Author's Note: The characters in this story will be familiar to readers of my other fics, though you can enjoy it even if you haven't read the others. For those who haven't, or don't remember:
Anna is a Ranger of the North, and the primary training mentor of Miriel, my central OC from the other stories. She was born in Rohan and had an itinerant, unstable childhood before settling in Bree, where she came in contact with the Rangers and eventually joined them. Refer to the second half of "Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost," especially the Anna POV (italicized) portions of Chapters 26, 30, and 32.
Darya is a healer, and Miriel's older sister.
Silevren was Anna's first lover, and Miriel's earliest mentor. She married Belegon, a fellow Ranger, and had two children with him. She was killed in an attack on Elenost, the main village of the northern Dunedain, not long after the conversation below takes place (refer to NATWWAL Chapter 12).
This story takes place a few months after the end of "A Light From the Shadows," and it is going to be quite short, compared with my others. There are no adventures. Nothing much happens. They don't even leave the village. There's a nasty wound, and a bit of relationship angst, but it's mostly just sweet. And for those of you who know Anna and Darya, I think you'll agree they deserve it.
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
~e.e. cummings
Prologue: Silevren
"Annie, you need someone who is yours."
"I have you."
Silevren laughed softly, smiled, shook her head. "You do. But for me, Bel and the children come first. You need someone who will put you first." And then, quietly, "I've seen you watching her."
Anna flushed, looked away, cursed her body for a traitor. "Don't know what you mean."
Silevren's smile widened to a grin. "She is beautiful, I'll give you that. A little…serious, but—"
"There's no point. She hates Rangers."
"That is not true, and you know it."
"Thinks we take too many risks, make more work for her and the others."
A soft, dry laugh. "I can't say she's wrong in that."
"She's not interested."
"How do you know?"
Anna said nothing.
"You don't. And you won't, unless you try."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I—what if—"
"What if she says no?"
Anna flushed again, but met Silevren's eyes, and a slight, shamefaced smile played about her lips.
"Would that be the worst thing that has ever happened to you, Annie?"
"You know it's not."
"And supposing she said yes?"
"She won't."
"But what if she did?"
Anna let out a breath, soft, unthinking, almost a groan.
"That's what I thought. You should try it."
"I won't."
Silevren shrugged. "I won't make you. I can't. But you should."
Eight years later…
Darya was sitting alone by the kitchen fire in the healers' house when the bell rang out from the gate. She lifted her head but did not stir from her seat; she did not expect Miriel back for another moon at least, and if it was any other she might wish to see – well, they know where to find me. Only for Mir would I go out on a night like this. Though the rain had stopped around noon, a damp, chill wind rattled the shutters.
She was sketching a cup-of-gold, the yellow-orange flower so bright it seemed to glow in the sunlight. Its roots were edible, if rather tasteless, and its buds, when chewed, brought relief from pain, so although it was not among the standard healing plants, she would include it in the book.
Mother's book.
That was what they had always called it. Miriel had laughed about it, and Andreth smiled tolerantly. Only Darya had defended her, as Mirloth sat, hour upon hour, setting down what she knew in parchment and ink. There were books, of course, tucked into dusty shelves in the storeroom. But they were old, and the healers rarely consulted them now, their knowledge passed down through hands and eyes and ears, watching and listening and doing, from one generation to the next. But Mother wanted to write it all down, update the old tomes.
Maybe she knew.
She drew a breath, let it out slowly. She could not have known.
She knew in the way that Miriel knows. She knew what could happen.
And now it falls to me. A small, bitter smile. To us. Miriel has Father's bow, and I have Mother's book.
For Mirloth was gone. Truly gone now, her small, frail body consumed by a winter fever, though by that time there had been little left that was her. Miriel did not know, had been gone since the summer before, in the mountains and beyond them. And Darya felt no bitterness, though she had at the time. It was selfish, she knew, but she had wanted her sister with her. Andreth lived in a village two days to the south, had come for the funeral, but she had her own family now, her husband and two little ones. Soon three, Darya reminded herself, if all goes well. They had come, but left again soon after, to return to their farm and their life.
And this is my life now. She lifted her head, glanced round the fire-lit kitchen, as familiar to her as her own home. She shook her head sharply, blinked and rubbed at her eyes. This is my home. Alone, there was no reason to live in the house where she had been born, had grown up with Miriel and Andreth, with her mother and father. They are all gone, and I am left. Alone.
You knew. You chose it. You chose this life. It could have been otherwise. Not what Andreth has, perhaps, but…unbidden then in her mind – a face, a voice, hair red-gold in firelight. The way she walks, as if the world were hers, as if she fears nobody and nothing…Darya let out a soft sigh, and her stomach tightened with wanting.
