The healer had chosen the door to the garden, where she was able to blend into the shadows after a few steps. She needed a moment to collect herself. She returned to the Wisteria arcade and leant against the wrought-iron structure.

She was nearly 20 years of age. Of the past seven years she had spent most of the time at the Houses of Healing. First she had accompanied her mother, who had hoped to find relief from her illness. Watching the healers every day, the young girl had become drawn to their art. She had offered her help, first on simple tasks, and when the healers recognized her gift, they had begun teaching her. It came so intuitively. Not only taking in the required knowledge. Something inside her connected naturally to people sick and suffering.

Four years ago her mother had died a cruel death, and though this lovely woman had been sickly for as long as her daughter could remember, the final loss had threatened to rip her apart. She had not been able to stay at her home on the coast of Belfalas, having in addition to her own grief to watch that of her family. She pleaded with her father to let her return to the Houses of Healing, where she wished to begin studying the art of healing in earnest. In a weak moment, stretched too far by the situation, her father had agreed. And later he had convinced himself that during these years of military unrest the mighty city of Minas Tirith would be the safest place for his daughter.

It hadn’t been even a real separation from her family. Hardly a month went by without her father or one of her three elder brothers arriving on business in the White City. Their visits had always been welcome, keeping her in touch with her home. But the past four years also had been a time of isolation. Usually a young female of her age and breeding would have been prepared to be a wife, the only acceptable role for a woman of her ancestry. She had definitely missed out on that. Having three brothers and other male relatives, she was used to the company of the opposite gender. But she had never actually been in close society with a man who could have been considered a suitor. Men were either family or patients. It almost seemed ludicrous, but as the only female in a family of men, she had no actual experience with men. She had never felt she wanted any experience with a man.

Suddenly, this warrior appeared literally out of the dark, affecting her in a way she did not understand. All she knew was that she wasn’t her usual self. Normally she was not curt. She was not awkward. The bare chest of a man was just a body part to be treated. And that was the way she had to deal with it. Inside that treatment chamber there was only an injured body to be tended to.

Determined to put these mystifying and unwelcome emotions out of her mind, she finally made her way to the storage chambers at the opposite end of the Houses of Healing. Because of the late hour the lighting had been dimmed and it took her a while to find the closet where spare garments were kept. She had to shake out several shirts and fold them again, until she found one in an appropriate size.

In the kitchen she found all staff had gone and the fires had died down. She wouldn’t be able to keep her promise of a hot meal, so she prepared a tray with cold meat and chicken, cheese, bread, some apples and a jug of light wine.

Carrying her heavy load back to the treatment chamber, she realized that she had been gone much longer than she’d intended. She hoped the Rohír hadn’t had lost his patience. But perhaps it would be good for the state her mind if he had just left.

She chided herself being unprofessional. The man was wounded and needed treatment. And she was a healer.

This time she entered the chamber from inside the building. She looked over to the bathtub, paused and stared. Her patient was still there. He was still in the tub and he was asleep. And he had been supposed to use the sheet she had lined the tub with for modesty. But, instead of covering him, the ends were hanging dripping wet over the edges, his arms lying along the top. He had rolled up a second sheet and propped it behind his neck as a cushion.

She put the tray down on the bench. Stepping closer to the tub, she forgot her resolve to see in him only a man, whose injuries had to be taken care of. She had the unexpected opportunity to study him while he slept. And he was sleeping soundly, his breathing deep and even. His features were relaxed, and without the constant frown and the piercing gaze he looked quite young, the few lines around his eyes engraved by wind and sun, not by age.

Visually he was the most striking man she had ever seen. Even more so than her ridiculously attractive brothers. Perhaps it was the difference. She was used to the dark haired, clean-shaven men of Gondor. His thick, long hair, now freshly combed and washed, had a golden sheen, even when wet. Most women would envy him for such a lovely colour.

His face was much darker tanned than the rest of his body, common in men who spend their life outdoors all year around. He was born with long limbs and the life as a rider on the plains of the North had provided him with heavy muscles and an impressive collection of scars. He was a powerful man. However, it was not just a physical, but also a rare, personal strength, radiating from him even in sleep.

