“You are very different from any other healer I have ever met, Mistress.” There was a suppressed laugh in his voice. “Are you sure you are genuine?”

“Of course, I am genuine. The Warden would have my head, if I treated you on my own without being fully competent.” She knew quite well that that was not what he had meant.

She pulled the gauze from the wound, which was now bright red, a good sign that it was thoroughly disinfected. With a small silver spatula she began dabbing salve on the raw area. Concentrating on her art helped her to maintain what was left of her composure.

“You are very young for a healer.” The warrior seemed to have every intention of sticking to the subject. “All the others who have treated me were rather seasoned.”

“I am afraid that I was the only healer who had not already retired when you arrived, my Lord.”

Having finished her task she put the salve and spatula aside and looked up. His hair had begun to dry and the golden waves framing his face were softening his features, as did the absence of the earlier frown. In the bright, slightly yellow light of the oil lamps, his eyes gleamed like dark amber. He was indeed a beautiful man. But in her position she was not supposed to notice.

“Had you wished to be treated by a more mature healer, you should have said so. I could have had somebody else called.”

“I would not have wished to be tended to by any other, Mistress. You have definitely cheered me up.”

His teasing tone had a rather opposite effect on her. She went back to her task, selecting a clean patch of gauze, pressing it to the wound to stick it to the salve. Choosing the longest of the bandages she placed one end over the gauze.

“Would you be so kind as to put your finger on this?”

Whilst the warrior fixed one end of the bandage the healer wrapped it around his chest and shoulder with swift, practised movements. That brought her in much too close proximity to him. When he spoke his mouth was next to her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath even through her veil.

“So, tell me! Why has the youngest of the healers not retired at such a late hour to seek her well deserved rest?”

She folded the end of the bandage into a neat triangle and secured it with a tiny silver clamp.

“Who says I am the youngest here?” she stalled.

“There cannot be any other healer even younger than you are. You can have barely reached your third decade.”

The young woman let that go and decided to answer his initial question.

“I was looking after one of my patients, who has been in great pain ever since he was taken from the Fields of Pelennor to the Houses of Healing. He is one of the Rohirrim.”

His expression sobered at once and the dark frown was back in place. This sudden change of mood was something she was easily able to comprehend. She had her own experience with the fact that a single thought of the brutal suffering this conflict had caused could wash despair over you without any forewarning. Now she wished she had not tried to avoid his teasing, had not tried to distract from her awkwardness by changing the subject so abruptly.

“Do you have his name; where he is from?” the Rohír asked, all lightness gone from his voice.

“His name his Hleogar, and he is from a place he calls East-Emnet.”

“So he is not one of the regular riders,” he stated.

“I understand that he is a herdsman, one who followed the call of his king.”

“To fulfil his oath to Lord and Land,” the warrior muttered, more to himself. His gaze returned to the healer: once again it was inscrutable. “Is he badly injured?”

“Very badly, my Lord,” she had to admit. “He barely survived, as so many of your people. And many more have died on us. It was not the will of the Valar to bestow the power upon us to save them all.”

“Have you been aided by any of my kinsmen in your efforts?”

“Oh yes. Whoever Lord Elfhelm could spare from patrolling Anórien and securing the White City was sent to assist with our task. None of your kinsmen who lost his life, went to his grave without being named.” The healer arranged and rearranged the tins and phials on her treatment tray. “They may not return home, but at least the bereaved families will not be left to wonder what happened to their loved ones. They will know that they rest in peace on the Pelennor Fields. Though they are buried in foreign soil, their last resting places will be treasured.”

Unexpectedly the horrors of the last weeks, the horrors that she had bottled up so closely, surfaced, and in a defensive gesture she wrapped her arms around herself.

“I only hope these families will never have to learn how cruelly battered, how mutilated, were the bodies of their kin when taken to their graves.”

It started with the tiniest shake of her head, and then she simply couldn’t stop moving it from one side to the other, as if this gesture of denial could undo the images in her memory.

