A/N: This is a lengthy chapter with detail of wounded soldiers as well as brief descriptions of surgery. Reader discretion and trigger warnings for blood, gore and death. Nothing hugely graphic, though.
Chapter 6
In the years that followed it would be difficult for Lothíriel to recall the exact details of March 13th for it felt, both then and in the future, that time was distorted. But the siege began, as her father surmised, the day after Faramir was brought to the White Tower. It was fortunate she and the other healers could remain in the interior of their level tending the wounded and need not witness the army of Mordor crowd the walls and begin hostilities. But none in the city could escape the sounds of the Dark Lord's war machines, siege towers, orc-cries and catapults. Even when a number of servants and apprentices were called to the level above the Othram to assist with the quelling of fire laden missiles, Lothíriel and Ioreth were expected to stay in the inner halls of the sixth level and continue their labors.
Men trickled in gradually at first, joining the wounded from the flight of Faramir's company the day prior, of whom about half were too incapacitated to join their compatriots. As the day wore on so too did the stories of terror from the front lines. As a healer Lothíriel learned early she must steel her heart against the shock of a patient's experience, but a war of this magnitude was entirely new as the men came to their halls with tales of horror, shock and suffering. She learned not only was the host of Mordor catapulting incendiary matter into the first level of the city but eventually the heads and limbs of their compatriots, some so badly deformed they scarce looked human.
Minor scrapes, bruises and injury gave way to wails from men losing limbs, bodies and souls damaged, some beyond repair, as Lothíriel and the healers struggled to keep pace with the patients. Her hands were stained a sheen of pink despite regularly plunging them into water buckets and by the evening she had lost count of the number of dead that had to be removed by pushcarts from the House of Healing to open beds for new occupants.
"Hold him steady," she instructed Halgeir, the young man who'd become her shadow from the afternoon on, assisting her with the soldiers she could not attend on her own. The Princess of Dol Amroth was near elbow deep in a man's abdomen, attempting to keep his viscera in his body. It wasn't clear how the patient had received a gash to his torso that all but eviscerated him, his innards kept from spilling out only by the breastplate that was removed once he was laid on the pallet. A wheezing painful whine came from his throat as he tried to curl away from the woman, her gaze flicking back to Halgeir as he responded with firmer grip on the man's upper body.
"Estë help me," she muttered as her hands, slick with blood, passed across organs and muscle as she nodded to Halgeir to hand over the suture kit sitting by his knees. Realizing they'd need another pair of hands for this work she called out for a passing soldier who was clearly doing his best to leave the hall.
"You there, Sir," she called, grey eyes catching his with a sharp glare. "Hold this man's shoulders." A pained expression passed over the fellow's face as he glanced guardedly at the exit, which prompted Lothíriel to add another plea. "We cannot repair this wound without another body. Please."
The soldier acquiesced, though visibly uncomfortable and was directed by Halgeir to take his place so he could move to the patient's torso opposite Lothíriel. Her companion awaited orders, intentionally avoiding a scrutinizing look at the open wound before him.
"Hold his flesh and I'll stich it together." Wiping her damp hands on the soiled apron the woman shifted on her knees, her spine stiff from leaning over for an extended time.
Between the three of them the wound was sutured, though it was crude and far from the delicate exacting instruction she'd practiced in the Healing Ward of Dol Amroth. But it would keep the patient's insides within him and he would survive. For now. Lothíriel sent the assisting soldier on his way, the color drained from his face as their patient lost consciousness before she'd completed the suturing.
"Think he'll live?" Halgeir followed her in dunking his large hands in the pail of water near the pallet as they watched the soldier's chest rise and fall, his breathing labored.
"I couldn't say," she replied dully, gaze surveying the young man who'd lent his hands and expertise to her for hours by now, his rust-colored hair slicked back with perspiration. "We don't have enough healers to ensure everyone's survival. But we've done what we can for him."
