Still Day 50, the castle

The Lady entered the room shortly greeting Tebenor, who had risen from his chair. Sadur followed her and closed the door.

“Lord Tebenor, the situation has to be cleared out before next spring.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Gather your men, prepare them to meet the Prince as soon as he sets out westwards.”

“This will take more men than I have under arms. Considered those I can trust.”

“Very well then, contact Beregor. It is on your way. It is his fault that we are standing here empty handed. He will ride with you.”

“Mother, let me ride with them.”

The Lady gazed at her son, proud but unwilling to give in.

“My son, your task lies ahead of you. We will not risk your life in a fight that should already be over.”

Sadur exchanged glances with Tebenor, but the noble man kept his face blank.

“I will see what I can do,” he stated. “There might be more gained with an assault than with an open fight.”

“Very well. I expect you to keep me informed about your progress. And this time make sure the Prince finds no river to hide.”

* * *

            Day 51, the castle

Vlohiri had not slept – or barely slept for he was wide awake at sunrise, the first boy up to run to the kitchen and have breakfast. Narana, who slept in the kitchen, looked at him puzzled, but due to the amounts of work she had to do she did not bother him with questions. As long as he worked as ordered she would be glad. There were times when Flea had been more absent than not, and she had wondered if he might end up like his mother.

When Lomac came to ask for Vlohiri she was surprised at first, but let him go. The boy almost jumped to the door, and when she frowned, Lomac only smiled.

“He is a young boy,” he giggled, “with a lot of energy.” Then he was gone, and, shaking her head, Narana returned to her own work.

Vlohiri had to suppress a smile when Lomac ordered him to carry a bucket of water to the room in the eastern tower. He had had harder work to do, and serving the old healer seemed more a reward than a punishment. But it felt strange to march up the stairs to the chamber of the prisoner at daylight. He had expected a guard to stand in front of the door, but the only measure was the heavy padlock. Lomac searched the depth of his sac to find the key, murmuring to himself that he had had it this morning. He found it, opened up and let Vlohiri enter first. The boy put the bucket near the fireplace and eagerly stacked it up with fresh wood. When the fire was livelier he heated the water. Turning, he saw that Aragorn watched him.

“Good morning.” Unconsciously Vlohiri had lowered his voice.

“Same to you.”

Lomac had put his little pots and bowls on the small table in the rear part of the room. Whistling and softly singing he used a small spoon – a kind of spoon Vlohiri had never seen before – to fill a crumbly substance into a cup.

“Bring some hot water, lad,” he said, and Vlohiri rose, smiling about Aragorn’s astonishment.

Lomac added water to the substance and stirred it, before he knelt beside the prisoner’s bed.

“What did I miss?” Aragorn’s asked and coughed again badly.

“Let me put it like this: We made an agreement,” Lomac replied, and Vlohiri added a broad smile. “He will work here, but he does not climb around the tower.”

“Climb?”

“Now, young man, how do you think he got here the first time?” The healer cocked his head. “He took quite a risk to get to you.”

“Yeah…” Aragorn locked eyes with Vlohiri. “I know.”

“Now, that this is settled, drink this.” Aragorn grimaced. “Do not argue with me, prisoner, I might be old, but there is some strength left.” He slightly lifted his head and made him drink the tea. Vlohiri hurried to hand a bowl of water. “Thank you, lad, you are indeed a help.”

Aragorn coughed no sooner than he had swallowed a sip of water.

“What was in that tea?” he asked when his voice worked again.

Lomac rose slowly, his face a mixture of surprise and complacency.

“Some herbs… some magic maybe and…”

“Magic?” the boy interrupted.

The healer smiled at him.

“We always say that. It is like… well, you have to believe it works or it will not.”

“You could work on the taste to make me believe,” Aragorn said hoarsely.

Lomac burst into laughter, shook his head, and laughed again when he returned to the table.