“Never had I seen injuries like these before. Never ever in my darkest nightmares had I imagined that men could live inside bodies so torn, ripped, shattered! Never had I thought that I would wish a man to die, so his suffering would cease! Never . . . ”

She had no idea how long she would have gone on if the Rohír hadn’t silenced her. He had watched her with his intense eyes. Suddenly he brought up his hands and this time he didn’t stop himself. He cupped her face to still her frantic shaking, caught her gaze and for a long moment he held it, neither one speaking.  Each saw, mirrored in the eyes of the other, their memories of horrors: the horrors of the battlefield and of the aftermath. Seeing the mutual grief for every single life lost.

“You hurt for them . . . with them,” the warrior whispered, compassion in his voice.

“How could I not? They were given into my care and all I could do was watch. Watch how the last glimmer of hope in their eyes died. Watch how the flame of the will to live died. They died, and there was nothing I was able to do. Half of the wounded left to my care died and I could do nothing.”

Her voice held the tears: the tears that she would not allow to fall from her eyes, just as she had not allowed them to surface for weeks. Her eyelids had stopped blinking, the pupils unnaturally dilated. From one moment to the next her features showed all the exhaustion that she had felt for many days, grey shadows drawing over her face.

She saw a tiny, dual reflection of herself in the Rohír’s eyes, saw concern. And then he pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her, just holding her.

“Shhh!” he soothed.

Finding herself suddenly pressed against a bare hard chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, she stiffened. As it had been inappropriate for him to touch her face, this tight embrace was highly disreputable. She probably should have jumped and shrieked. But she was so tired, and he was warm and offered comfort. How long had it been since somebody had hugged her? Since after her mother’s death when there had been brief embraces of consolation from her father and brothers. But physical contact between grown siblings of different gender was not regarded proper behaviour. And though her family was loving and supportive, she had nearly forgotten how solacing the simple warmth of another human’s body could feel.

Whilst her body relaxed against his, her mind yelled at her that this was madness. That she must have lost her senses. What had happened? One moment she was bantering with this man, the next a bottomless sorrow swept over her and now she was lying in his arms. Did she just break down? She had never broken down! Giving into despair was not an option! Her mind demanded that she let reason prevail, but her body just wanted to stay. If the warrior had done anything but hold her, she would have probably jumped. But he held himself motionless, demanding nothing. Offering her only the comfort of the closeness of another human being.

Her face lay against his neck. She could feel his steady hard pulse against her temple. Under her lips she felt the lump of one of his scars. He smelt of the spirit with which she had disinfected his wound and of the salve with which she had soothed it.  His hair smelled of soap, and then there was his very own individual smell.

She tried not to think, just feel, but, as was to be expected, it was only a matter of time until her mind won the internal debate. This was all wrong. Quite wrong. Her muscles stiffened and she pulled back. The Rohír let her go. When she looked up, her expression guarded, she thought she saw in his eyes the same unease that she herself felt about this encounter. They regarded each other silently for a moment. Then his lips curved with the barest hint of a smile. But there was no happiness in it. It was sombre and heavy-hearted.

“Mistress, I am absolutely sure you did your best. You would not know how to do differently.” Absent-mindedly he took one of her hands, examining it thoroughly, massaging her fingers with his. “I know how it is to feel inadequate, to feel as if you are failing, to feel you are a prisoner of circumstances. In the end we just have to give our best; wherever we have been placed in this game we call life. Sometimes it is enough, sometimes it is not. We just keep on fighting until we cannot fight any more.”

“I do not fight.” That came out with great force, every word stressed. He looked a bit surprised, but contradicted with the same conviction

“Oh yes, you do. You are a fighter. You fought me all the time. Your weapons are just different. As you said earlier: you do not inflict wounds, you heal them. Yours is the final fight, the fight against death.”

“That kind of fight is a passive one. You have to watch and wait until the battle is over. Then you go and pick up the pieces, try to put together what has been ripped apart. That is and ever has been the fate of women in a world of fighting men. Watch! Wait!”

