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A Yalië-story, inspired by surgicalsteel’s ongoing series A King's Surgeon. A complete list of all tales from this universe (and from the "Happy AU" this special tale belongs to) can be found here.
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A Chicken for the Healer
by Cúthalion

It was cold. For heaven’s sake, but it was cold! It seemed to the new healer in Bree that her blood was running thin through her veins, the blood of one used to warm springs, hot summers and mild winters. Yalië shivered and pulled the thick, woolen shawl closer around her shoulders, once more silently cursing a fate that had swept her to this forlorn, inhospitable hole of a town.

Armpit of nowhere, she thought again with a mirthless chuckle. She remembered Serindë’s comforting words and her lips curled to a narrow, lopsided smile, much too bitter to make her feel comfortable.

It’s not the end of the world, Yalië. Things will work themselves out.

Serindë could talk, she could talk indeed. Maybe she had been alone, too, when she came here, and certainly as miserable as she could be, but she had been welcomed with open arms by none less than the mother of Gondor’s future King, and that doubtlessly remarkable woman had taken her under her wings. Yalië had no illusions whatsoever that the greeting wouldn’t have been as half as warm for a woman of her ancestry and dubious reputation. And even if Gilraen would have had no idea about her mother and about Yaliё’s various… adventures, she would have found out anyway, given that Aragorn’s disastrous sharp eye was hereditary. Aragorn told me more or less frankly that I’m a loose bitch, she thought, stepping over to the small window and staring out at the whirling riot of snowflakes outside, but I’ve always been like this, and his so-called heir didn’t care a straw and enjoyed what I was willing to offer. And now I pay the price for all of this while he has obviously returned to responsibility and decorum.

It was a bad joke.

Serindë had Halbarad and two children every mother would be proud of. All she had was the memory of a man’s hot hands on glowing skin, a laughing, breathless voice in her ears and the fire and rhythm of that most familiar, ancient dance pulsing in her blood. But now her bed was cold, and Thalguron had left for the Angle two days ago, letters addressed to another woman in his saddlebags. Lukewarm friendliness and no single flame left, she thought, biting her lip in a mixture of anger and frustration, I prefer him as he was, hungry, reckless and persistent like a deer in heat - before he came to his so-called senses.

Defiantly Yalië tried to forget that it had been her who refused to put their tumultuous relationship on a legitimate base. Thalguron had actually wanted to marry her before they left for Bree, but all she had been able to see – all she was still able to see, to be honest – was the strangling snare of a forced seemliness, the door of a dungeon, threatening to close behind her.

“Mistress Yalië?“

She startled and finally noticed that someone had been knocking against the door of her house for quite a while, and that now a nervous voice was calling from outside.

“Mistress Yalië? Are you there?“

“Of course I am,” she brusquely gave back. “Come in.”

The door opened; an icy squall ruffled her skirt and blew thick strands of hair out of her face. She blinked and found herself opposite to a very small woman, her friendly face surrounded by a cloud of hazelnut brown curls. Her eyes were as green as birch leaves in spring, and her nose and cheeks were blotched over and over with pale golden freckles. A hobbit.

“Daisy Mugwort, at your service,” she said, peering up at Yalië, taking in her luscious curves, copper mane and reserved eyes with a quick, curious glance. “Master Gil and Tarië have left the day before yesterday, haven’t they?“

“They have indeed,” Yalië replied. “I fear you will have to be satisfied with any service I can offer.”

Daisy Mugwort tilted her head. “Are you able to care for a wounded arm?”

“I’m fairly sure I am,” Yalië retorted dryly.

“Wonderful!” The hobbit woman beamed up at her. “My niece Pansy slipped on the threshold of the Prancing Pony, and I think she has broken a bone. You certainly have a bag you can take with you…?”

“I have indeed.” For the first time Yalië had to suppress a grin. “Show me the way, Mistress Mugwort; I will stay closely behind you, or I might lose track and be blown away before we reach the other side of the street.”

*****

When the reached the entrance of the inn, Yaliё’s cheeks were burning and frozen at the same time. She had been forced to hold the hood of her winter cloak with both hands to keep it on her head and was once more amazed about the fact that hobbits were able to walk barefoot on such an icy ground.