“You have got some humor left – that is good. Well, now, where have I…” He scratched his head. “Sometimes I need more than… Ah, well, now.” He faced Vlohiri. “Now, I forgot something in my study. I have to fetch it. You could wash your friend in the meantime – or do I have to fear that you will break his chains, shoulder him and help him to escape?”

Vlohiri did not know how to take it – or react properly. Was it a joke? Was he testing him? Would it mean he gave him away to the guards if he made a wrong move? He looked at the healer with his face and mind completely blank.

“I won’t go anywhere,” Aragon said into the silence and moved his shackled hands.

“Well, good enough for me. Lad, do not look at me as if you would not know how to spend your time! Do not forget, wash him, and use cold water for his face.” He left the room and closed it, but no padlock was set in the eye.

Vlohiri could not recall if he had ever felt more awkward – light-hearted on one hand, and intimidated by the sudden responsibility on the other hand. He had never taken care of somebody who was sick, and the mere thought that Aragorn could need the help of the healer while he was alone with him, raised his uneasiness. His hands trembled when he poured cold water into a bowl and used a piece of cloth to wipe Aragorn’s face. He was glad that the prisoner closed his eyes and relaxed for he did not know what he should say. It was not the first time that he was alone with the prisoner – but on all preceding occasions there had been a thick door between them, and he had risked punishment by the guards. Now he had a higher permission and felt uncomfortable with it.

“Why do you tremble?” the prisoner asked with still closed eyes. Vlohiri felt the same way as in that moment when Aragorn had spoken to him the first time in the dungeon. He felt drawn towards him and repelled by his ability to read his mind. He did not answer, but continued washing. The man’s body still showed the signs of punishment – scratches, bruises, and the healing wounds where the hounds had bitten him. Vlohiri did not want to imagine how much pain the prisoner had endured since the day of his capture. He shoved the thought aside, rinsed the cloth and continued his work. Done he covered the shivering prisoner again only to find him asleep. Grateful that he had escaped an answer he used the rest of the water to wash himself.

Lomac returned with a basketful of leaves, put it on the table and only glimpsed at the sleeping prisoner.

“Now, lad, done your work?” The boy nodded. “Good! Don’t be shy. I like company that talks.” His mouth twitched, and Vlohiri replied a small smile. “You talked to him, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you found your voice. Thank you.” He started grinding the leaves with a pestle, and Vlohiri stepped closer, curious as always. “The tea is good for him, but add this…” He nodded to the bowl on the table, “… to a broth, and he will get strong in no time.”

“And then they put him to work again,” the boy whispered, not at all meaning to let Lomac hear.

“You knew of him before.” Vlohiri swallowed, avoided Lomac’s inquisitive stare. True, it was more a statement than a question. He could not deny that his relief the first day he had found Aragorn had been honest. Why should he have wept? “But I thought no one but the guards go to the dungeon.” Now the boy looked like he would want to disappear through a hole in the ground. He could neither answer nor lift his head. “Well, I see, climbing the eastern tower is only one way of spending time for you.” The boy obstinately kept his mouth shut. Lomac smiled. “Flea, I will not tell the guards. If I would have wanted to I could have done so yesterday. Your behavior that night was quite… telling. You wept as if you almost had lost a friend. Is it not so?”

“They would have let him die in his cell,” he whispered with a shudder. The memory felt thick and dark. His helplessness, the minutes of hesitation. He could recall it all too vividly.

“Yes, Medros might have done that.” Lomac grinded the leaves with even more force. “But the prisoner shall live – as it seems to me. Lord Sadur even found his way to the dungeon to take care of it.”

“The Lord himself?” Vlohiri asked lifting his head.