“Do you wish to change your fate, to have a less passive part?” Asking this, he looked rather sceptical. Knowing her physical appearance, she couldn’t blame him.

“You mean to take up weapons and go into battle myself?” She shook her head. “No, my Lord! That is not my way, not my nature. And what would it change, women going into battle? In addition to the grief for husbands and sons, for fathers and brothers, one would grieve for sisters and daughters too.”

“Then what do you wish for?”

“That this battle fought was the last.”

“I do not think this wish will be granted.”

“Neither do I. Nevertheless, I pray that this was the last battle that I will have to witness. If I have learnt one thing, then next to a battle lost the saddest thing is a battle won.”

“You are much too young to be so wise.”

She wished he would stop referring to her youth. It made her feel somehow lacking true experience. She withdrew her hand, which he still had clasped between his two.

“It is not as if you were ancient,” she declared with a defensive note in her voice.

“I do not think there is anybody who has not aged in soul and heart over the past months . . . years.”

She couldn’t help it, but all of a sudden her youngest brother came to her mind, the one whose primary purpose in life, after chasing women of course, was to enjoy himself and to torment his siblings. Nothing and nobody would ever change him. Perhaps it was good, that at least this one thing was constant. Her lips curled into the tiniest of smiles.

“Well, there is one of my brothers. He ceased maturing when he was about twelve years old.”

“You have brothers?”

She confirmed that with a single nod and then asked, “Do you have any siblings?”

“I have one sister.”

The healer had never seen a smile so loving and crestfallen at the same time. But the love was clearly there.

“She is blessed indeed!”

Something in her voice had him look at her suspiciously. “Why do I have a feeling that this is not to be praise?”

“She has just one brother. I have three!”

It looked as if he had to fight back a grin, but then his gaze sobered once more.

“They lived through the battles unharmed?”

“Yes, they were fortunate. They fought and they survived. The Valar granted our family mercy. But a cousin died and an uncle also.”

“I lost a cousin and an uncle, too.”

And how great this loss was for him was clearly written in his dark eyes. She could not think of any appropriate words or gestures of consolation.

“It will take a long time before the wounds of Middle-earth are going to be healed. And deep scars will remain,” she finally said quietly.

“A scar is a good reminder to be more cautious in the future.” He put his hand over the rough scar on his shoulder, where only moments ago her lips had touched him.

“If that were true, my Lord, you would have fewer.”

He rubbed the scar and shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “This kind is of no consequences.”

“Except if they become infected and get no proper treatment.”

“Ah!” One of the straight eyebrows arched. “So we are back at the beginning.”

It seemed they both wanted to get back to the beginning, to their earlier battle of wits: to disregard the dark clouds of their desolation.

“Indeed! And that reminds me of your leg.”

“What about my leg?” His gaze dropped to his thighs, which were covered under his make-do wrap. He looked slightly confused, obviously not quite sure to what she was referring.

“You tell me. You are limping.”

“I am not limping!” he insisted in a disgusted tone, as if she had just accused him of being infested with scabies.

“My Lord, I watched you walk across the lawn. You do limp!”

“It is nothing.”

“Where did I hear that before?”

“Mistress, you are tired! You need to rest. Forget about my leg.”

He moved to hop off the bench, but the healer was standing directly in front of him, refusing to give way. He would have had to step on her feet. The Rohír sighed.

“Look, it is not a gash or anything dramatic. I must have sprained or twisted something.”

“Did you hurt a muscle or a tendon?” Finally the healer was back in her field of expertise, where she felt comfortable, unlike the warrior, who obviously would have preferred to ignore just another physical plight.

“How am I supposed to know? I am not the healer.”

“That is something we may agree upon. How did it happen?”

He stared at her for a long moment, but finally surrendered.

“I suppose that I am not getting out of here before you are satisfied.”

He watched her shaking her head, smiling sweetly. He let out another sigh, this one louder than the last.

