A/N We get a look at more of her inner thoughts in this ch, our poor girl is deeply insecure.
The night passed by quickly, the Elves had agreed to travel with the women and children to Edoras, while the men would travel in the opposite direction towards Isengard. The night was full of bustling and many bodies bumping into each other, and I still hadn't come to a decision.
I already changed things, that much was sure. Hornburg was supposed to be overrun, I remember that, they were trapped and only a handful survived. But now there are hundreds, and even more, wounded but so many alive. And Dargan was still out there.
When I was in the realm between sleep and wakefulness I overheard Legolas and Barasil having a heated hissed conversation above me, in Sindarin.
"She is my bonded,"
"Tauriel was mine."
"Why have you never told me?"
"She made her choice, she chose him over me."
"Why are you here? Go to her-"
"She wouldn't have even known him if it weren't for you! I haven't seen her since The Battle of the Five Armies-"
"Why are you here?"
"You took my happy ending, I will take you-"
"She isn't a pawn! If you are so bitter you must hurt someone do not hurt her,"
"It must be so hard for you to see her seek comfort in my arms and not yours."
"We were once friends you and I,"
The rest of the conversation was hissed so viciously I had no hope of understanding the Sindarin. I didn't sleep well, my dreams were tormented by thoughts that the two closest to me were haunted by a ghost, Tauriel, beautiful and wild. Legolas was bonded, taken, and I was an unbelievable pervert for wanting more.
"Time to wake up young one," Barasil shook my shoulder slightly; I was lying on top of him a puddle of drool on his chest. I flushed and drowsily tried to wipe it away.
"I have a bag packed for you already," he stated then helped me to sit up. "There's fresh clothes there," he nodded toward the end of the bed, "I'll be behind the curtain, and then we can set off."
He didn't wait for a reply, standing to his complete height and walking to the other side of makeshift curtains that were now hung in the infirmary for a semblance of privacy.
I quickly changed; my ribs ached, bending and stooping hurt it the most. Could I go back? Could I go back and ignore the war? Was I selfish enough to ignore those who still put their life on the line? No, I couldn't, and the thought of going back and someone dying when I could have prevented it will haunt me till the end of my days.
"Beauty, like yours, should always be celebrated." Barasil winked at one of the Elven healers who was packing up still when I stepped past the curtain.
"Really?" I shook my head, "Haven't you already bedded all of the Golden Wood?"
He turned to me and grinned, "Not all." He assessed my outfit, his lips turned downward as his hands brushed against my cloak, or Legolas's cloak, that I still have yet to return.
"This won't keep you warm, it's practically rags." He commented holding the torn and frayed edges. I made to shrug but stopped as he began taking off his own cloak, "It's fine. Leave it." My voice was harsher than I intended.
I didn't want to be parted from Legolas's cloak; it still carried his scent faintly. Rows of wounded soldiers lay on rough pallets and blankets, their faces etched with pain, as we passed. "Most will need to recover here," Barasil commented.
"I heard she took down two orcs with her bare hands." One of the wounded pointed toward me causing me to flush and Barasil to smirk. He had fun instigating the rumors. He thought I should be proud, he saw me as a hero, a trophy of the Golden Wood.
"And she barely flinched when the wall came down." The other commented.
I could do nothing but ponder on history. Were generals of times past actually warlords or were they rumors that we passed down as facts? Cleopatra is depicted in Hollywood as a beautiful temptress yet written about as not being incomparable in looks, but it was her brains that she wowed with.
The Roman poet Lucan wrote how she was a lascivious fury, ruled by her promiscuous passions, yet it's only recorded she held only two romantic partners in her short 39 years of life, both were strategic and political. What is true of her? Was she a wise ruler who forged alliances through romance for the good of her people, or was she a harlot?
Who am I?
"Our lady commander, they say. We're lucky to have her on our side." I paused our step then unable to ignore them and started toward them. Barasil tried to tug on my arm, "Just ignore them."
"I have done nothing worthy of praise," I seethed at the wounded men as Barasil continued lightly tugging on my arm. "The burden of my choices is a heavy chain that shackles my soul. I've had to weave webs of deceit to safeguard this people, and each falsehood is a blade that pierces my conscience."
Barasil quit tugging and both wounded men looked at me how the Uruk-hai looked at me, as if I were a leader, it didn't click. "In the name of Rohan, I've sacrificed my innocence, and the regret I carry is a storm that rages within."
"Hail Gil-boron," they said from their cots, raising their arms as high as they could in reverence.
"Do not praise me!" I shrieked before turning around and walking in the opposite direction. To only be redirected passed them again by Barasil, so upon my second passing I awkwardly tried to pretend they didn't exist as I bumped into their cots and headed toward the exit.
"What's that mean?" I asked once we stood outside and were following the mass exodus through the city.
