The stew was good that evening. Warm, familiar, and not overly rich. There were enough people at the inn that she didn't feel on display, but not so many that she felt overwhelmed. No one came over to speak with her—they probably knew she wouldn't want to talk—but many offered approving nods at her presence.
Even the music was light, uncomplicated. The lutist was new, and clearly trying to win this particular audience of farmers and field workers with ballads on familiar topics and local heroes.
It was the perfect night to try to be a person again.
The innkeeper, Lloyd, placed a draught of her favorite cider in front of her saying, "On the house. It's good to see you." Bless him. She took a small sip, then another. It was as good as she remembered. She just wished her mind could allow her to enjoy it. How could she find pleasure in anything with Aldun scarcely one week in the ground? The taste of it soured in her mouth, and she almost stood up to rush out, to try again tomorrow—or perhaps next year. But she suddenly sensed all eyes in the room falling on her, and her presence here tonight was meant to quell talk of her, not encourage it. She would finish her meal and cider, then be on her way. She could manage that much.
Lloyd walked hurriedly past her table, and, turning around, she quickly realized that it was not she whom the townspeople were staring at.
Two men had entered the inn. Foreigners, by the look of them, and worse for the wear. One supported the other, holding his companion's arm over his shoulder. He wore dark, well-worn travel clothes, a sword at his side and quiver on his back. Likely one of those rangers she'd heard tell of. The other one's face was obscured under a dark travel cloak, but she could see that he was considerably paler than the man supporting him. There was blood running down his right leg from a wound on his upper thigh.
Lloyd was shaking his head as he approached them, arms held out.
"I've no space for you here. You'll need to keep moving."
The ranger seemed accustomed to this reaction to his presence. He held his ground.
"I know you have the space. We will not be any trouble. I can pay twice your nightly rate," he said, calmly.
"There is no amount you could pay that would be worth the trouble. Whoever is pursuing you—"
"They are dead."
"Only more proof of the danger you pose to my business. I am responsible for the safety and comfort of my patrons. There are women and children here. I have sick and injured who need quiet."
The ranger lowered his voice, his tone beseeching. "My friend is both injured and sick. He can barely stand. A storm swiftly approaches—"
"If you leave quickly enough, perhaps you can reach the next town before it hits. They are more accustomed to foreigners than we are." Lloyd's face softened. "I am sorry for your trouble. But it will not become mine. That is my final word."
She felt a heavy silence fall over the room, and she realized the lutist had stopped mid-song. The ranger gave a quick glance around him, no doubt noticing at least four men ready to spring up and throw them out at the slightest indication from the innkeeper. It was no secret where their loyalty lay.
Lloyd was a kind, but fiercely protective man. She did not grudge him his decision, but it still did not sit well with her heart. As wild and rugged as the darker man appeared, she felt no fear at the sight of him. This itself was odd; her trust in strangers had all but vanished in the past fortnight. Her unshakable Aldun, dead not ten miles from home by the hands of bandits who hadn't even taken the one truly valuable item on him. He had probably offered them assistance; salves and bandages for cracked and bleeding feet. He had hated seeing people in pain.
This stranger could have been one of them but for the feel of him. It was as if he had an inherent goodness that neither blood nor dirt could hide. As for his companion, the man seemed only half-conscious, his pale face mostly hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. The features she could make out seemed too perfect, too clean, which made no sense, as he was just as covered in blood and mess—even more so than his friend, in fact.
Yes, Aldun would have helped them. He'd already be on the other side of the injured man, helping him to the nearest bed, Lloyd be damned.
Yet she stayed frozen to her seat as the ranger looked back and forth about the room, bearing more and more of his friend's weight.
"Come on, we're leaving," the ranger whispered to the hooded form. The injured man grunted softly in protest, but his feet quickly found the floor again as his friend made his way toward the door. The lutist started up again midway through the song's twelfth chorus, and she could hear the men at the nearest table speaking of rangers and bad omens.