“Well,” he began and then stopped to recollect the incident. “We were fighting at the Black Gate on foot. That is something I am not used to. My boots are riding boots, not made for extensive exercise other than on horseback. I must have twisted my ankle.”

“So it is your ankle that hurts and makes you limp?”

That earned her a look harbouring between frustration and amusement, but he began rotating his right foot in an effort to find the actual source of the pain.

“No, it is not the ankle. It is around the knee, . . . below the knee.”

“What happened, when you were injured?”

“I do not recall.” If his tone of voice was an indicator, then he was losing his patience. “I was rather occupied at that moment fighting a few thousand Orcs.”

“All of them at once?” What was it about this man that tempted her tongue to work quicker than her brain?

The Rohír shot her a look that had to be regarded as highly dangerous. Strangely enough she remained unbothered.

“Have you ever been in danger of being throttled?” he asked, grinding his teeth together.

“Oh yes,” she said slowly, “just earlier tonight.”

She almost regretted her words, because now he looked truly taken aback.

“You know how to hit low!” he growled.

“Three brothers provide a quite marvellous education.”

“That you survived shows that you are not as frail as you look.”

“I am not frail.” She clamped her mouth into a firm line.

“That is a matter of opinion.” He was turning the tables, and he knew it.

“That is a matter of comparison.” She gestured with both hands. Even when sitting on the bench his eye level was above hers. “Compared to you, I may look small.”

“I wasn’t comparing you to me,” he said in a low tone, never once taking his eyes off hers, “but to other women.”

She took a step back and blinked, twice. He had tilted his head very slightly to the side, and there was that assessing gaze again. Here she was out of her league, and she knew it. And worse, this man knew it, too. He arched a single eyebrow and then let it slowly be joined by the other. There was a mocking challenge in his eyes. Her lips parted, but she had nothing to say, not a single word would come. There was nothing but air, and even that seemed in short supply.

And then all of a sudden his expression softened, and a rueful and apologetic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His voice had lost its teasing tone and now showed genuine kindness.

“Why do you not do whatever you feel you have to do to my leg, so we can get this over with and you can retire? I really do not want to keep you up any longer.”

He had let her off the hook!

Grateful, she took a deep, calming breath and just dropped down on one knee before him to examine his lower leg. Firmly she took his right foot and set it on her thigh. She heard a strangled cough from the Rohír, but didn’t pay any attention. His feet were as well formed as his hands, but covered with calluses and patches of horn skin, indicating that most of the time they were imprisoned in his boots.

“You should walk barefoot from time to time. It would be very beneficial for your feet.”

“Really?” His voice sounded somehow strained.

Still not wanting to look at him, she pushed the linen sheet from his right leg and began to palpate his tendons. Slowly she let her fingers glide from the calcaneus to the hollow of the knee, putting gentle pressure from both sides against the tendons.

“Tell me, if you feel a slicing pain.”

“I will.”

Something was wrong with his voice, but by now she was fully concentrated on the examination. She changed the position of her hand, putting one just above the kneecap and fisted the other into the hollow of the knee, rolling it against the tendons.

“Anything?”

“Nothing . . .almost . . . at least no pain.”

“Fine. Then the tendons do not seem to be damaged.”

“That is good!”

“Indeed! They take quite some time to heal.”

She circled his kneecap with thumb and index finger and twisted it slightly. He didn’t flinch.

“Nothing wrong here,” she declared, a concentrated frown on her forehead.

She heard him mutter a few words in his native tongue. Something was wrong! She looked up cautiously and saw his eyes shining with suppressed amusement. What had she done now?

“My Lord?” she asked suspiciously.

“Mistress, are you certain that nobody else around here might be awake and could come to this chamber?”

“I do not think so. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind.” He waved it aside and the healer could have sworn she heard a slight groan. “It is of no importance.”

She couldn’t shake the feeling that he found something highly amusing, but she had no idea what it was all about.