"What?" Barasil replied knowing all well what I meant.
"What they called me, Gil I know means star…"
"Gil-boron means enduring star," he tensed at my side as if he were waiting for me to shriek again over my newfound name.
"Eh, it fits." I shrugged.
"I think I'm going to go to Isengard actually, are the men up ahead?" I made my decision.
"The men set off before the dawn," there was a clear relief in his voice.
"Oh," I replied. Legolas didn't say goodbye, not as though I expected it. None of them said goodbye.
The outer walls were pocked with impact craters, and the remnants of siege engines lay strewn about. The courtyard was marred with the remnants of barricades and makeshift defenses. The streets were cleared of bodies but not the stain they left, the stone carried the shadow of red and the memory of those who fell there.
"Don't ponder," Barasil tried to hold my attention as my eyes continued scanning the landscape.
It was the first time I had been outside since the battle. The procession back to Edoras was a bustling sea of humanity, and I found myself overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who had gathered. The wounded, the weary, and the resolute all walked together. Mothers who had children clinging to every limb seemed to walk a faster pace than I.
The Elves took to the perimeters. I passed through the massive gates on the drawbridge, each step echoing on the worn stone. The ladders still clung to the remains of the wall above and the bridge beneath cracked in spiderweb-like patterns.
The plains were untouched, while the city carried but a shadow of blood on the stone the plains still held the bodies and the rats they fed. These creatures, drawn by the scent of death, scurried among the fallen, their beady eyes gleaming in the morning light.
"Why are there so many people lying on the ground, Mother?" A toddler asked as his mother tried desperately to press him to her chest and shield his view.
A few shrieked seeing them, but the rats were unphased as was most of our procession in regards to them. This was war. The nights were still too cool for the maggots and flies to set in which for I am thankful.
There were caravans too; they moved slowly, the valley was thick in mud that caused their wheels to get stuck frequently.
Barasil left me once we exited the gate needing to travel on the outskirts with the other Elves. Siege towers and war machines, once formidable engines of destruction, now lay mired in the mud, their wheels and gears rendered immobile by the unforgiving terrain. The great wheels of siege towers were partially submerged, making them appear like toppled giants.
Broken catapults and battered battering rams stood as silent sentinels of the fierce resistance that had been met at the Hornburg's walls. It looked different in the daylight, the sheer force that we defeated; it did nothing for the guilt nor the bile rising in my throat.
I vomited several times before we left the valley and sadly there were plenty of sympathy vomiters within the congregation. I would bend and spew and some other poor soul would in turn empty their guts as well, a hopeless pitiful race we were.
"Watch this!" a young Rohirrim yelled running full speed to a sunken in siege tower.
"These machines are not for play!" An exasperated elderly woman tried to reason as the Rohirrim began climbing her way to the top. The child's laughter and shouts of exhilaration filled the air as she climbed higher, her small figure silhouetted against the sky. For a moment, she was the fearless conqueror of a great war machine, lost in the innocence and wonder of youth.
Other children joined the first and then the great green flag of the Rohirrim was raised and caused a collective cheer from the exodus. The banner, marked by the white horse of Rohan, billowed in the wind, casting a shadow over the field; this one was a hopeful shadow. The children shouted from their vantage point, "Forth Eorlingas!"
Each one repeating phrases they had heard their parents say or putting together their own mantras, like the girl who yelled, "Riders, ride on!" to the exodus of people, who were not riding horses.
I couldn't help but notice the varying degrees of severity among the wounded. Some wore simple, makeshift bandages, while others were wrapped in more elaborate dressings. I felt myself frowning and silently judging the job the healer had done. Crutches and makeshift splints provided support to those with broken bones, and the weariness etched into their faces revealed the physical and emotional toll of their ordeals.
On the first break, I could no longer walk as a bystander; my need to readjust dressings became too great. It wasn't necessarily my want to help; no it was the annoyance of it. I had walked a few paces behind a man in clear discomfort, every couple of steps he'd scratch at his dressings that weren't wrapped tightly enough.
Soon word spread that I was a healer and when we set pace again I had many come to me. At first, I tried to tend to them as we walked, so two steps, me assess the wound, another two hurried steps. But that didn't quite work. One of the women helped me onto the back of a caravan and then I no longer had to worry about walking and tending. Perched atop the moving vehicle, I found a makeshift seat and watched the procession from this new vantage point.
The Rohirrim flooded in with different ailments, they'd chase after the caravan some even limping while I sat at the edge waiting.
It reminded me of an old insurance commercial. In this commercial, the scene is set in a serene and idyllic park, where a man is fishing by a peaceful pond. It seems like a calm and leisurely day until a dollar bill attached to a fishing line is dangled in front of him. As he reaches out to grab the dollar bill, a narrator's voice chimes in, saying, "If you're a fisherman, you gotta be smarter than the fish."