"Lady Lothíriel!" The Warden's voice cut across the hall above the din as she stood up, a wince unbidden as her joints objected. Moving quickly down the aisle between beds, Lothíriel and Halgeir found Derufin, saw in hand, beckoning them to a pallet. Upon it was a moaning guard of the city, his arm mangled, and hand destroyed. Both were a mess of skin, muscle and bone, the very fabric of his maille and shirt shredded amidst the gore.
"Lend me your strength, lad," the Warden spoke curtly to Halgeir, who again avoided looking at the man on the bed. "Lady, keep steady his neck and chest. We must rend arm from body and staunch the wound at once."
Two more attendants joined them, one at the man's feet to keep him from kicking and the other appearing with a blade hot from a brazier nearby. All knew their roles. Lothíriel positioned herself at his head, hands affixed firmly against his collarbone. The man had slipped from awareness, groaning quietly as they readied his body for the amputation. Halgeir accepted the saw from Derufin and his expression changed from distant to attentive, now bearing the responsibility of instructing those around him. Although the entire procedure lasted mere moments to Lothíriel it felt near endless. The soldier remained unconscious for the slicing of skin and muscle and cauterizing of blood vessels, a sheen of sweat glistening on his face. But the moment the saw began working through the bone his face contorted wickedly, teeth bared as he wrenched to the side. Lothíriel pressed her forearms against his collarbone as the fellow at the other end pressed his weight against the man's legs. He jerked against their compression as the saw severed his bone, a shriek emanating from his lungs and echoing despite the cacophony around them.
Halgeir and Derufin worked as though the man was unmoved by the procedure, finalizing the cut and exchanging tools as they maneuvered about. The attendant at his feet moved to Halgeir's side and rapidly shimmied the soiled linen sheet beneath the patient's tangle of an arm, scooped the entire mess up and bore it away as the Warden began stitching the flaps of skin that remained overhanging the exposed bone. The patient whimpered and mewled, though his eyes remained shut and his body relaxed once more.
Releasing her grip the woman straightened again, running a forearm across her brow to remove perspiration. She leapt when the patient screamed again, hands flying back to his shoulders as she looked down. But it was not the man wailing. It was a shriek from somewhere beyond the hall itself. It cut through the walls and rattled her very bones, her face scrunched, and eyes shut against the horrific sound. She was not alone in this response; indeed, the soldiers who were conscious clutched their ears and curled away from the ceiling as though they'd been whipped. Lothíriel's eye remained narrow as she cautiously looked toward the Warden, who was equally distressed by the skreich. It made a decrescendo before disappearing entirely, leaving the hall strangely quiet for the breath of a moment.
"The hell-hawks of the Nazgûl are set upon us," a man whispered from the pallet to her left. Looking at him Lothíriel did her best to compose herself, heart thudding in her chest as she watched him clutch the bed sheet and speak to her. "They bring despair and doom."
He stared at her, eyes glazed and a vacant visage upon his face. Without warning his hand shot out and grasped her wrist, pulling her toward the bed as his voice rose and breathing became heavy.
"There is no hope left," he rasped, though he was no longer looking at her but through her, raising up on the pallet with urgency. "They come in droves, crawling up the walls and laying bare our defenses! We are living corpses while we still breathe. It is a matter of time -"
The man was thrown back to his cot by a large hand, the fingers tightening around her wrist releasing as a second hand yanked them away. His nails scraped across her skin as Lothíriel stepped back. Halgeir settled the soldier on the pallet with another firm push before turning to the woman and blocking her view of him.
"Pay him no mind, Lady," the young man rumbled as he encouraged her to depart, following as she turned away from the soldier who lay quietly babbling.
They were near enough to the narrow vestibule that she darted into the hallway, Halgeir a pace behind her. Taking a deep breath Lothíriel closed her eyes, back against the wall separating them from the wounded, arms around herself. The sounds of war and dying perpetuated, though they had become so accustomed that it was wellnigh background noise, and, in this small corridor, it felt muted. When she opened heavy lids she found Halgeir studying her, his brown eyes wells of sympathy and worry.
"Are you well?" he asked gently, voice raised over the din but still hushed. She smiled and nodded slowly as she relaxed her arms to cross them over her chest, mirroring his body language.