“So, when the tendons are not damaged, everything is well?” Somehow he didn’t appear really interested.

“Not at all. A muscle must be affected. You stated earlier that the source of the pain is just below the knee. Below the cap or below the hollow?”

“Below the back of the knee.”

She contemplated this information, then pressed his foot with one hand down on her thigh, the other she wrapped, fingers wide spread, around his upper calf, sliding slowly down, putting pressure on her fingertips. Suddenly, in a reflex of pain, his leg straightened, pushing against her ribs and sending her backwards onto her bottom.

“Muscle rupture,” she diagnosed with some satisfaction, supporting her upper body on her elbows.

The Rohír had jumped off the bench and bent down to slide his hands under her armpits. Without any obvious effort he pulled her back onto her feet.

“Are you well?” he asked, his voice a mixture of concern and amusement. “You should have warned me.”

“I did not expect your reflexes to be that strong. How careless of me.” She took in his raised eyebrows, his hands planted on his hips. Although in doubt that there was another of his kind, she made a silent vow, should one come along she would send him off to another healer.

“I understand a ruptured muscle is not as bad as a torn tendon?” There was some hope in his voice that he would be able to avoid further treatment.

“That is so. A damaged tendon needs longer to heal, but nevertheless, a muscle rupture needs tending, too. I will bandage it.”

“Oh no! You will do no such thing,” the warrior protested firmly. “I am not running around with a bandaged leg.”

“You should not run around at all. You should rest your leg, or it will take much longer to heal.”

“How much longer?”

“Had you bandaged the calf and put pressure on the injury just after it happened . . . “

“We had other worries at that point,” he interrupted rather rudely.

“Of course! I apologize. But if we do it now, you should be fine by the end of the month. If you do not so, it may take at least another couple of months to heal.”

“That I can live with. No bandages!”

“The bandages we use are cut from a special woven cloth. You will hardly . . .”

“No bandages! And do not try reminding me what I may need this leg for. I am one of the Rohirrim, remember? Most of the walking is done by our horses anyway.”

“I am certain that if one of your horses had a similar injury then you would let it rest.”

“Mistress, we can stand here until dawn and argue our heads off. But that would be highly unreasonable. I want you in bed.” He stopped himself, the frown on his face deepening. He gave his head a tiny shake before he went on. “I mean, you badly need your sleep and I want you to get it at least for the rest of this night. Be satisfied with having treated the flesh wound and let my muscle just be. I am getting dressed.”

The last statement came out as a warning, but it was not the healer’s nature to give up too easily, or at least not entirely.

“There is a salve to support the healing process. It is an extract of horse chestnut,” she explained and then added, “That should appeal to you.”

The Rohír stared at her as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what was before him. The healer expected some harsh retort. But either his exhaustion had overcome him once more and he just wished to retire himself, or he had simply learnt during the course of the last hours that agreeing to a compromise was the best he could achieve in this situation.

“Give me the salve,” he finally said, more than just a hint of resignation in his voice. “And now I am getting dressed.”

He walked over to the tiled stove, trying to conceal his limp. Only now the healer noticed that he had retrieved his earlier, carelessly disposed, coat of mail and tunic and had them, together with his breeches, neatly folded and rolled up, stacked on the mantelpiece. His sword belt hung next to them, his boots set beside the tub, probably flooded during his abrupt exit.

“Do you want me to rub the salve into your calf?”

“No!” he barked, turning around, glaring at her. Then he gathered his manners. “No, thank you. I will do it myself . . . tomorrow.”

When he saw her sceptical look, he added with an aggravated grin, “I give you my word of honour!”

“In that case I shall put together some dressing material and the salves you can take with you.”

“Salves? More than one?”

“One for the wound, one for your leg.”

With a groan he turned to pick up his clothes. Her eye fell onto the clean shirt she collected earlier from the storage chambers.

“My Lord.”

“Yeees?” The single word came out as a long hiss, only his head turning slowly to face her.