No. She wouldn't have you. Don't be a fool. She swallowed, forced her breath calm. And even if she would, there is Mother. There are few enough of us already. To risk that…
'How do you bear it?' Miriel had asked her once. 'Because I must,' she had replied, and it was true. I cannot go down that road. She straightened her shoulders, and turned her eyes to the book.
Yet she had hardly time to dip her pen in the inkwell and begin outlining the next petal before there was a sudden sound of running feet outside. Wood scraped and rusty hinges creaked as the door was yanked open. She set the book down quickly and rose, but she had not gone two steps before a boy burst into the room.
"There's a Ranger," he gasped. "H-hurt bad."
"Where is he?"
"Coming in, o-on the road. On a horse."
"Have him brought here at once. And go get Meloreth."
After the boy had gone, slamming the door shut behind him, Darya moved slowly, deliberately, readying the things she would need. She dipped a basin of warm water from the pot over the fire, refilled the pot and threw on two more logs to bring the water to a boil. She laid out cloths for cleaning and bandaging, salves, needles and thread, and a small, sharp knife. And she breathed deeply to calm her racing heart, as through her mind ran the words, over and over, as a chant that makes desires truth: It's not Miriel. It's not Miriel. Please, let it not be Miriel.
Before long, she heard voices approaching, and the slow clop of hooves. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders and stepped out into the chill, blowing twilight.
The horse was a bony, muddy, exhausted thing. A girl held the reins, and two men walked next to it, one on either side. The Ranger was slumped over the horse's back, limp and unmoving, lashed on with a ragged rope. The face where it lay on the horse's neck was turned away, and the hood drawn up, but—Too tall. It's not her.
The child brought the horse right up to the door and stopped.
"Cut him free, and bring him in," said Darya sharply.
"It ain't a him, mistress," said one of the men. "She's alive, but not by much."
A sick dread twisted her stomach. No. It's not Miriel. It's not Miriel. Then one of the men pulled back the hood, and pale yellow hair stood out starkly in the fading light.
Darya bit her lip. No, not Miriel. Thus are my prayers answered. And the thought was bitter as a curse.
The men drew knives and cut the rope, and between them they slid Anna off the horse. Her head lolled, and she sagged limply in their arms. They carried her inside, the floorboards creaking under their burdened tread.
"In here." Darya gestured them to the room she had prepared. Grunting with the effort, they set Anna down on the bed. Despite their care, they jolted her a little, but she gave no sign of feeling. Her eyes were closed, her face deathly pale. Her clothes were torn and damp, stained with dirt and blood. When the men had set down their burden, they stepped back uncertainly.
"Go," said Darya, more sharply than she had intended. "Take care of the horse. And Elli, find Meloreth. Tell her I need her now."
The girl dashed out the door, and the men followed more slowly. And then she was alone.
"Annika, bellen," she breathed.
But that was all, and then her hands began the work they knew so well. Swiftly, forcing herself not to think, she stripped off Anna's wet clothes. The Ranger's hands and feet were icy cold, but her chest burned with fever; there were dirty bandages on her left thigh and left shoulder. And around her torso, from hip to lower back—Darya's breath hissed through her teeth as her fingertips traced two long, parallel gashes. The flesh around them was hot and swollen, and a smell of corruption slipped through the air.
No man did this, she knew immediately. Wolf? No, too far apart, and too deep. Bear. She recalled the stories she had heard as a girl, of bears waking early from their winter sleep and coming down hungry into the lands of men, preying on isolated farmsteads when they could find no other meat. She must have found one. Or perhaps it found her. Doesn't matter now.
Carefully, she unwrapped the bandages. She had to loosen the last layers with warm water, and still there was a painful tug when she pulled them off. Or would have been painful, had Anna been aware of pain. She did not so much as twitch—and Darya's fear bit ever deeper.
The wound on Anna's thigh, another deep slash, had been stitched and was healing, but the shoulder was a mass of inflamed flesh surrounding four deep punctures.
It got its teeth in her, and still she fought it off.
"Bellen," she whispered again. But now was no time to think on the strength that must have taken, and the strength it must have taken to bind her own wounds, haul herself up onto the horse, and travel the long road home.
As she was probing the shoulder, she heard footsteps in the passage, and heavy breath, and then Meloreth was in the doorway. The older woman made a soft sound of dismay, then came and knelt by the bed.
"Bear, I think," said Darya shortly, her voice under brittle control.
