Chapter 5
Days passed for Lothíriel with much of the same uniformity, the near endless tasks of the Healers keeping her diligent and allowing her to sleep deeply with exhaustion. Faramir's departure the morning after he met with her was heartrending and she could not bear to stand at the balcony for fear of seeing his company return without him. The Wizard, for his part, had visited Faramir and his men in Osgiliath the day after and returned with a number of wounded soldiers, which kept Lothíriel, and healers occupied.
The whispers amongst the city told of the army of Mordor approaching with each hour, soon to be upon Minas Tirith and their fates decided irrevocably. So too did a rumor spread that Rohan had not answered the call sent by Denethor some days prior. Despair seeped slowly into the walls, creeping along in the hearts of the people with each hushed comment and furtive glance east. Lothíriel did her best to set her mind to hope but it proved an arduous task as the days slipped by, the darkness of the sky barely registering the difference between dawn and dusk.
She'd taken to breakfast with the Hobbit, Pippin; he and the boy, Bergil, joining her in the kitchen in the morning before they parted to go about their tasks. In the evening she ate with her father and brothers in the Citadel, the Steward noticeably missing from these meals, where he might be expected to preside over. Both Imrahil and Gandalf were a source of courage and resilience in the absence of Denethor and the woman found herself hoping her uncle would remain elsewhere.
One the fifth day since their arrival in Minas Tirith Lothíriel was roused from sleep by a quick set of knocks on her door. Mumbling permittance to enter the woman pulled herself from the cot upon which she was napping. It was likely not yet after noon, the eleventh bell having peeled just before she laid her head to rest. Without waiting for a more formal beckoning, Ioreth opened the door and slid her sapling thin body into the room before shutting the door. Rubbing her eyes to discard the fetters of sleep the Princess tilted her head to the side, stretching the sore muscles in her neck.
"My Lady, forgive the intrusion. Mithrandir and your Lord Father have ridden out in aid of the Steward's son." Ioreth paused, uncharacteristically, to gauge Lothíriel's response. Grasping at once for her linen pinafore the woman raised her brows, encouraging further information from the other healer. "It seems his company was besieged at the Rammas Echor and will be escorted back to the city… should they escape the enemy."
Lothíriel was already leaving the room, Ioreth following her as they swiftly traversed the narrow hallway. Instead of stopping in the nearest sick bay the Lady of Dol Amroth made a beeline for the balcony of the sixth level, overlooking the field and wall of Rammas Echor beyond.
In the distance she could see the assembly of Swan Knights, their blue and silver banners alight with the white light produced by Mithrandir's staff as he rode his white stallion abreast. They traveled toward the great wall of Minas Tirith, smoke, darkness and a building host ahead of them. Swallowing a painful lump in her throat Lothíriel watched tensely, hands gripping the marble rail of the balcony, wishing to glimpse further across the field. She did not need to see her brothers' helms to know they rode with Imrahil in defense of Faramir and she felt a surge of pride and fear.
As the light of the wizard's staff illuminated more of the wall the shadow of great beasts darted away from the light, causing Lothíriel to peer as far as she could from the balcony, brows furrowed with concentration.
"Wraiths on dragon-back," Ioreth breathed beside her, identifying the flying creatures that peeled away from Mithrandir and his company. They were too far for the women to make out much but it wasn't long before the sortie wheeled about, shielding a tiny band of riders from the rear and approaching the city at a faster pace than they'd left it.
"There are survivors with them?" the Lady of Dol Amroth queried into the afternoon shadow as Ioreth also leaned forward for a better vantage.
"It looks thus. And they've daunted the enemy smartly. Look how they are not pursued!"
Lothíriel was not so convinced, worried they would be chased once the light diminished. It seemed a small party had increased their numbers with survivors but she could not tell who among them was rescued from this distance. It felt like an age before the group reached the Great Gate. Leaning so far forward the Princess nearly lost her footing she cried out when she caught sight of her father bearing the body of a soldier, seated before him as they disappeared into the Othram.
"I must go down," she muttered, moving toward the gate leading to the fifth level when she was arrested by her companion.
"They will bring the wounded to us. There's nought you can do if you go down there. Remain here and we'll be sure to see he who comes up before any other."
With a reluctant glance down at the black wall of the city Lothíriel allowed herself to be led back into hall as her fellow healer called out orders for the others to make ready to receive more patients. The anticipation nearly got the better of her but just as she was ready to inquire, the gates from the level below opened and a stretcher bearing a soldier was borne to them at once.
To her horror and relief, the Captain of the Guard lay stricken before them, transferred to a raised pallet and attended to at once by Ioreth and the Warden. For all her insistence Lothíriel froze, studying her cousin's face as they began removing portions of armor to access his wounds.
A black arrow protruded from the exposed gap in armor where his arm met his shoulder. His skin was ashen, greying as the moments hastened by. Shaking the paralysis from her bones the woman jumped to action, fetching the tincture and bandages requested by Ioreth. Once she'd supplied the woman with the items Lothíriel knelt beside her cousin, taking a water-soaked cloth from the table beside the pallet, wringing it out and running it across his forehead as the Warden worked on the arrow.
"He is burning," she stated with a nervous glance at Ioreth. She caught sight of others joining them, her father among them, in her peripheral vision as they worked on the Steward's son.
"A fever and a poisoned arrow," Derufin muttered darkly, using forceps to discard the arrow shaft to a tray held by a boy. "We must endeavor to keep the fever down and the wound clean."