"Yes, thank you, Halgeir. I need but a moment to compose myself," Lothíriel replied, meeting his eyes.
He was likely a few years her senior, closer to Amrothos' age, and nearly a head taller despite her height. He had the long features associated with the people of eastern Gondor, an aquiline nose, and a wash of freckles across his tanned skin. He had been an apprentice to the Warden for several years, he explained earlier that day, his brothers and father soldiers in the city. He had not the heart for fighting or tactics; more attuned to the emotions of others, attributes on display that night as he watched her.
"You needn't worry," he continued with a flick of his gaze back to the hall. "The city will hold, my Lady."
"You have an uncanny gift of faith," she observed with slight tilt of her head. He shrugged one shoulder and offered a charming grin before dropping his arms from their crossed position. When he didn't respond the Lady of Dol Amroth pushed herself away from the wall and ran her hands across the apron on her thighs. "We ought return to our tasks."
He nodded as she pulled the door open, the clamor of the hall erupting into the hallway. Upon reentry they were immediately pulled to a bed where a fellow younger than both of them lay, the back of his head resting on linens soaked in blood. Lothíriel put a hand on the clammy skin of his forehead as he groaned. He was still clad in armor, arranged uncomfortably on the cot with half a leg off and his arms crossed over his chest. His breathing was shallow, and she tilted his head gently to reveal a deep cut across the back of his skull, hair matted with blood, tissue and bone. Halgeir passed her a damp towel to mop up the residue from around the cut, inspecting it as best she could.
"We'll dress his head," she announced as Halgeir nodded and jumped up to fetch bandages. She sat with the boy, for truly he was younger than she initially estimated at six and ten years perhaps, as he took rattling breaths. "Once we sort out this cut, you'll feel better," she told him with a smile.
Blue eyes found hers as he mumbled something she couldn't understand. She leaned forward with a frown, trying to hear him better. Halgeir returned with the supplies and had dropped down on the other side of the bed when the boy flew up, convulsing with a gurgling breath. Blood shot from his mouth as he shuddered and heaved. Being so near Lothíriel was sprayed with blood as she and Halgeir turned the boy to his side, fighting against the bulk of the armor.
"He's choking," Halgeir cried, hefting the boy as Lothíriel held his head, her hands slick with blood. "Unbuckle the breastplate!" The woman let his head rest gently against Halgeir's chest and fumbled for the leather buckles tucked under his shoulder guards, fingers scrabbling to loosen it. The boy racked another breath, the sound from his lungs wet and bubbling as he shuddered against Halgeir. Releasing a single buckle the chest plate only partially gave way.
"I can't," she muttered frantically looking over at her companion. Halgeir adjusted the patient in his arms, turning so he was effectively cradling the boy's upper body in his lap. Between the two of them the breastplate was loosened enough that Halgeir could wrench it away, the buckles at his hips still fastened. Beneath lay his tunic, the white tree of Gondor was stained crimson and chainmail beneath was secured by a thin belt.
"Damn it," Halgeir breathed as the boy convulsed and sputtered again before laying still. Blood leaked like syrup at the corners of his mouth, blue eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling beams. Lothíriel pressed her lips together, brow furrowed before closing his lids with soaked fingers. The pair sat in heavy silence, Halgeir still cradling the boy's body. Another healer joined them, offering support to move the dead off the pallet to the wheelbarrow ferried between the Healing House and the pits. Halgeir paused, expression darkening with a protective grip on the boy.
"It's alright," Lothíriel assured her companion with a careful hand on his forearm. "Let him go."
She wasn't sure Halgeir registered the words, but the sound of her voice seemed to bring him back to the room and he loosened his grip as the other healer called for the guards to assist. They watched as the boy was carried and laid unceremoniously in the empty trolley. Standing and placing a comforting hand on Halgeir's shoulder Lothíriel exhaled as the sixth floor shuddered with the percussion of the siege below.
"Take a moment," she murmured with a light squeeze to his shoulder. "Find me after."
"No," he replied, standing as her hand fell away and handing her the unused bandage he'd brought for the boy. "If I take a moment I might never return."