Meloreth nodded.
Long accustomed as they were to working side by side, they needed no more words. Anna still did not stir, as they cut and washed and stitched and wrapped. Her breath was shallow, and her pulse, when Darya found it in the hollow of her hip, rapid and weak. When at last the wounds were cleaned and bandaged, Meloreth made to take Anna's hands in hers.
"No," said Darya. "Let me."
Meloreth raised her eyebrows but said nothing, and backed away.
Gently, Darya laid her hands on Anna's pale skin. I wanted to touch you. But not like this. Not like this. And she sent herself from her body.
She had wondered, idly, what it would be like to touch Anna with her mind—though far more often, over the years, she had wondered what it would be like to touch Anna with her hands. She had dreamed it would be easy, gentle, as though nothing lay between them. But in her heart she knew otherwise. Weak though she was, Anna's will resisted, clenched tight around itself, allowing no other to enter. Darya found herself calling out, with her voice as well as her mind, though she hardly heard the words. Words she had never spoken aloud, though uncounted times she had thought them.
"Anna. Bellen, let me in. Let me heal you." The wall held a moment longer, but then there was a strange flush, as if Anna's spirit awoke, though her body did not stir. The resistance was gone. And then there was only the pain.
Taking a deep breath, Darya clenched her teeth and began to draw it out. Agony and exhaustion rolled through her like a wave, submerging her and dragging her down. She fought, fought as hard as she could, fought harder than she had ever fought in her life. But in the end, long before she would have wished it, she felt the blackness rising in her mind. Fear then, and memory so strong it seemed almost real. Do not go down that road. And with the last of her strength she pulled away.
Gradually, the room came back to her, and Meloreth's hands steady on her shoulders.
"All right there, Dar?" she asked quietly.
Darya nodded, though still her breath shook.
Meloreth took Anna's hand in both of hers, and then she bowed her head and was still. Yet it lasted only a moment, and when she laid Anna's hand gently back on the bed and turned to Darya, her face was calm.
"She'll not die tonight, at least. Now go and rest. I'll watch until morning."
Darya wanted to protest, but her lips would not form the words. She stood shakily, grasping the bedpost to steady herself. But before she turned to go, she reached out and brushed her fingertips over the back of Anna's hand.
She did not remember walking to her room, nor undressing. But she must have done so, for when she woke, she was in her own bed, wearing only a shift but warm beneath thick blankets. Morning light was broad in the window. Her body ached and her head was pounding, and she had a vague memory of anguished dreams. She forced herself to sit up despite the dizziness and gulp down a cup of water. Then she fell back onto the bed and slept.
When she woke again, in the middle of the afternoon, she felt better. She rose carefully, still not entirely steady on her feet. The effort of dressing and brushing her hair exhausted her, and she had to stop twice to rest. When it was done, she lay back down, sickness rising in her throat. Yet after a time, she was able to stand again and make her way slowly out into the hall. As she emerged, Methoreth was coming around the corner from the kitchen, a tray in her hands.
"I heard you moving about, dear. Thought you might want some food."
Darya's stomach twisted so painfully she almost cried out. "I—yes," she rasped. And then, "Anna?"
Meloreth smiled a little. "Still alive. Still feverish, but no worse. Maybe a bit better. But come, you must eat before you go back to her."
Darya nodded and obeyed, though the food might have been water for all she tasted it. Yet it strengthened her, and when it was gone, she carried the tray back to the kitchen with no more than a slight trembling in her hands. Meloreth was pouring steaming water into a mug. Darya sniffed at it and frowned.
"Lemongrass?"
"She needs to drink – there's not enough water in her body." But then, more gently, "Don't fret. She's hard to kill." Meloreth smiled, met her eyes. "You've seen enough of her here over the years to know that."
Darya nodded, though there was a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the pain in her own body.
Meloreth pushed herself to her feet, filled the remainder of the mug with cool water and lifted it carefully. "Come hold her for me."
At first sight, Anna did seem a little better – there was a hint of color in her cheeks, and it seemed that she breathed more easily. But her skin was papery dry, and hot to the touch. She moaned a little when Darya slid both arms under her back, but she did not open her eyes.
Darya lifted her up and eased behind her to sit on the bed. Careful of her wounds, Darya lowered her gently back until her head rested in the hollow between Darya's neck and shoulder. Her hair tickled Darya's cheek, and the heat of her body warmed Darya's breasts and arms and belly. Darya swallowed hard to stifle a moan. Not like this, bellen. I wanted to hold you, but not like this.
