Only yesterday when I was sad and I was lonely
You showed me the way to leave the past and all its tears behind me (Carpenters)
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Only Yesterday
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Tilda opened her eyes to her body being moved from her rest and panicked, trying to focus on her surroundings, trying to fight and escape.
"Hush, little one…"
The voice calmed her down immediately, the voice that soothed her since she could remember being alive.
"Da…"
"Shh, Tilda, easy now…"
She winced when he steadied her head so she could sip some warm tea without choking. Pain rippled through her body, but Tilda could tell it was less than the day before.
The day before.
"Do you think you can manage to eat some broth?"
She sipped some more of the bitter tasting painkiller, thanking Yavanna and Estë for willowbark. A silent nod and a grateful look from her swollen eyes were answer enough for Bard, and he beckoned someone she was too tired to care who was, albeit less than the day before.
The day before.
She couldn't remember when the day started, or when the prior one ended. It was all the same continuous nightmare, their march to Dol Guldur and all that happened after they got there. They couldn't walk faster no matter how much their captors whipped their legs, and stumbling was the rule for their tired feet. Her boots had long been stolen, and for once she envied halflings and their hard-soled feet. Kíli was in no better state.
"Kíli!"
The memory and worry for him made Tilda cry out his name, searching frantically around the camp.
"Shh, little one, he's asleep now."
"Da…" Her voice pleaded. "Is he…"
"Just asleep. He woke up some hours ago, Óin gave him a strong medicine and knocked out he was." Bard wiped some imaginary sweat from her brow, just to feel her skin and assure himself she was really there, alive. "Seems he took the blunt from the orcs."
"It was my fault! Every time they beat me he tried to get back at them, and they beat him double. It was my fault…"
Bard snuggled her up to his chest, comforting his youngest one.
"You two are really birds of a feather. When he was awake, prince Kíli spent half of his words blaming himself for your state. Poor lad!"
"No, the fault was mine…" Tilda sobbed, then realization of everything that led to that situation downed. She turned to face him, tears of shame on her face. "Da! It was my fault! Everything! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Forgive me! I shouldn't have…"
"Shh, little one. None is to blame for having being attacked by orcs, never. Except the evil that created them, of course."
"I ran away…" She whispered, ashamed. "Da, I ran away… Please forgive me, Da, I shouldn't have…"
Bard's face got serious, yet there was understanding in his eyes.
"We'll talk about it later. You're hurt and tired. Besides, you're not the only one who must ask for forgiveness."
Tilda was about to say something in defense of Kíli, who obviously was the other one who should ask for forgiveness, when someone black bearded sat down with them, a bowl and a spoon in her hands.
"Now, now, do we have a good lassie here?"
The young woman bowed her head as she could, under the circumstances, making up for a curtsy. The healing cut in her throat protested, and Tilda winced.
"Your Highness."
"None of this, darling." The dwarrowdam said, stirring the broth to cool it down. "No use of titles when we're just us, family, here. And I'm no highness either, just a princess like you."
"But…"
He protest was silenced by a spoonful of soup shoved into her mouth.
"Just because I've been a princess for a longer time doesn't mean I'm any different from you, right?"
Another spoonful found its way before Tilda could protest.
"Dís…"
Bard's voice rumbled, warningly. The dwarrowdam dismissed his growl with a shrug. Tilda swallowed fast, to be able to speak before more food found her mouth.
"I think I'm able to eat by myself, milady." Sapphire orbs found her swollen eyes and Tilda added in a hurry. "Thank you."
Dís let Tilda take the spoon, but made a point of holding the bowl. Bard and the mature lady exchanged glances, in silent communication.
"Would you care to look for Óin, ó Bard my good neighbor king?" The former bargeman rolled his eyes. Dís smirked to the younger female. "See? Your Adad doesn't like titles either!"
She put the bowl on the ground and helped Bard to prop Tilda against some folded blankets. Or it could be simply some bundles of saddlebags and traveling stuff, she didn't care, anything was better than it had been the day before.
The day before.
Tilda's absent eyes were noticed by Dís, who was worried about what they could mean. She had witnessed more than one victim of orc abuse with the same faraway gaze, and the stories behind them were never good ones. More than once the outcome was disastrous. The dwarrowdam took the bowl again, trying to sound casual.
"I'm glad we could find you two, actually three, before it was too late. We were worried, you know."
Tilda was eating her broth silent and carefully, her hand trembling. It could be simple hunger, nervousness, pain, severe weakness or certain age related illnesses, her healer knowledge listed automatically, while her mind knew for sure it was a mix of the first three alternatives.
"On the other hand, it was a blessing they were in a hurry and didn't camp for more than the strictly necessary. Also, being under the eaves of Mirkwood – our friend Legolas forgive me, but it's hard to remember to call it Greenwood when it's been called Mirkwood since even before he himself was born – so, under the eaves of Mirkwood it's always dark, and that filth doesn't have to wait until the sun is down to march. I don't like to think what they're capable of doing when bored whilst waiting."