“Your new shirt, my Lord.”

The warrior crossed the chamber with three long strides and grabbed the shirt from her hand. He barely managed a gruff thank-you. Perhaps it was a good thing that soon they would be going their separate ways to find their badly needed rest, or she still might get throttled.

The healer went to the shelves, where the remedies were stored, turning her back towards the room. She began filling the salves into smaller tins and closed them with corks. Together with patches of clean gauze and some bandages, she put everything in a small linen bag, listening to the noises the Rohír made while slipping on his clothes. Once more there were some words, muttered under his breath, in his native tongue. It didn’t take much imagination to identify them as swearing. He had just found his boots drenched. She turned, trying to keep her face straight while watching his effort to yank the wet leather over his feet; his right leg was certainly hurting.

He was now wearing the loose shirt and his deerskin breeches, which definitely had seen better times. After finally having managed to struggle into his boots, he grabbed his filthy tunic and eyed it with some distain, but then just shrugged it over his head.

“This needs to be replaced.”

The healer didn’t see any reason to comment on the obvious. The warrior walked back to the bench und placed his mail and sword on it. He turned towards the young woman. She handed him the linen bag.

“Here you have everything you need over the next few days to take care of your injuries. The black tin holds the salve for the flesh wound; the brown is for your leg. I hope you are going to make use of them.”

“At least I have the intention of doing so.”

“If you need anything else, please feel free to return to the Houses of Healing.”

“I know how to find you.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted him to find her.

She saw his eyes wander towards the tray with the leftovers of his meal. He extended one hand and grabbed the two remaining apples.

“Do you mind if I take these?”

“Of course not. Are you still hungry?”

“No, thank you. You provided plenty of food. These are for my horse as a bribe to let me share his stall tonight.”

“You are going to sleep in the stables?” she asked, slightly baffled.

“Somehow I failed to arranged quarters before I came here. And by now the quarter master will be gone.”

“But there must be some other place for you to go.”

He just shrugged his shoulders.

“We call ourselves the sons of Eorl. Where our horses are comfortable, we are comfortable.”

“You will need another bath by tomorrow.”

This disarming grin belonged to a little boy and shouldn’t be possessed by a grown man. It made her stomach flip, a feeling she hadn’t known until this night, and now it was becoming quite familiar.

“You are rather unique, Mistress.”

“Oh.” How was that to be taken? “Thank you?” she asked and the slight scepticism in her tone intensified his grin, reaching his deep sun wrinkled eyes.

“It was indeed meant to be a compliment, Mistress.”

“In that case: thank you!”

He would leave now. And she did want him gone, didn’t she? She would go to bed, sleep, and tomorrow she would be back to herself. She would forget about him. There was so much work to be done, so many patients to be taken care of. She wouldn’t have the time to think about a peculiar encounter with a Horselord. Her mind would settle again.

The warrior looked around the treatment chamber, taking in the tub filled with the now cooled bathing water, the used linen sheets, the remains of his meal, the remedies used for the treatment of his injuries.

“You are not going to clean this after I have left?” he asked and urged: “You will go to bed and rest?”

“You are quite insistent upon getting me into bed, my Lord.” Why was he looking as if he had just choked on his tongue? “But do not worry. There are domestics, whose purpose it is to clean these chambers and keep them tidy. I assure you, I will retire, as soon as you have left.

“Then I will not keep you any longer.”

The Rohír reached for his sword and his rolled up coat of mail. He turned towards the healer. One last time his penetrating gaze hit her. Then he bowed.

“I thank you for your help and your care. And I apologize for my unpleasant manners and any unfortunate words spoken. – Farewell, Mistress Healer.”

With that he turned around to leave the treatment chamber. At the door to the gardens he hesitated, as if he were uncertain in which direction to go. But then he looked back over his shoulder.

“Will you give me your name, Mistress Healer?”

“I am called Lothíriel. – And your name, my Lord?”

“Éomer, Éomundsson.”

FINI (for now)