However, just as the man is about to grab the dollar, it's snatched away in a split second. The camera reveals a fast-moving dollar bill thief who appears out of nowhere, quickly swiping the money from the man's grasp. With impeccable timing and a cheeky grin, the thief exclaims, "You gotta be quicker than that!" It cleverly connects the idea of being quick on your feet to the idea of saving money with GEICO.
I tried to hide my smile as I watched the Rohirrim climb the step and reach me to be tended to, how would I explain the commercial if they asked? And would they be offended?
Insanity: A severely disordered state of the mind usually occurring as a specific disorder.
It was vastly different than working in a talan not only was I constantly in motion but I lacked my normal tools. I began turning those away with a "Sorry I just don't have the tools here,"
The people were unbothered however and weren't quick to be dismissed, often replying with a "What you need?"
And when I would spill off the different tools needed to purge a wound or what I required to properly stitch someone shut they would let out a shout, "Knives! Knives, who has knives?"
Someone in the mass would come forward and chase the caravan down and hand over their rusty ol reliable.
Any excuse I used on why I couldn't help the more severe cases that obviously shouldn't be traveling would be countered with the fierce bluntness that was the Rohirrim.
"You ripped your stitch," I scolded a young boy as he came to me. He had a goofy grin on his face and didn't even wince as I dug in his wound. "I can't stitch it myself I have not any thread, you were a fool for roughhousing with your injury,"
He replied in the same way all the Rohirrim did, "What you need?"
I sighed in exasperation, "Silk, or linen, anything courser will cause a nasty infection."
Within a few moments, I had several tunics thrown into the caravan, "I can't use these I need the threads."
So the poor boy summoned a gangle of other miscreants and they began ripping up the tunics, peeling the single strings apart with such care and gentleness and laying those in a pile.
"Ale," I demanded.
Their grins turned into wide eyes of horror as I dipped my needle and threads into the tankard.
"This is going to hurt," I warned as I used the straight sewing needle to begin my stitch. It would scar a nasty scar, which I think he was looking forward to. It's much harder to sew flesh with a straight needle, the turns and twists needed are near impossible.
He didn't hiss in pain however, and when I was finished he exclaimed his excitement and then shown his new stitches off to his friends as they climbed off the caravan.
"Rohirrim Warrior," The young Rohirrim's friends didn't just view his stitches with admiration; they found his new scar undeniably cool. They marveled at the raised, puckered line that now marked his skin, a symbol of his bravery and resilience.
"You're going to have the best scar in all of Rohan, I bet!"
"I wish my mother let me fight," another whined.
The day passed quickly and when we stopped to make camp for the night I felt as though I were still in motion, like my body was floating on a sea after being so used to the caravan moving underneath me.
I didn't see Barasil at all until it was night; I shouldered my bedroll and made my way through the dimly lit camp. In the shadows, I spotted him standing watch, a vigilant guardian amidst the sleeping travelers.
He smiled at me as I trekked up the hill, "couldn't sleep?"
"Not without my pillow," I answered with a yawn.
"I'm afraid you'll need to do without tonight," he answered solemnly.
It was then I noticed his attire, and put what he had spoken to me before together. "You're a warden now?"
He smirked, "Aye,"
"So you won't be my neighbor anymore," I lamented dramatically, unrolling my bedroll next to where he stood.
"You're supposed to be down there," he said though he made no move to stop me from lying down next to him.
"Don't make me use my Commander voice," I replied sleepily pulling my cloak over myself tightly.
The next day was much the same, I didn't wish to intrude on anyone and venture back onto the caravan that wasn't even mine. So when they came to me needing help we played the same game we played the day before. Two steps, assess, two more hurried steps, and still we always fell behind.
"Oi!" I heard a galloping of horse hooves behind me and as I turned I met the eyes of Éowyn. She wore a tunic of rugged brown and green. Leather bracers adorned her forearms, and a broadsword hung low in its sheath at her side.
"Folwen, the Commander Calliope requires your caravan." She spoke to the woman driving the horses. I held my palms out, "Oh, I don't really…"
Éowyn dismissed me quickly with her narrowed gaze; she spurred the horse and corralled me toward the carriage. "Do not lose your voice in your femininity," she said before spurring her horse again and riding off.
So then there I was dumbstruck and told off by a true woman warrior, and I again began attending to wounds.
I observed the people around me as they approached with bundles of herbs and plants, mostly children bringing their offerings. Some were tied in bundles, while others were arranged in woven baskets or held in the crooks of arms.
"Here's the purple ones," a child stated handing me a bundle of crumbled lavender.
I pointed to the wild parsnips one child had brought me, "Go wash your hands now."
