think he was offended? Perhaps I should tell him it was my idea—I don't want him to be angry with Hedron."
"Morloth," Boromir said soothingly, "he has spent the last few nights sleeping on the ground, so a cot will seem like the height of luxury! Besides, Éomer is as new to being king as I am to being Lord Steward, and I am certain he is as impatient with the trappings of royalty as I am. It was a fine idea, and kindly meant, and he will take it as such." He kissed her hand, "I will look for you in the ward once I've spoken to Éomer."
Morloth departed, but before the Boromir could approach Éowyn's door his new guardsman strode up to address the King's guards, "Tell your master that the Lord Steward of Gondor wishes to speak to him." The Rohirrim soldiers, impressed but obviously trying not to show it, glanced at each other before one of them disappeared inside.
Boromir cast a pained glance at Beregond, who sighed, "I will speak to him, my lord."
"See that you do," Boromir growled. "I am not my father and do not wish to treated as if I am."
"Understood, my lord."
The Rohirrim guard returned and said to Boromir, "You may enter, my lord,"
When Boromir entered the room there was a look of barely concealed irritation on Éomer's face which quickly transformed to one of astonishment and then pleasure upon recognizing his friend.
"Boromir!" he cried before pulling the Gondorian into a rough embrace. "This is a surprise, but a happy one to be sure! I couldn't imagine why your father would need to speak to me at Éowyn's sick bed, but you…" He stopped, his face drawn with concern, "He did say 'Lord Steward', did he not? Your father…"
"My father lives still," Boromir assured him. "It became clear he could no longer meet the demands of the office, so he resigned in my favor." He clasped Éomer's arm, "But Théoden…I share your sorrow, my friend. He was a good king and an honored ally, and Rohan's sacrifice will not be forgotten by Gondor or by me."
"Thank you, Boromir," Éomer murmured, "It is some comfort that he died as the brave man and strong king he was before that snake, Wormtongue, poisoned his mind; but Béma, I will miss him!" He turned away, his eyes glinting with unshed tears.
Wanting to give his friend time to compose himself, he glanced around the room and saw that a cot had been provided to Éomer, as yet unused. "The Healers have been accommodating your needs, I hope?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes, very much so," Éomer said with a nod, "especially considering a very dirty and blood-spattered king appeared on their doorstep unannounced." A wry smile crossed his lips, "In candor, given Gondor's reputation, I had expected more formality and concern about propriety, and you know how little I care for such things. They've even provided a cot for me to sleep on, which no doubt I'll be using soon."
Boromir was tempted to give Morloth credit for suggesting it, but it felt out of place to speak of his own happiness considering all the grief Éomer had endured of late. Instead, he said simply, "I am glad. There is a room prepared for you in the Citadel whenever you wish to use it."
Éomer nodded wearily, "My thanks, Boromir."
Their eyes were drawn toward the pale, slender figure on the bed. Her left arm was splinted, but there were no other obvious wounds and if not for her unnatural stillness one might think her merely asleep. Boromir finally broached the subject they had been tacitly avoiding since he arrived. "How is she, my friend?" he asked in a low voice.
"She lives, and I'm grateful for that since I thought I'd lost her as well as our uncle," Éomer responded, his face bleak. "But I can tell that the healers are concerned that she may not recover. It is clear they have all too much experience with this 'Black Shadow' that contact with the Ringwraiths can cause, and that little can be done if those so afflicted do not improve on their own."
He met Boromir's eyes, "The Warden of the Houses came by to speak to me a short time ago, and told me there are a number of others here with similar ailments, including the halfling, Meriadoc, who fought alongside my sister, and your brother, Faramir."
Boromir nodded, pausing before trusting himself to speak, "Yes, Faramir was wounded in the retreat from the Rammas Echor. It was only an arrow wound in the arm and seems to have healed cleanly, but he is fevered and has not awoken."
"I am sorry, Boromir, I know you and your brother are close." Éomer murmured. He glanced back to Éowyn, and continued, his voice anguished, "I just wish I understood why she did this! Why would she wish to imperil herself this way? I…I am rightly proud of what she did, but it will be for naught if I lose her!"
Boromir gripped Éomer's shoulder sympathetically, "I wish I had some profound wisdom to share, Éomer. I can only say that sometimes great hearts cannot be gainsaid, no matter how much those that love them might wish it."
Éomer was silent for a moment, then sat in the chair next to the bed and took Éowyn's hand. He glanced back at Boromir, "Thank you again, my friend." He gave the Gondorian a wry look, "You know, it is some solace to me that you were too stubborn to die, despite what Aragorn tells me were grievous wounds. There must be hope for our loved ones as well."
"There is always hope while we breathe, Éomer," Boromir smiled. "Try to get some rest."
Éomer waved farewell and turned his attention to his sister, while Boromir took his leave.
-ooo-
When Boromir returned to Morloth's ward he found her in close conversation with Gandalf and Pippin outside Merry's room. Their faces were grim.
Morloth brightened when she saw the new Steward, "How is King Éomer, Boromir?"
He sighed, "Well enough. He is worried about his sister, and it appears that he has good reason to be." He looked from one face to the next, "Has something happened?"
Morloth hesitated for a moment, then said carefully, "There is no cause for alarm as yet, but it is a concern that although Merry spoke to you both when you found him, he has not awoken since. I had also hoped to see some signs of recovery from Faramir, but so far there have been none."
"We must find a way to fight this malady, or I fear it will be too late!" Gandalf growled in frustration.
"Gandalf, you woke Boromir when his father gave him the sleeping draught, perhaps you could do the same with Merry," Pippin said eagerly.
"My dear fellow, that is not the same thing at all!" Gandalf told the disappointed hobbit.
Morloth did not hear his explanation of exactly why it was not the same, for at that moment the Warden approached and asked to speak to her, an aged parchment clutched in his hands.
"What is it, sir?" she asked politely, hoping for even a brief respite from worry for her patients.
"You may recall, Morloth, I offered to search the archives for something that might help Lord Faramir," the Warden said quietly, his face intent. "The fact that we now have a number of patients suffering from the Black Shadow of the Ringwraiths made the task all the more urgent."
"Of course I remember, Warden, did you find anything useful?" Morloth inquired hopefully.
"I…may have," he said hesitantly. "I found a very old document—I believe it is at least a thousand years old—that describes symptoms almost identical to what we have seen in patients like the Lady Éowyn and the halfling. They do not call it the 'Black Shadow', but it can be nothing else."
"That's wonderful, Warden! Do they tell of a treatment?"
He sighed, "They do not, unfortunately. But they did include a verse that was noteworthy; I thought particularly so because of your recent interest in athelas." He thrust the yellowed parchment into her hands. "Here, my dear, read it for yourself."
The verse was short, just six lines, and as she read the last line she gasped in shock. "Boromir, Mithrandir, you must hear this!" she exclaimed.
She read aloud, her voice shaking with excitement and wonder:
When the black breath blows
and death's shadow grows
and all lights pass,
come athelas! Come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king's hand lying!
When she was finished there was silence for a moment, then a loud thud as Gandalf's staff struck the floor, causing the head to briefly flare to life.
"Curse me for a blind fool! Of course!" the wizard cried. Without another word he swept out of the room and was gone.
The Warden looked from one face to the next in astonishment, before asking, wide-eyed, "I take it there is reason for hope?"