She'd had enough this evening. It was time to go home. She took one more sip of the cider, then reached into her satchel, placed her coins on the table, and stood, pushing her chair back. She gave Lloyd a nod of thanks, which he returned. Then she calmly stepped out of the inn in time to see the injured man's knees buckle beneath him ten paces down the road.
Her feet seemed to move on their own, and before she knew it she was draping the man's free arm over her slight frame. She flinched at his pained gasp, but held on tightly. She looked up into the bewildered ranger's face.
"Come with me," she said. "My home is less than half a mile from this place. We can get him there together." She turned them firmly toward the road.
"Are you sure about this?" the ranger softly questioned, relief plain in his voice.
"Of course. I am a childless widow, sir. That means it is solely my decision who I welcome into my home. My husband would have helped you. I have chosen to honor his memory."
"You have our gratitude, my lady."
"My name is Glaina," she said. "And what do they call you around here?"
"Those who know me in these parts call me Strider."
Glaina looked him up and down. "I can see why," she quipped, noting that he was more than a foot taller than her. The height difference made it awkward to support the man draped between them, but she managed to bear a decent amount of his dead weight as they made their slow way to her home.
Upon reaching the house, she looked around to make sure no one was watching before ushering them quickly inside. She helped them over to the bed in the corner, then lit the fireplace and hung a pot of water over it to boil. She quickly set to work lighting the many glass lamps about the room. Aldun had used them when performing surgery.
As he laid his companion down, Strider began to speak softly to him in a tongue she had often heard Aldun singing in. She had never been able to fully understand the language, but she was familiar with many individual words. Strider had been saying something about rest, medicine, and friend. He began to strip himself of his weapons and his own bloodied travel cloak, leaving them in a pile nearby.
"You disrespect our host, mellon nín," the injured man said in the common tongue. "She will think we are whispering of ill and secret things." His voice was weak, but there was humor in his tone. Strider smiled at the gentle chiding from his friend.
"You are right, of course," he said, then he turned to Glaina. "Please forgive my rudeness, and do speak up if we lapse again. We are used to speaking the Grey-Tongue when it is only the two of us."
Suddenly it all made sense, why the injured man had seemed so foreign and fair despite the blood and grime. He was an elf. An elf, of all things, in her home.
"He's an elf," she said, her tone halfway between a question and a statement. Strider nodded, gravely.
"He is," he confirmed. "I hope you will forgive me for keeping him concealed. He has a tendency to attract the wrong kind of attention, especially in these parts, where his kind are rare."
"Rare indeed. I've never even seen an elf before."
There came a soft huff from the bed.
"You've hardly seen one now," the elf said.
Strider laughed at that. "And here's your first taste of elvish vanity. Legolas here would have you know that he looks quite a bit more regal when freshly bathed and standing on his own two legs."
The elf hissed a word of warning in elvish—it sounded much like the word for hope, but that didn't make much sense in context. Still, it was clear that the elf—Legolas—was not happy with how freely his companion had spoken.
Strider put out a placating hand, nodding as if he understood what he had said to anger his friend. "Let's get you out of these things so I can check your wounds," he said.
The hooded cloak was quick and easy to remove, clearly only there to hide that face and those ears. Glaina could not stop the soft "oh" that escaped her lips at seeing an elf's face for the first time. Legolas gave her a small, knowing smile. Strider just rolled his eyes and set to work cutting the tunic off. It had probably been a beautiful garment once, but now the pale green of it only showed through in patches, for most of it was caked with dried blood and mud. When that was removed, Glaina nearly gasped at the state of the undershirt, and she could see Strider cringe as well. The lower half of the pale shirt, which had been wrapped with bandages, was soaked with bright, wet blood.
"I thought we had your bleeding under control," Strider said, aghast.
Legolas's eyes met his friend's, and he almost looked embarrassed as he said something to him in elvish. Something about his arm, and a rip, or a tear. He tilted his head in Glaina's direction as he spoke. Strider quickly cut the bandages and shirt off to reveal pale, bruised skin all over—and the broken shaft of a black arrow sprouting from the lowest ribs on his right side. The still-bleeding wound had already begun to sour. Glaina felt a wave of nausea at the smell of the blood and infection. She swallowed with effort.