Yet her hands were steady, and so was her voice. "There, that's the way, drink a little. You'll feel better, just a little more now…" And so she continued on, murmuring comforting inanities as Meloreth poured the tea bit by bit into Anna's mouth. Anna coughed and shuddered, and some of the tea dribbled down her chin, but instinct made her swallow. When it was gone, Meloreth seemed satisfied.
"Let that settle for a bit, and then we'll try another cup. Do you want to change the dressings, or shall I?"
"I'll do it."
Meloreth nodded. "I'll get what you'll need."
When the older woman had gone, Darya took Anna's hands in hers. Though she knew Meloreth would not approve, not so soon after last night, she reached out, seeking pain. This time it was easier. Anna's instinctive resistance flared only a moment before crumbling, and then Darya was holding her, body and spirit mingled as though there were no mine and no hers, and her strength was in Anna, and Anna's weakness was in her, until they were both strong and both weak and both comforted.
After a time, reluctantly, she pulled away and returned to herself, shaky but calmed. I should move. If Meloreth finds us like this…But she did not move, or rather moved only a little, moved her fingers so they caressed Anna's scarred hands, and rested her cheek on Anna's hair.
"Annika," she whispered. A breath, and then, soft and low, "Melethen."
Beloved. So many times had she thought the word, but never dared say it aloud. It sounded strange to her ears, intimately familiar though it was to her heart. Anna did not stir, but when Darya laid gentle fingers on her wrist, her heartbeat was strong and steady, and there seemed a peace in her body that was not there before. I would hold you forever…
Too soon, she heard Meloreth's bustling footsteps in the passageway. She slid awkwardly off the bed, laying Anna back down as gently as she could. Yet it was not enough, and Anna moaned at the pressure on her wounds. Darya flinched. Fool. Selfish fool, you've hurt her. And now there must be more. For even as she cursed herself, her hands were moving, carefully unwrapping Anna's bandaged shoulder, so that when Meloreth entered, she seemed hard at work. Seemed, and was, and her worried frown deepened as she peeled away the bandage. Anna moaned again, her arm jerking feebly as instinct sought to fight off whatever was causing her such pain. Wordlessly, Meloreth knelt by Darya's side and held Anna's arm still. Yet when the bandage at last came away, she relaxed a little, though the worry did not leave her face. The wound was no worse than it had been the day before, though it was no better either. The flesh was still red and swollen, and the slightest touch made Anna writhe in pain. Yet it seemed that the infection had not spread. Perhaps she will keep the arm… Don't think, just work.
With Meloreth's help, Darya cleaned and poulticed the wound, and then wrapped it in fresh bandages. Anna had stopped struggling, though the soft, agonized sounds she made tore at Darya's heart. And suddenly an image came clearly to her mind – Mirloth, curled on the floor, her face frozen in a rictus of anguish. Now I know, mother. You hoped I would never know. It was the one relief you had, when I told you how I was. But now I know.
When it was all over, Anna was utterly exhausted. The color had gone from her face. She lay without moving, her body slack, and she seemed hardly to breathe.
Meloreth rose stiffly to her feet. "Stay with her a bit – I'll go make more tea." Her voice was tired, and when she turned to go, she staggered a little and clutched Darya's shoulder.
Darya looked up at her, sudden concern in her face. "Make a cup for yourself, too, and then you must rest. You let me have the night. You're not so young anymore."
"Keep your mouth shut before your elders, child." But she smiled, and squeezed Darya's shoulder gently before releasing it and making her way to the door.
When Meloreth had gone, Darya once again took Anna's hand. It was hot and flushed, and felt heavy in hers, big and rough and scarred. It did not feel like a woman's hand. It feels like Miriel's hand. And then, Do I love you because you are like my sister? She traced her fingertips over the lines of Anna's face, brushed them over the tangled mass of golden hair. No. You are not my sister.
For something to occupy her hands, she began to brush Anna's hair. It was so matted and dirty that she found it a struggle even to take out the braid. A small part of her was glad Anna could not feel, for if she had, it would have caused her pain. Had Darya been less patient, or less desperate for something useful to do, she might have cut it, so hopeless did the knots seem. Yet she worked the comb through slowly, starting at the ragged ends and moving up inch by inch, until at last it lay pale and smooth on her hand. Still it was dirty, but there was no help for that. She could not hope to wash it until Anna could sit on her own.
She gathered it up again into a lopsided braid. "I'm sorry," she murmured, with a faint, self-deprecating smile. "Not up to your standard."
Anna said nothing, gave not the slightest sign of recognition, and the fear clenched at Darya's heart again. She laid a hand on Anna's brow, found it hotter than before. Unbidden came the traitorous thought to her mind: At least she will go beautiful to her grave.