With an understanding nod, Lothíriel accepted the length of fabric, wiping her hands. Halgeir motioned to her head, and it was only then that she recalled the blood spattered across her face. Crossing the aisle to the bucket of water, newly refilled by a servant, she dipped the bandage in and ran it across her skin, paying close attention to her eyes and mouth. Looking at her companion once more and receiving a half smile and nod, Lothíriel tossed the bandage on the growing laundry heap nearby.
Again, the floor shook, this time prompting expressions of bemusement and apprehension from both healers. The quaking caused the torches and lit sconces to shiver and dust to puff into the air from between the cracks of stone. Around them others had paused to take stock of the series of vibrations that seem to come rhythmically, with weighted silence between. At once the percussion stopped and those on the sixth level tensed, awaiting the next tremble of stone that never came. After a beat Halgeir looked about, brows raised.
"Let us check the next bay," he offered as Lothíriel agreed with a cant of her head. They moved from the hall into the wider vestibule leading to the gardens, one of the main arteries of the sixth story of Minas Tirith, amidst the shouts and sounds of war below. They'd nearly made it to the door to the bay where Ioreth was stationed when a group of three Gondorian guards approached them, one pointing to Halgeir.
"You," he called as they came to halt before the pair. "Fetch armor. You are needed below! All able-bodied men are to serve at the second level."
"He's a healer," Lothíriel interjected with a frown, positioning herself beside a wide-eyed Halgeir.
"That may be, my Lady," the guard answered with barely a glance in her direction. "But we've been ordered to collect all men."
"The Great Wall has been breached," another put in as Lothíriel's gasped. "Who can be spared has been called by Mithrandir to protect the city."
"There's no discussion, lad," the first guard stated, his tone unyielding. "Find what armor you can."
Already other guards were pulling men and boys alike from the interior of the halls to the protest of both the healers and patients. Halgeir cast a pained glimpse at the wheelbarrows where the dead were stripped of armor to dress the living. The guard before them received a breastplate, shirt of maille and helmet, shoving them into Halgeir's hands before catching him with a glare.
"Refuse orders and you'll be counted as a deserter."
Turning away, the group of soldiers shouted orders to others dressing in ill-fitting suits as Lothíriel shook her head. Halgeir was no warrior. And who would help her and Ioreth with the wounded? It felt like a demand of madness as the rush of bodies threatened to separate them prematurely. Halgeir had thrown the maille shirt over his head and was fitting the bloodied armor to his body as he found her in the crowd.
"My Lady," he called as she darted around a pair of men rushing to the exit. Rejoining him she helped him secure the buckles on the vambrace, brows knit in concentration and dismay.
"They can't take all the healers," she muttered, moving to fasten the pauldron while he secured a stranger's sword to his waist.
"They won't take you," he assured her with an unconvincing smile, tucking the helmet under his arm. "Someone will need to put me back together when I return."
Lothíriel bit her lip in concentration as she finished the last buckle, her mind racing in search of sage advice or a kind word to send him off. But she was unable to think of anything worthy of this abrupt departure.
"May the Valar keep you safe," she eventually mumbled as he was hurried away, casting a glance over his shoulder at him as she raised a hand in farewell. It felt callous and abrupt. Unfair, even. But as the throngs of soldiers, some newly minted in their service, departed the House of Healing Lothíriel was struck with comprehension of the guard's words. The Great Gate had fallen. The enemy was in the city. Fear for her father and brothers, for Halgeir and Pippin kept her rooted in the atrium, the sound of death and destruction echoing from below as she blinked away tears of terror.
Minas Tirith was breached – what could men like Halgeir be but bodies to pile up to slow the army of Mordor? Forcing herself into the hall she'd intended to enter with her companion the Lady of Dol Amroth surveyed the half empty room, eventually finding Ioreth tending to a man against the far wall. Cleaning her hands upon the apron she set her jaw firmly by clenching her teeth. There was no time for weeping or despair, though it grew ever greater in her heart. Refastening the hood over her hair, Lothíriel returned to her task, not daring to think of the horrors the men below were facing against an insatiable enemy just a few levels below their feet.