"It was my fault," she said, softly. "Your wound tore open when I pulled your arm over my shoulder. That's what you just said, right? I'm sorry; I didn't realize where you were hurt. Im naer, Legolas."
Both Legolas and Strider stared at her, wide-eyed.
"You know some elvish," Strider said, astonished. Glaina nodded.
"I cannot properly speak it, but I can catch enough words to piece together meaning most of the time."
A blush was rising in Legolas's cheeks, and not altogether from his fever.
"I did not intend to place blame on you," he said, quickly. "I was only telling him what happened. If I had known you could understand me—"
"Peace, Legolas, you are not well," Strider said, a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Though perhaps this should be a lesson to us both. We must never assume our words to be secret, even in a land barren of elf-kind." He looked back at Glaina. "Neither of us blame you for what happened. You have our sincerest gratitude for your help." Legolas nodded in agreement.
Glaina nodded back, then threw a hand to her lips at another wave of nausea. She was definitely going to be sick.
"I'll be right back," she managed to choke out before practically running out her front door. She vomited the small amount she had eaten that evening into the bushes. She seized a nearby bucket of rainwater and splashed some on her face, swishing and spitting several mouthfuls. The tears came as she sat there on the ground, alone. He would have known by now. His hands would have been on her back, tying long, golden hair into a braid. She could feel them even now, and their loss ached. The first few drops of rain began to fall from a dark grey sky as thunder rumbled in the distance. Trembling, she took several deep breaths before wiping the tears from her eyes and stepping back inside.
Strider had taken the opportunity to remove the rest of Legolas's clothing and cover him with a blanket. He gave Glaina a concerned look as she came back over to the bed. She held a hand up, shaking her head.
"It's nothing, I'm fine," she said. "How is he?"
"Resting now. But I cannot delay treating his wounds any longer. Do you know where the nearest surgeon is?"
Glaina flinched as the familiar pain flared up. "Nowhere nearby. Two towns over, maybe three. My husband was our surgeon. The local council is working to replace him, but they haven't found anyone yet."
"I am sorry. It must have happened recently then."
"Two weeks ago."
Strider winced. "Again, I am so sorry. I cannot imagine what you have been through."
"It's all right. Perhaps his supplies might be of use to you? I am not much good for anything but needlework and binding, but I have a great deal of bleached bandages, disinfectants, needle and gut. I also have the bag he traveled with."
Strider's eyes widened. "Indeed, you might have everything I require! I have some skill as a surgeon myself, but all our supplies were lost in our escape today. May I see the bag?"
"Of course."
Glaina hurried from the room, as much to escape the lingering smell of blood as to retrieve her husband's most valuable possession. She found it where it had been left two weeks ago, pressed into a cupboard out of sight. Her stomach turned at the sight of it. Beautiful oiled leather, built to resist rain and heavy travel. The stains from his blood had turned brown.
She gagged again, the image of Aldun, his body broken and mangled, flashing across her vision. It took several more deep breaths to calm her stomach and her nerves. She grabbed the bag and returned to her guests with renewed determination.
Strider accepted the leather bag with thanks, and he wiped bloody hands on his trousers before opening the delicate metal clasps. He gasped at what he saw within, and Glaina felt a small swell of pride. The bag was neatly organized into several smaller compartments, each with several pockets that contained herbs and powders in small, meticulously labeled bottles, all in the elvish language and script. Glaina knew several of the medicines by sight, though she had never learned to read the elvish labels. Another section of the bag contained tools; small surgical knives, scissors, tongs. She heard a sniff and was surprised to see Strider wiping tears from his eyes.
"Your husband studied medicine in Rivendell," he said after a moment.
Glaina blinked in surprise. "How did you know?"
"The organization, the labels, the names he used for the most common herbs." Strider pulled out an old bottle with only a couple of dried leaves in it. "This label is in Elrond's own hand."
Glaina nodded. "Aldun was a student of Elrond Half-elven. He was one of the few men of the south who proved himself worthy of studying elvish medicine. Are you one of them as well?"