They worked for several moments more, the sound of other patients drowned by a rush of blood in her ears as she focused on her task. Derufin and Ioreth cared for the poisoned wound and wrapped Faramir's shoulder and torso with Lothíriel's assistance. They departed as she began wiping blood from a small cut at his hairline. A hand on her shoulder startled her into whipping around, meeting her father's gaze with a cross expression.
"We must bear him to the White Tower," he murmured with a glance to Faramir.
"But he belongs here," she protested as Guards of the Citadel arrived to move her cousin's body from the pallet to the stretcher once more. Looking to the Warden she awaited his gruff disagreement and assertion that Faramir remain in the House of Healing. When no such objection came, she looked back to Imrahil, eyes wide.
"Denethor needs to see his son," he replied, his tone soothing as the Guards bore him away. Lothíriel scowled, taking steps to follow when she was halted by her father's hand on her wrist.
"No," he whispered, eyes fixed on her. "Faramir's state may rouse him to action. You have done your duty for the Captain. Now we bring him to his father."
"Will he not be cared for?"
"Yes, he will. I'll return once Denethor has seen him and escort you to the White Tower if you can be spared."
It was an attempt at appeasement that was equally generous and woeful. With a frown the woman nodded, knowing she could not challenge the Prince of Dol Amroth's orders. He gave her wrist a comforting squeeze before releasing her.
"The enemy will be upon the gate by nightfall. Tomorrow the siege will start in earnest, and you must be prepared." He'd raised his voice to address the Warden, Ioreth and others but his words felt directed at her. "Get what rest you can. The city will be in your debt in the coming days."
With that, Imrahil departed, following the Guards as they transported Faramir away from those who might heal and tend him. Wiping her hands on the already dirtied apron Lothíriel turned to her next task, placing hope that her father would fetch her when she could attend her cousin in the White Tower.
TTTT
Imrahil made good on his oath in the late hours of the evening, though it was far longer than Lothíriel had hoped. Her shift had ended some moments prior, and she was pausing for a quick cup of tea to wet a dry mouth. It was there, in the kitchen, Pippin found her.
"My Lady," he called out with a quick bow.
"Pippin," she received him with a smile and offered an abandoned pastry. He declined but indicated she ought to follow him away from the kitchen.
"Your Lord Father bade me fetch you," he stated in a hushed tone.
Realization lit her eyes as she quickened her pace. They walked through a sick bay and she snatched a few items from a tray near the exit, depositing them in the deep pocket of her pinafore. They spoke no more as they departed the House of Healing, Lothíriel catching Ioreth's gaze momentarily with a nod. Night had settled on the land but the light from torches and the cries and shouts from the enemy beyond the wall allowed for little rest or respite for anyone within the walls. She dared not look over the balcony to the sight below, just the sound of war preparations causing her stomach to twist.
"How is he?" she inquired as they entered the tunnel to the seventh level. With a furtive glance her way the Hobbit canted his head slightly.
"Much the same." She wasn't sure if he was referring to Denethor or Faramir but figured it didn't matter. Although she had been expecting her father or brothers, she was glad to see the Hobbit, especially as she came to discover during the morning chats that he'd become a friend of Faramir in their brief encounters. They arrived at the White Tower, permitted by either Pippin's station as a Guard of the Citadel or Lothíriel's nobility, and halted at the chamber.
"I think the Steward has departed further into the Tower so he is alone," Pippin murmured as she opened the door. Faramir lay within and she was at his bedside, bringing forth items from her pocket. A vacated seat sat beside the wounded Captain and the fabric beside the man appeared disheveled, as though someone had laid their upper body upon it.
"The fever lingers still," she informed Pippin, the back of her hand resting on Faramir's forehead. She made quick work of reapplying the salve to his cuts and checked the bandage on his shoulder. A frown deepened the lines of her face as she inspected it, causing a worried look from her companion.
"What's the matter?"
"There should be fresh blood and more of it," she mumbled as she felt the skin near the wound. "Still warm. That is good. But I am not sure why he does not wake yet."
"I wish he might" the Hobbit replied to which she nodded. After a moment, Pippin glanced at the door and moved away from the bed. "We'd best go now, my Lady. Neither of us should be discovered here by the Steward."
Swallowing a snide comment the woman nodded. This poison was beyond her ability, and she'd successfully tended to his other wounds now. The pair slipped from the room and closed the door as footsteps echoed from an adjacent stairwell. The Steward of Gondor emerged from the steps, bright eyes catching them with a glazed look, his face wan. With a flick from Pippin to Lothíriel the man froze abruptly. A word fell from his lips, too soft for either of them to hear but recognition turned his expression from vacant to confused, dark brows furrowed before a wash of fury replaced it.
"Be gone from me, specter," he rumbled violently, taking a staggering step forward. Lothíriel instinctively backed away a pace as Pippin positioned himself between them. "Torment me no more. Be gone from my son's side!"
Denethor's eyes beheld her as if in a dream, his body shaking as he moved closer, dark robes quivering in the sconce-light. Pippin raised his hands in placation to his Lord as he held his ground between the two.
"Your son lies in his chamber," the Hobbit reminded him with motion of his head sideways. "Let no ghosts trouble you this night, my Lord. Be with him."
At once, like a candle snuffed in the dark, the wrathful expression became troubled, the hollows of his cheeks deepened, and sorrow crept across his face.
"My son," he repeated, turning his gaze to the door.
Pippin nodded encouragingly and reached for the doorknob. Denethor no longer saw Lothíriel, his focus on the chamber and his son within as the Halfling bade him enter. With a quick glance to the woman, Pippin indicated that she might leave while the Lord was distracted. Turning quickly the Lady of Dol Amroth departed with the sound of her heartbeat thudding in her ears and the apparition haunting the Steward of Gondor following her from the Tower.