The heavy oak door closed behind them with a reassuring bang, and suddenly Yalië was surrounded by blue plumes of pipesmoke, loud voices and the smell of beer and roasting meat. Daisy Mugwort ignored the stuffed full taproom, however; she hurried down a short passage and opened a second door. This time it led to a small, pleasant parlour with deep chairs in front of the fireplace. Three hobbits were already waiting; a second woman, a little bit younger than Daisy, an elder hobbit, his chestnut curls shot with streaks of grey, and a girl child, huddled up in the biggest chair. Obviously this was her patient; Yalië saw green eyes looking up at her, widening anxiously.

“Auntie Daisy?” A high, trembling voice, and a small arm, protectively drawn closer to a tiny chest. “Who is that? Why didn’t you bring Gil? I want Gil!”

Daisy Mugwort shot her an apologetic gaze.

“Gil and Tarië have left, sweetling,” she said. “And Mistress Yalië has come to care for your arm. Just calm down and let her help you, and the pain will be gone, I promise.”

Refused by a child, Yalië thought with a surprising pang of pain. And she wants Thorongil instead. Of course she does. At the end it doesn’t matter if Serindë is the better choice – or her son. All that matters is that I’m nothing but a miserable substitute for both. Suddenly she felt the overwhelming, completely unreasonable urge to weep.

She cleared her throat, collected the least remaining shreds of her professional composure and stepped closer, deliberately softening her tone.

“I don’t bite,” she said, “and do you know what? I’ve known Serindë for a long, long time, even before she married Halbarad and had her babes.“

“Babes?” The green eyes risked a short glance. “Gil was a babe once?”

“Oh yes, he was!” Yalië felt on slightly safer ground now. Obviously she was pulling the right strings; beside her, she heard Daisy’s low chuckle. “Nice and fat, and screaming day and night. And when he was three years old and stumbled over the stub of a tree, he fell back to old habits again and screamed even louder.”

“Really?” One thumb wandered into Pansy’s mouth, and Yalië saw that the little girl’s body relaxed noticeably.

“Really.” Cautiously she lowered herself on the ground in front of the chair. “But you… you will be braver than he was, will you? And I will be very careful. Really.”

Their eyes met, and Yalië was clever enough not to turn her gaze away until the examination was finished. Then she leaned in, this time meeting no further resistance. She gently felt along Pansy’s forearm, her elbow and upper arm. There – a clean fracture of the humerus. She clucked her tongue sympathetically when Pansy gave a small, whimpering moan of pain.

“I know that hurts, little one,” she said. “Just give me a few more minutes and it will be over.”

She was right; a few more minutes and it was over. While her hands worked, following the skilled routine of this easy treatment, all helpless jealously and rage was banned from her mind. She was very well aware of the watching eyes around her. Whatever she thought about Bree, the primitive circumstances and the miserable turn her pleasant arrangement with Thalguron and her whole life in general had taken – this was the moment where her abilities were put to test. And she knew she’d better not fail.

Finally she turned to Daisy Mugwort.

“If you accompany me back to my house, I will give you some willow bark tea to brew if Pansy’s arm aches too much,” she said. “She should take no poppy syrup… much too strong for someone her age and weight.”

Daisy nodded.

“Of course, Mistress Yalië,” she said, her tone decidedly respectful. “And thank you.” She straightened her back, raising her chin in an unconscious gesture of simple dignity. “We may not be able to pay you in coin, at least not at once,” she added, “but perhaps a nicely fattened chicken will do as a kind of paydown?”

Yalië took a deep breath; at this very moment she suddenly understood what it was that had sparked Serindë’s fierce, almost protective love for the hobbits.

“Brilliant idea,” she answered, her voice slightly hoarse. “But I fear I will need a good recipe how to make the poor beast at least edible; compared to Serindë, I’m a lousy cook.”

“But not a lousy healer,” Daisy firmly said. “And don’t worry about the chicken. I will stuff it for you with apples, onions and sage and roast it in my oven. I can bring it to your house. I might also add a jar of fresh cider, if you want, or a tankard of my husband’s homebrewed ale. And you should try our bread – folks around here always say that I bake the best bread in Bree.”

Yalië reached out and felt the small fingers of the hobbit woman close around her hand in an astonishingly reliable grip.

“Thank you very much, Mistress Mugwort,” she said honestly. “That’s a meal even the King of Gondor would not despise.” Suddenly the thought occurred to her that said King probably had already tasted Daisy’s bread, and she felt her face relax in the first real smile since she had reached Bree. “And forget any further payment, please. We are even.”

With these words she gave a final wave of goodbye to the small group of hobbits in front of the fireplace, took her bag and followed Daisy outside into the snow, to be guided safely home again.

THE END