Watching the sleeping man, the healer felt once more this funny little flip in her stomach. She had seen her share of naked bodies. Of unconscious, wounded, suffering men. Never before had she been tempted to look at them other than with the eyes of a healer. And now she found herself quite enjoying the view of a beautiful, male body.

A sudden thought let her smile ruefully. She would give her father a fit if he knew her to be alone in a treatment chamber in the middle of the night with a naked stranger, at whom she was staring. Her career as a healer would be over, and she would be shipped back to her family’s home. Though the chance of her father ever learning about this episode was rather small, the thought brought her back to the task on hand.

The healer looked at the warrior’s ribcage. The water had not only detached the piece of fabric from the wound, the lengthy soak had also dissolved the crust of dried blood and pus and the wound seemed now quite clean. Time to get the man out of his cooling bath.

“My Lord,” she called in a low voice.

The deep breathing didn’t change. She tried again, louder.

“My Lord!”

No reaction. The man appeared to be a sound sleeper. Exhaustion had taken over, and the healer regretted having to disturb him. But she could hardly leave him there. After a third unsuccessful attempt to wake him verbally, she sighed and stepped closer to the tub. It seemed she had to give him a little shake to wake him up.

Next everything happened with lightning speed. When she put her hand to his shoulder, the body under her touch virtually exploded. Suddenly she was on her knees, an arm like a steel band coiled around her throat. A large hand was forcing her chin sideways and upward, bringing an unbearable strain on her neck. A knee, pushed against her spine just beneath her shoulder blades, increased the pressure. Breathing was impossible and her neck threatened to snap. But before real panic could arise, she was set free so abruptly that she fell forward, just able to support herself on her hands. Over the strangled coughing from her abused throat, she could hear swearing in an unfamiliar language.

There were some movements behind her, a rustle of linen. Then the Rohír was kneeling next to her, dripping wet and wrapped in a sheet. He grabbed her upper arms and yanked her up to her knees.

“What on Earth did you think you were doing?” he demanded through gritted teeth, his voice furious, the eyes dark and gleaming. “I could have killed you.”

Taken aback by the tone and the unjust accusation, the healer blinked a couple of times, taking a deep breath, fighting to maintain some semblance of dignity. She wasn’t quite sure her voice would work.

Again the warrior spat out a word in his native language and got up, dragging her with him, back to her feet.

“Say something, woman!” His grip moved to her shoulders, seemingly ready to shake her, his eyes searching her face. The fury slowly disappeared from his eyes, being replaced by concern. “Are you well?”

What a question! She had just been jumped at by a mountain of dripping wet, naked man. She tried to find the right words, but being in a state of utter confusion, none of any intelligence would come.

“I am fine . . . I think,” she finally managed to say, the words triggering another cough. She shook off his bruising hands and stepped back, bringing a safe distance between herself and her attacker. “I am as well as one can be expected to be after being nearly strangled.”

“Why did you grab me?”

This was unbelievable! What a nerve! He had attacked her and was accusing her of being at fault?

“Grab you?” Indignation dripped from her voice. “I did not grab you! I hardly touched you. I was trying to wake you.”

“There are other ways to wake a sleeping man,” he insisted.

“Throwing something at him from a safe distance?” she shot back irritably.

“You should have called, simply called. To my experience, you have a quite capable tongue.”

“I did call you! Three times, but you were . . . out cold!”

They were eyeing each other accusingly, wearily. To the healer’s surprise, it was the warrior who gave in. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath.

“For a moment I thought I had killed you.”

He glanced up at her, and she could see self-loathing in those dark eyes, and the flame of her anger died down.

“I had you in a grip . . . Had you tensed, your neck very likely would have snapped.”

“I had no time to tense up. You let me go as quickly as you grabbed me.” Her usual calm returned, surrounding her like a well-worn cloak. “I had no time to feel anything. Not even fear, just anger afterwards, when you accused me being at fault.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, as if tempted into a smile, but his gaze stayed sombre.