Tilda looked down at the bowl of broth. How many times did she serve the same kind of broth to sick people under her care? How many pleas did she use to make people eat when all they wanted was to die...?
"They... they were in a hurry. Needed to take us to the fortress until a certain moon phase. I... I don't want to think what could be if it were different. Please."
Dís nodded, acknowledging her request. But there were things she, and the rulers of those parts of Middle-earth, needed to know.
"Tilda, dear. If it isn't to hurtful for you to tell, of course, and if you even know... I know, things are prone to be a full load of rubbish, mostly..."
"You want to know what they did, and what they were after."
"Aye."
The young woman looked down at the bowl, almost all broth gone. She made a mental note to thank Bombur, because only Bombur would be able to make a traveling broth as satisfying as what she just ate. And she didn't even feel the need to eat before the broth was there. But also made a mental note to consider Dís' care about what was proper or not for royalty to go through. Damn and blast, a victim doesn't decide what their captors do or don't!
"They used to beat us, mostly, but just... just..." Her voice stuck there. "They just beat us. They wanted our blood." She touched her throat, the neat bandage on the unmerciful nick that Mordor-damned dagger inflicted her. She could tell that, even tended, there was something wrong with it. "They said… I heard them arguing. One of them wanted…" Tilda closed her eyes, swallowing hard. "One of them wanted to kill us right away. Said we were cattle and he wanted meat. Another one… Another one argued some sport would be fun before killing us. I shiver when I wonder what kind of sport they had in mind."
Dís cradled the woman's trembling hands in her palms, knowing first hand that the touch of a stranger could be the worst thing for someone who had just gone through such an ordeal, but also that being available would allow Tilda to seek comfort if she felt inclined to.
"Don't think, darling. They're not worth it. You're safe now."
The younger princess looked up at the older one, horror in her voice.
"Will we ever?" She grabbed Dís' arms, seeking for an anchor. "Will we ever, whilst the Necromancer is out there? He wants our blood, Milady. He wants our blood to bring the servants of Sauron back. I heard what he said, the fouler of the orcs. It takes the blood of three to bring back one, he said. Three of royal blood to bring back a king. That's why they took Legolas too. To bleed us three to death in his black magic and bring one of the Nazgûl back!"
"Oh, darling…"
Now it was Dís' turn to be horrified, the implications running through her head at the speed of light. Tilda was right, they'd never be safe.
Yet, she would not allow their lives to be subdued by fear. Because fear was a weapon of the Enemy, and the Enemy already took too much from her. Her father and grandfather, her brother Frérin, uncle Fundin and so many friends. Almost took Thorin and her sons too. She would not allow him to take her courage, their courage, and their future. They deserved more. That thin framed daughter of Man trembling in her arms deserved more.
By then Bard had finally found Óin and both were approaching them, the healer with his trumpet to an ear and the bowman shouting something to him. Dís waved them off, knowing sometimes a woman just needed the shoulder of another woman, not the clumsy words of males who were (mis)taught that to fear was a weakness.
"We will find a way, nathith. We will find a way."
"But how? They're so cruel!"
"We will, because we're not. Because we care for each other. Because we're the Free Peoples of Middle-earth and will never bow to darkness."
"But what if…"
"There're not what ifs, Tilda." Interrupted Dís, changing position so they were face to face. "What ifs are weapons of the Enemy, to weaken us by insecurity, to make us waste time and hope in conjectures leading nowhere but despair, instead of focusing in alternatives to strive and to defeat him. Instead of what ifs, focus on what we can. We can reinforce escorts around you and other royals, like Kíli, like your father, like me, Thorin, and so on. Better than that, we can strive to find the Enemy's flaws and use them against him. We can keep faith, Tilda my dear, and that is something the Necromancer and his minions don't have, and will never have. Because we're sons and daughters of Ilúvatar, born from his Song or adopted by Him. Whomever this Necromancer is, or has been, is nothing compared to the might of being a child of Ilúvatar."
The young woman looked down at her bowl of broth, considering. Slowly, Tilda shook her head.
"I don't feel this powerful. I'm in pain, and scared. I almost died, and so did Kíli and Legolas. It is like... like if an orc could just spring out from any corner at any moment and try to kill me. Or kill someone else and I could do nothing about it. I'm hurt, and I'm scared."
Dís leaned forward and held Tilda's forearms, looking straight into her eyes.
"If you weren't, I'd be worried."
"What?"
"You're realising Middle-earth isn't a safe world. That's reality. To ignore it is dangerous, leaves you at the mercy of those who know better than you, for the good or for the bad."
