Chapter 4
Darkness lingered strangely in the narrow room as though it were still the depths of night despite Lothíriel's body assuring her it was morning. The narrow window bore no trace of light and uncertainty clouded her thoughts as she stirred. Had she woken from a dream and there were still hours yet until dawn? The tendrils of sleep were loosening as she sat up on the cot, muscles stiff from the bed's thin mattress. The space was tiny, barely enough room for the bed and a side table, more of a storeroom than a bedchamber. But she was fortunate to have such privacy – the male healers were bunked together in dormitories on the other side of the sixth level and Ioreth was lodged elsewhere. Lothíriel had a moment of regret for not taking her brother up on the room in the Citadel, which was likely far warmer and abundant with amenities.
She'd slept her beige shift, expecting the room to start to warm with the morning light. But it remained a strange shade of dark; not quite night but shadowed, nonetheless. Standing, the Princess felt a shiver along her spine, the chill from the stone floor absorbed through her feet socks notwithstanding. But the shiver was not entirely borne of the climate in the room but felt, instead, a foreboding of malevolence and expectation.
Pulling the grey kirtle over her head the Princess shook the final vestiges of sleep from her mind, wondering if this was the quiet before the storm that was due. She tied the stays at her back the best she could and smoothed the ash hued fabric. After donning the dark brown boots, the woman unbound the thick braid and quickly re-plaited it before wrapping it to a loose chignon at the back of her neck and fastened it with the pins she'd taken from home. To protect her hair and keep errant strands from her face the woman had requested a thin hood of cloth from Ioreth, the eggshell rectangular fabric fitted just above her hairline and secured behind her head with thin ties.
Emerging from the tiny room she was surprised to see the vestibule lit with candles. She'd been afforded a room across the hall from the smaller sick bay to allow easier access to patients and she'd only yesterday marveled at the tall windows flanking the gallery. Today she fully expected the sunlight to stream through the arched panes, but only murky shadows lay beyond the windows. Following the sounds of healers moving through the bays, Lothíriel took a few deep breaths to quiet the trepidation in her heart.
"Hail, Lady," Ioreth's voice came before the woman herself, the Princess having just opened the door to the nearest hall. The thin woman greeted her with a smile as she folded a sheet and lay it upon one of a dozen pallets lining the wall.
"Good morning," Lothíriel replied, with a wary glance to the windows. "At least I think it is morning."
"Yes. But you wouldn't know it from the sky. The darkness of the enemy has tarnished the very sky, my Lady. An ill omen if I've ever seen one. There are victuals in the kitchen yonder. Not what you're used to, I wager, but they'll keep you full. Tea too, if you're inclined."
"Thank you."
"Derufin'll have you start on the poultices and salves in the main bay once you have your meal. Don't let him harry you into starting 'til you eat. Can't tend wounded men on an empty stomach. He can be a ruffian, can Derufin. But you set him – Caradoc! No, my lad, don't leave the steaming cauldrons there. Pardon me, Lady."
Ioreth turned to assist the boy, Caradoc, in whose hands was carried a large pot of hot water for cleaning tools of their craft. She left Lothíriel standing in the doorway, talking as she departed and throwing a wave in the direction of the kitchen for the Princess.
The day, if it could indeed be called such, saw the Lady of Dol Amroth hurrying from place to place in the House of Healing preparing for horrors of war. Beyond the tinctures and ointments amassed in the storerooms and in carts in each bay were instruments of far greater injury: suturing needles, knives ready for the brazier to cauterize wounds, hooks, trocars, trepans, trephines and drills. Most she'd used before but the long saw necessary for amputation felt alien in her hand as she affixed it to the cart in the bay closest to her room. She steeled herself against the quailing in her breast that she might have need to use the tool in the coming days.
TTTT
She was taking a short respite in the windowless stockroom, nibbling on a small leek and onion pie, though her appetite was faint, when the door opened with a creak. The face of young Bergil, son of Beregond, appeared before her, eyes wide with amazement and fright.
"Oh! Forgive me, Lady, I was looking for Findegil! But… Lady, come see! The clouds are moving and the very earth rumbles!"