"Not exactly. But I did study with Elrond. I spent much of my youth in Rivendell." He pulled out another bottle and shook its contents—a few small pieces of willow bark—into his palm.
"Then perhaps Aldun was known to you? You cannot be more than a few years older than he was."
Strider shook his head, offering an apologetic look.
"I'm a little older than I appear. But I believe we would have been good friends had we met."
He placed a gentle hand on the elf's chest. Legolas's eyes fluttered open and narrowed in his direction.
"Surely you do not yet weep for me?" Legolas said, his soft voice gently teasing.
"Nay, not for you. Glaina's husband was dear to my adar. A student of his. He has left us the means to help you."
Glaina had never known adar to be a synonym for teacher, but that seemed to be the only explanation here, so she didn't question it.
Legolas winced. "I should not have spoken so lightly. I am so very sorry for your loss, my lady."
Glaina just nodded and offered the same sad smile she had performed more than a dozen times over the past fortnight.
"Open your mouth," Strider instructed. Legolas blinked twice, then obeyed, allowing Strider to place a piece of willow bark on his tongue. "Chew. The bark will help while I get something stronger prepared."
"And if I don't want something stronger?" The elf's eyes held a challenge in them.
"You will," Strider said, calmly. "I will not force sleep on you, but I have intricate work to do that you must be still for. Your leg wound will need to be opened. I am not certain about the other. We must pray that the shaft yet holds.
Legolas gave no reply, but began to chew as he was told.
Glaina's heart hurt for the elf. She knew the bark would do very little to ease the pain. Still, it was often the first thing Aldun would give to his patients. He said chewing it gave them something to focus on; something to distract them while he prepared anesthetics and surgical instruments.
She watched Strider lay out a gleaming set of blades and a small pair of tongs, just as Aldun had done a hundred times before.
She took a cloth and grabbed the pot of boiling water off the fire, pouring some of it into smaller bowls and cups. She brought one of the bowls over, and Strider nodded in thanks, dropping the instruments into the steaming water. Next, she brought one of the cups. He gave her a grave look, holding up a small bottle of powdered medicine. She shook her head.
"That will not be enough for him, especially if elves are as tolerant as I've heard." She reached into the bag, pressing a different bottle into his hand. "This one is stronger, faster. He should drink it all."
Strider eyed the label, then removed the cork and gave the contents a sniff. He nodded at last, satisfied.
"Thank you." He poured the entire contents into the cup, stirring it a bit with a piece of bark.
Legolas watched him with eyes that were already beginning to glaze over from exhaustion, fever, and pain.
Strider reached out and pressed his hand behind the elf's head, gently lifting it up. Legolas raised a hand between his mouth and the still-steaming cup.
"Estel nín. Cin gar estel nín," he said, fever-bright eyes staring into Strider's.
She was pretty sure he was saying, I trust you, though it seemed more a warning than a statement of faith. The elf must have been truly afraid of losing himself in a stupor.
"I know, mellon nín. We will go slowly."
The elf's hand dropped to his side, and he closed his eyes as Strider raised the cup to his lips. He swallowed once, twice, three times before he turned his head away. Strider glanced at the cup, then passed it to Glaina. Well over half of the mixture yet remained. Her jaw clenched. It would not be enough. Aldun would have insisted his patient drink the entire cup—and an elf would need more than that, not less.
"Another bowl for my hands, please," Strider said, and Glaina had been so caught up in her thoughts that it took a moment for her to realize he was speaking to her again.
"Of course." She rushed to bring the bowl and a towel over. He cleaned his hands, wrists, and forearms in an achingly familiar pattern that made her feel like weeping. When he was finished, he laid the disinfected instruments out on a clean towel beside the elf.
"I'll start with the one in his ribs. The wound has extended enough that I may not need to widen it further. With any luck, the shaft will remain attached."
He touched Legolas on the shoulder, and the elf seemed to snap back from the reverie he had been descending into.
"Has the medicine taken hold yet?" Strider asked.
"It has. The pain is less now, as if its sharp edges have been dulled. But my mind already feels clouded. I dare not take any more."
Strider nodded. "Then I will begin."