But it was too late, shortly after bringing me any and every healing herb and even bits of grass that particular child returned to me bearing a rash of nasty inflamed skin up and down both arms.
Phyto-photo- dermatitis, which happens when the sap of the plant, from broken stems and leaves, touches the skin and is exposed to ultra- violet light (whether cloudy or sunny). The affected area will first redden and in most cases be followed by blisters that can be painful for a couple of days. In many cases, the blisters will lead to brownish pigmentation that can last for years.
Wild parsnips hold no healing qualities, and there is no cure for the rash. I had to send the foolish child away with nothing more than a wet rag and a scolding.
The day wore on and dragged, there were far fewer injuries to tend to but far more gastro-intestinal issues. Many approached me with grimaces of discomfort, seeking relief from their queasiness. How do you politely tell someone they are their own problem? Many of the upset stomachs were a result of an overconsumption of ale or questionable stew.
I would create a tea, a blend of mint leaves and other herbs to soothe their stomachs only for them to drink it along with the ale that caused their problems. The repeated instances of individuals resorting to the numbing effects of the drink grated on my patience. I didn't have it in me to turn them away however, so when repeat offenders graced the steps of the caravan with the same queasy expression all I could do is sigh, "Come on, I'll make you some tea."
How simple it would be to drown my own worries in ale, to let the warmth and numbness wash away the pain.
Even with the trickle of Rohirrim requesting my aid I still felt useless and unwanted. While I offered my expertise and care, I couldn't help but question my place within the camaraderie of Rohan's people. They no longer looked at me with distrustful hollow eyes but I WAS different. I merely am an outsider offering my skills from the periphery.
Éowyn made frequent trots past the caravan sometimes offering a word of encouragement sometimes just a nod. That evening, we had another helping of reheated stew clustered around small campfires. The soft crackling of burning wood provided a soothing backdrop to the scenes of camaraderie that unfolded. People sat together in groups, sharing tales of their day's trials and triumphs, their voices a comforting murmur in the still night air.
Éowyn plopped down next to me, spreading her legs wide making her presence that of a man. "You act caged," she stated plainly without an introduction. I've noticed many of the Rohirrim speak in that manner, very straight to the point.
"What?" I replied.
"You confuse me Calliope; you act as though you're locked in a cage. You act as if no one can reach you." She turned her face toward me, "But you are the one who erected those bars, and you are the one who hides behind them when our hands reach inside."
This was far too deep of a conversation to be had with a complete stranger. "I don't," I argued.
She laughed, "Aye, I've been watching you." She shook her head then, "It doesn't match, you don't match. You hold the confidence of a mouse,"
I couldn't argue, not only was she right, she also had her sword dangling from its sheath on her hip that was facing me.
"Uncage yourself," she said once before standing to her feet and walking away.
I wasn't able to find Barasil after the evening meal and took to endless pacing into the night. Was I that easy to read? Was she wrong? No, I had caged myself, not only from my healing capabilities but even friendships. I had shoved everyone away assuming they'd dislike me or dismiss me as they had in modern times and even with the many months of being in Middle-Earth I still hadn't changed.
Maybe I'll always be the same insecure Calico. I hated being perceived; I hated the attention, the observation whether good or bad it made me feel vulnerable and exposed. How many months did it take me to open up to Barasil? Yet even still he must force his help on me because I don't wish to bother him.
My musing turned into anger and I found myself searching the grass for pebbles to kick. Who did she think she was telling me I locked myself in a cage? The beautiful blonde princess, I'm sure she has many men pining for her affections, I'm sure she didn't have her first kiss forced on her along the wall of Hornburg!
Éowyn, beautiful and strong, just like Tauriel. She doesn't need to explain her condition to someone before even exchanging names, and most of all, she's named Shieldmaiden not for her looks but her role. Never have I been given a name that wasn't for my appearance. It was another reason I was excited to complete my nursing license, I wouldn't be Calico, I would be Calliope, Registered Nurse.
There were several avenues one with vitiligo took to hide their condition, there was the surgical route that often didn't do much, Miniature punch grafting, suction blister grafting. In one of my medical textbooks, there was an entire page devoted to treatment of Vitiligo. "Despite the low overall treatment response following punch grafting shown in our meta-analysis, recent studies describe motorized micropunch grafting has a greatly increased response rate and reduced cobblestone appearance." It had read, cobblestone appearance. Not beautiful, cobblestone.
Other methods were much cheaper, tattoos for example. Some within the community would match their exact skintone and the discoloration would only be slightly visible if they had tanned in the sun. Others would get tattoos that played into the different pigments using the white patches as highlights for a portrait. Foundation was another method.
I used none of those methods, it wasn't so much that I didn't want to, I desperately wanted to, I wanted to blend in. But I never quite had the courage or decision-making skills. How different would things be if I could be her? Commander Calliope?