“I regret it. Deeply regret it. All I can say is that it was a reflex, something I cannot control. After so many years of constant vigilance, these kinds of reflexes become a warrior’s second nature. Self-preservation, I suppose.” He paused before he finished, still the self-loathing in his voice. “This is not an apology. That I cannot offer. Just an explanation.”

A warrior, who felt he had to justify his skills? The abilities that guaranteed his survival? The very abilities that brought him to her with barely more than a scratch after two brutal battles? As a daughter and sister of warriors, she felt this was not right.

“My Lord, an apology is neither necessary nor expected. It was a misunderstanding. Your explanation is understood.”

“You do not fear me now?”

“No, My Lord. I just learnt that I do not have to fear you when you are either asleep or awake. One has to be alert to the short moment in between.”

For the first time a genuine smile appeared on the Rohír’s features. It was unexpected and had a considerable appeal.

“Gondor breeds unusual women.”

“I will pass on this praise to Gondor,” she replied graciously, and added on second thoughts: “As long as it was meant to be praise.”

“It certainly was. – You are wet.”

The abruptness of this last remark surprised her, but he was right. Both the tunic and her gown were soaked from having been pressed against his wet front and from the water he splashed over her when he shot out of the tub. The same went for her veil, which had become undone and threatened to slip. She tried to adjust it, but it came off, revealing tightly braided, midnight dark hair.

Seeing her throat, the Rohír raised his hand to her face, but stopped short from actually touching her.

“I bruised you.”

The healer let her fingers glide over her throat and chin. She didn’t have to see the abused area to know that by tomorrow it would be sporting the entire scale of blue and purple.

“I can take care of this later. The bruises will not be visible under the veil.”

“I see them. And you will have another one on your back, where I put my knee.”

By the pulsing pain of her spine he was right. She was going to have a rather large black-and-blue-mark between her shoulder blades. She probably would have to spend a couple of nights on her stomach.

“Mistress!” The hand came closer. It was a strong, rough hand with long, calloused fingers. It lingered just a breath from her jawline, but again he ceased from touching her. There was disgust in his voice, aimed against himself, when he continued, “Never in my life have I hurt a woman.”

That she believed. Her brothers would fight any man without mercy, if they had to. A woman probably could strike them down without meeting any resistance.

“My Lord, I thought we had established that this was an error of judgment on both sides. And I am not a woman, I am a healer.”

For a moment he said nothing, just looked at her. Then a gleam of humour crept into his eyes and one corner of his mouth twitched.

“You could have fooled me,” he murmured.

The healer left it at that and turned her back on him.

“I will see if there is a fresh tunic for me to wear. Why do not dry yourself off and take a seat, so I can treat your wound?”

“Something you are quite insistent upon.” The hint of humour in his voice was back.

The young woman opened a chest where garments were kept to replace those soiled during treatment. She took out a clean tunic and then unlaced the side fastenings of hers and pulled it over her head. Quickly she replaced it by the dry one and donned a new veil, making sure it covered the bruises. Turning back to her patient, she saw that the Rohír hadn’t moved but watched her. He took in her garb.

“Indeed, the healer,” he chaffed.

“Indeed! And the healer would like to treat you, if you would be so kind to make yourself ready, my Lord.”

With that she turned her back on him once again and cleared away the food tray. He would eat after she had tended to him. Preparing gauzes and bandages, opening tins and phials, she listened to the noise behind her. It stopped after a short while.

“Where do you want me?”

For the peace of her own mind, she just accepted it as carelessness in the choice of words and not as some double entendre. She turned around to look at him, her expression guarded. He had wrapped the sheet around his waist from where it fell down to his feet. The upper body was left bare for the treatment. Refusing to let her vexing response to him resurface once more, she motioned for him to sit down. He settled on the bench.

“I just have to wash my hands. Then we can begin.”