"I learned Middle-earth isn't a safe place when a dragon flew upon my hometown and burnt it. I was just eleven. It was lesson enough, I don't need more lessons!"
Dís took Tilda's reasoning for what it was, and replied accordingly.
"The same dragon took my home when I was six. Since then, the lessons come, may I wish them or not. Be I brave or scared, be I feeling weak or full of blessing... reality comes, and I have to deal with it. That's how life is. For me, for you, for the ones you love."
"I don't want people I love to suffer because I'm daughter of that one, or neighbor to that other one. It is not fair!"
The mature dwarrowdam looked down at her hands, and slowly released the youngster's forearms, recoiling the offending appendages to her own lap.
"No, it is not." The image of fire invading Erebor, her mother dragging her by the arm out of the only place she ever knew as home, the despair on the faces of all adults she looked at... "When someone more powerful than you imposes their own will... it is never fair. Maybe it is why most people claim Life is not fair. Because Life, in itself, is so much more than our daily, ordinary life, our deeds and our wishes." Dís distinguished Life as a larger principle from life as one's regular affairs with purposeful gestures of her hands and fingers, not only to picture the difference to Tilda but also to help herself to unfold her train of thought. "But that is why we fight for life, for our everyday life, our ordinary life. We are part of Life, a Life that is so much more than us, than our neighbor, than our talkative grocer or our annoying cousin."
Tilda kind of nodded, careful with her bandages, now that she was aware they were there.
"I understand this. As a part of being a healer. I've seen people who deserved to live, losing their lives. To sickness, to accidents... to child bearing and delivery..."
"But life goes on, despite what happens around us, or what we feel." Tilda pursed her lips at the obviousness of what Dís spoke, but the dwarrowdam continued. "Fair or not, that is our fill."
"It may be. And I may acknowledge it is as it is. But none can convince me to resign on it."
The dwarrowdam princess stroke her delicate beard, observant eyes on the face of the young woman.
"And what will you do, Tilda dear, unresigned to the circumstances around us?"
The look on her face when she answered could be that of a maniac commoner or that of a resolute general facing a battleground.
"I... I will do what I can... so the ones who come after me don't have to face the same. I know, I know, I'm just one person, Dale and Esgaroth are just a couple of towns in the vastness of Middle-earth... But if I can help it that none has to go through what me and the lads got through... It will be worth all effort."
Dís looked at the young woman with caution.
"Are you, really?"
"Am I really what?"
"Just one person?"
Tilda was befludled.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I've known people like you. Not many, actually. But I've known. People who move a crowd with a couple words."
Tilda smiled wryly.
"That's not me. Da, certainly; my sister, most probably. My brother would like to, but it is not him. And that's definitely not me."
"But that you are, Tilda. Even if you deny it to yourself now. Because you are brave in ways few can compare."
The young woman looked down at the - now - empty bowl of broth.
"I don't feel brave at all."
"Why?"
Tilda would sort that as a stupid question, not many days before. As it was, she just...
"What?
"Why don't you feel brave, Tilda?"
The woman felt Dís' question was outrageous. Her countercharge was no less.
"Milady, I... I... I almost died there in that Ilúvatar forsaken fortress! They made me hunger, they made me thirst, they messed my thoughts to make me believe the lads, I mean, princes Legolas and Kíli, were dead, or were my enemies, or... They bled me, milady Dís, to bring a... a monster back! It's as if... it's as if... as if I were part of that creature! As if I were in... in... collusion with that... that..."
The repulsion was evident, but the dwarrowdam tried to manage it, even if a hug or the semblance of a caress to the face of the young princess made her resist and veer from Dís as if she were a servant of Morgoth himself.
"Hush, darling... We all know you weren't a voluntary part of what happened, as the lads weren't, neither."
"We had no way to be brave! We just tried to survive!"
It was then that Dís grabbed Tilda's fists in her own hands and guided that fistfull of anger to her own face.
"Isn't that to be brave? To resist pain and desperation? To fight and flee when most would be subdued, broken by fear?"
The woman fought her tears, bitting her lower lip to distract her mind from the thoughts that swirled in her mind.
"I... I don't want to think about it right now. I'm... I'm too tired."
Using her current health state to avoid more conversation wasn't exactly fair, but Tilda used it just the same. A yawn behind her hand feigned perfectly the exhaustion she actually felt.
Her sleepy ears could not avoid the soft whisper of a blessing, a promise, and what right then felt like a threat.
"Sleep well, nathith. You'll be watched over. Always. Because you're worth a thousand kingdoms. You're one of those people who become legends, despite working only on the day-to-day issues, despite what one does is only to try and survive. You'll do both. Survive and become legend. Heed my words."
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nathith – daughter; girl that is young.
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Strongly recommended:
poetryfoundation dot org slash poems slash 52773 slash dirge-without-music
(Dirge without music, by Edna Saint-VVincent Millay)