The hand that held Anna's tightened. No. Or at least not yet.
But steadily, inexorably, Anna's fever rose. She began to sweat, only a little at first, but then more and more, until her clothes were drenched in it. She moaned, disjointed words and wordless cries that tore at Darya's heart. And a name. A man's name, over and over. Her limbs twitched feebly, erratically, in response to what fear or pain or nightmare Darya could not tell.
And in the end, I am helpless.
She did what she could. She laid cool cloths on Anna's flushed skin and trickled water between her cracked lips. Awkwardly, with much tugging and grunting, she changed the soiled robe for a clean, dry one. And at last, she steeled her mind and took Anna's hand.
She took it all, the pain, the sickness, the fever and the fear. There was no barrier this time, nothing to overcome or beat down. With the tiniest flicker of hope: Her defenses know me no longer as an enemy. But then, grim, inexorable: No. She has no defenses left.
So it was that Meloreth found them, as the first pale light of dawn seeped through the shutters. The candle had guttered out, pale wax dripping over the table. Darya was asleep, her head sunk on her breast, Anna's hand clasped between both of hers. But Anna's eyes were open.
At Meloreth's heavy tread on the floor, Darya stirred, started, woke. Her head jerked up, and she looked. And then she gasped softly. Of its own accord, even before she could have willed it, her hand reached out, touched Anna's cheek, found it warm but not hot, as was the hand she still held in hers. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, coughed instead. Her throat felt rough, agonizingly dry, and she had a pounding headache. But Meloreth was at her side, holding a cup of water to her lips. Not taking her hands from Anna's, Darya drank. Too fast, for she coughed and choked a little before she recovered herself. The water was a relief, but still her mind felt muddled, half-asleep, and she could not gather her wits enough to think what she ought to do next. And so she sat, unmoving, blinking stupidly in the morning light, and all she could see, and all that mattered, were blue eyes gazing steadily, lucidly into her own.
Meloreth had filled the cup again, and now she slipped an arm around Anna's shoulders and raised her enough to drink. Anna's head lolled to the side; even lifting it seemed too much effort. But she drank the whole cup, sip by sip. Then she lay back and closed her eyes, breathing deeply, heavily, as though the effort had exhausted her. Meloreth smoothed a wisp of hair back from her face, then said quietly, "Get some sleep, Dar."
The voice, the first words that had been spoken since Meloreth entered the room, roused Darya from her lethargy. She took firmer hold on Anna's hand. Still her thoughts were muddled, but one came through clear enough.
"No," she croaked.
And at the same time, though Anna's eyes did not open, and her voice was no more than a whisper: "No."
Meloreth frowned, looked from one to the other, though neither looked at her. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. At last, a resigned nod. "Very well. But sit. I'll not have you do aught else until you rest."
So Darya sat, Anna's hand in hers, while Meloreth tended the Ranger's wounds. Anna said nothing, made no sound and did not open her eyes. But her lips pinched together, and she gripped Darya's hand with a strength Darya would not have thought she possessed. Anna's body tensed, and though Darya did not reach out, she could feel the pain, felt it in her hand, felt it in her back and her shoulder. And then, caring nothing for wisdom or consequences, she did reach out, her shoulders hunching, her head bent, her whole being drawing in on itself, in on the place where long, smooth fingers met broad scarred ones.
Meloreth felt her do it, felt Anna's body relax as the pain left her. She looked up from her work, glanced at them both for a moment, sighed, said nothing. And when she was done, she brought a blanket and laid it over Darya's shoulders. She left then but soon returned, bearing a folding cot. She roused Darya enough to shift her from her seat.
"If you'll not sleep elsewhere, Dar, then sleep here."
Darya heard the words through the roaring in her ears, watched dumbly as Meloreth unfolded the cot and made it up. When it was done, she lay down without protest, indeed without thought, finding Anna's hand again by the instinct that draws the chilled wanderer in the wild to hold his hands to a fire. Even before Meloreth had taken off her shoes and covered her with a blanket, she was asleep.
Notes:
Cup-of-gold - Copa de oro, or California poppy. Of course they exist in Middle Earth... ;)
Bellen - strong one
For readers who are new to my stories, one of the significant changes I've made to canon is that there are a fairly small number of Dunedain healers who possess supernatural healing abilities akin to Aragorn's, though not as strong. But of course, there is no gain without risk and cost...
This is a rather different type of story than those I've written before. If you're enjoying it, or have suggestions for improvement, please drop me a line!