While she soaped her hands under the running tap of the cauldron, she felt his eyes on her back, heard him shift around and then the distinctive crunch of somebody biting into an apple. Having dried her hands with a clean cloth, she walked back to the bench and pushed the small stand on which she had placed the food tray, closer to her patient’s left side.

“I do not mind you eating while I tend to you. I am sorry I could not provide at least a hot stew. The kitchen fires had been put out already.”

“I am much obliged for what I have. I must admit, I am famished, and I had no idea where to get something to eat at this late hour.”

For somebody who claimed to be ravenous, he ate with remarkable restraint. He picked bite-sized pieces of bread and chicken and chewed thoroughly. In the healer’s experience most seriously hungry men didn’t care about table manners. Even her youngest brother, who had been taught strict etiquette, could be a pig when it came to filling an empty stomach. She had her suspicion the Rohír’s exercise of restraint had to do with her presence. The conclusion of the thorough assessment, she had received earlier, had put her obviously into the category “Lady”.

She hid a smile and felt her uneasiness in the warrior’s company ease further.

She took a small oil lamp from one of the shelves, lit it and placed it on the bench, so that she would have an even brighter light on the wound. Without having been asked the Rohír put his right arm behind his head, so the healer could inspect his injury. She bent down to have a close look, feeling his scrutiny. The wound was raw but now clean and hardly leaking any fluid. He wouldn’t need stitches. The area surrounding it showed already fading bruises. The young woman put some gentle pressure on the ribs. The warrior didn’t even flinch. There was obviously no damage to the bones.

“You were very fortunate indeed, my Lord. Except for a light infection this wound bears no danger. I have had to treat many injuries basically the same as this, where the bones were smashed. The blow you received must have been cushioned somehow.”

The man swallowed whatever was in his mouth before he replied. So much for the myth of the badly mannered roughs from the North, who did not know how to behave in polite society.

“I wear heavy amour over the mail. The blade cut only superficially between cuirass and backplate.”

“That is why . . .”  She stopped herself from fully formulating the thought she just had.

“That is why . . .what?” the Rohír probed, pouring some of the wine into an earthen mug.

The healer would have preferred to leave the question unanswered, but viewing it objectively, there was no reason to. Except, of course, her unfortunate response to the man, which she had decided not to have any more. Therefore logic required an honest answer.

“That is why your back is so heavily muscled.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see him turning his head slowly towards her. She refused to look directly at him. She didn’t want to see his expression, but could feel his gaze. “It is, of course, necessary to support the weight of the armour. Most of your kinsmen only wear mail, which provides less protection. We had many smashed bones and split joints.”

She took some gauze and soaked it with a clear spirit. Just before she dabbed it onto the wound, she warned in a neutral tone: “This may sting a bit.”

As she had expected, he nearly jumped off the bench, an effusion of Rohírric words coming out of his mouth. He had dropped the mug, flooding the tray with the wine and soaking what was left of the bread.

“I am sorry,” she offered.

“Are you?” He glared at her, wiping his left hand on his linen wrap. “What in Bema’s name was that?”

“It is a spirit distilled from fermented grain.”

“Some kind of brandy?”

“I would not recommend drinking it, unless you care to seriously weaken your eyesight. This is much stronger than the kind distilled for consumption. It is for disinfection, and I have not finished with your wound yet.”

She poured more of the liquid onto the gauze, and even though the Rohír eyed her warily, he didn’t pull back when she pressed the gauze once more to the wound. He just held his breath for a moment and then exhaled open mouthed.

“This hurts like a branding iron,” he complained through gritted teeth.

“And you have some personal experience with being marked with a branding iron?” the healer inquired politely.

There was a pause. The warrior seemed to consider if he should and how he would reply. Finally he said in a deliberate voice: “I made a speculative comparison. Had I been marked by a hot iron, you surely would have noticed while visually examining me.”

“Not if you were sitting on the mark.”

From all possible retorts this was the most unfortunate. He had baited her and she had fallen for the bait. For the first time in ages the healer blushed, and she was sure he noticed.

TBC