The lad held the door open as Lothíriel stood, interest piqued by his enthrallment. Following Bergil from the halls of Healing to the balcony the air in her lungs caught in her throat as a great crimson light shot out of the distant landscape, racing to the dark clouds. It was a flash of red on the eastern horizon, the crash of thunder that followed causing both to jump. Lothíriel and Bergil were joined on the balcony by others, and she could see the folk in levels below flocking to catch sight beyond.
A moment of uneasy silence passed when an abrupt crackle of lightening, as blue as death, erupted from the tower of Minas Morgul, far closer to the city than the red flare. Dread gripped her as Bergil stepped back from the balcony edge, her hands finding his shoulders instinctively to steady and reassure him. He looked up at her, their eyes filled the same distress.
"I must find my father," he whispered, blinking slowly as they looked east once more. A shadowy sapphire hue painted the clouds above the Dead City, although the flash of light had disappeared, and the mountains seemed to groan under the weight of what was to come. Lothíriel nodded silently to the boy, giving his shoulders a comforting squeeze before he darted off.
She returned to the halls, listening to the murmurs of other healers positing what the two flashes could have been and steadying her own beating heart with slow breaths. She reminded herself she insisted on attending the city, whether for glory or ruin.
"Courage," she muttered to herself as a means of calming and convincing herself to stay composed. She turned from the direction of Mordor, back to the entrance of the smaller sick bay as she forced her hands to arrange the various liniments on the shelves.
"What light have I found in this dark hour?" came a familiar voice from the doorway. Lothíriel turned to see her cousin, Faramir, silhouetted against the dark sky in his ranging attire. A grin quelled the previous anxiety on her face as she flew to him, a bottle of salve still in her hand. He received her embrace and smiled slowly as she pulled back.
"Hello, littlest swan."
"Cousin!" she stepped back to take him in, a shadow crossing her face as she recalled the conversation with Erchirion yesterday. "It seems foolish to ask if you are well with the tidings of the day."
"I am well that I've seen you," he replied. A weighted silence followed as she studied him, unsure of what he did or did not know and fearing to let slip a secret. His face bore traces of fatigue and something… deeper. Sorrow but it was heavier, like a lament. "But I am not long for the city."
"But haven't you only arrived? Erchirion believed you were out ranging."
"Aye, returned to the city only through the mercy and strength of Mithrandir," he replied with sadness clipping the end of his voice. "And I have been sent on my next errand. I regret our meeting is so brief."
"But you are needed here, surely," Lothíriel replied, brow furrowed with confusion and worry. Where could he possibly be going after the eruption from Mordor only moments ago?
"I am a servant of the city," he answered carefully, as if to convince himself as well as her. "I must do as her Steward commands."
Lothíriel stared at him, grey eyes searching his face for understanding. The tactics of war were foreign to her, but she could not understand the advantage of a captain like Faramir being dispatched at this grave hour. He seemed to understand her confusion, placing his hands on her upper arms with a small smile, heavy with a burden she could only guess at.
"I heard you were in the city and wished to find you before I departed. It does my heart well to see you, Lothíriel."
"Oh, Faramir," she whispered, her hands resting on his arms. They gripped each other for a moment. Lothíriel had heard well enough from her brothers that Denethor treated his younger son ill and preferred Boromir over him in all things. And instead of turning to the strength of love the Steward had become even colder in the wake of Boromir's death. Although Faramir hadn't spelled it out for her the Princess could surmise the nature of this errand and it filled her heart with dismay and grief for her cousin.
"I'm afraid I must take my leave," he murmured with a squeeze of his hands before releasing her. Lothíriel followed suit, willing the tears behind her eyes to stay put until he left. If he could be strong in the face of this disaster, so too could she.
"Farewell, Cousin," she intoned as he offered another smile. She pressed her lips together as he turned away, setting her jaw to restrain from weeping. There would be time enough for tears. Their exchange lasted only a few minutes and he was gone, her arms still warm where his hands had been. She stared at the empty space he'd vacated, sending a plea to the Valar to keep him well and in their good grace amidst this impossible task.