“Well, yes, as I said. He was there that night when the prisoner was found.” He stopped in mid his movement. “Did you raise the alarm?” Again Vlohiri felt as if he could not breathe, but he nodded slowly. “Good, lad, you are more courageous than you look like. Now…” He handed him the pestle. “…my old hands do not want do this any more. Will you finish it for me? The leaves shall all be crumbly.” He left the table to kneel beside the bed. Vlohiri twisted his head to follow Lomac, who gently touched Aragorn’s forehead. “Though he is unusually strong he can be glad you were near. But he will be sick for some time. You know that, do you not?” The boy nodded. “Well…” Lomac rose and breathed deeply. “… if nothing bad happens to him he will survive.” Vlohiri did not know what that meant. Lomac stepped closer and continued with his deep voice, “The guards want to see him dead. Only under the pressure of Sadur’s presence they took care of him at all. Someone should stay with him.”

“But if the Lieutenant…”

“Yes, Medros is a pain in the neck.” There was a smile on his face that confused Vlohiri more than anything else. “But even though not all pains can be cured some can.” He whistled softly when he looked at the bowl. “Now, that is enough. You made almost powder out of it! Go and get some broth from Narana.” Vlohiri was at the door when he still heard Lomac.“Where have you got this strength from? This is unbelievable!”

Vlohiri grinned and ran to the kitchen.

The day might have been pleasant. Vlohiri had never worked less in his life and found it strangely satisfying to give a hand to the healer’s work and listen to his stories. Lomac had travelled far and long during his lifetime and knew many things the boy had never heard of before. And while the prisoner slept most of the time Vlohiri learned in three hours more about Middle Earth than in ten years before. Lomac told him about Elves and Men, about Dwarves and wizards, battles and alliances. Noon came and passed by and the healer was still occupied with teaching the ignorant little servant.

“Do you not know anything at all?” he exclaimed from time to time when Vlohiri was unable to tell him the most simple connections in the lives of the people. But then he would sigh and would begin his explanation again. When the prisoner stirred, he stopped. Vlohiri turned from the table. Aragorn was panting as if he had run. He moved his head from one side to the other, murmuring words the boy did not understand. “He has a bad dream,” Lomac said quietly. The prisoner’s arm muscles tensed, followed by low moans. Then he relaxed. “It is over. Now, where was I?”

“What did he say?” Vlohiri whispered, unable to turn away from Aragorn.

“Do not worry about his dreams,” the healer replied in a tone that made Vlohiri look at him immediately. 

He frowned and added, disapprovingly:

“Why do you say that? He always talks in riddles, too.”

“Does he?” Lomac smiled. “Then this poacher is quite educated, I would guess… Now, let me tell you something more about Dwarves.” He continued his speech, and the boy listened, until the hacking cough of the prisoner made the healer stop. “Well, I think… yes, it is time! Flea, see if the broth is warm – not too hot! Make sure of that.” He rose with a gesture that made Vlohiri run to the big pot. He was hungry himself, but did not dare to say a word. He brought the pot to the table. Lomac added the almost powdry crumbles of leaves and stirred with a big spoon. “See, now it is ready. Give me a bowl, please. Thank you. If you walk any faster, Flea, you might fly.” The puzzled look of the boy made him laugh. “You are quite some boy! Here, now, take that to your friend.”

Vlohiri took the bowl and a spoon, frowning, not sure if he should contradict. A friend? Was the prisoner – Aragorn – a friend of him? What would it be like to have a friend? He knelt beside the bed, the pleasant warmth of the fire in his back. Aragorn’s look was knowing, and he felt as if he could stare right into his heart. The boy evaded it by putting down the bowl to rearrange the pillow. Still uneasy he began feeding the prisoner. He could not think of anything else than Lomac’s assumption he would be Aragorn’s friend. But was that possible? How could he be the friend of a man accused of poaching? There had been no contradiction by that fair-haired man from Rohan – the King of Rohan, as Aragorn had told him. He could be a Ranger – a King – or a poacher – he could be anyone.

If he allowed himself to think that Aragorn was innocent, he had to assume in the same moment that the Lady had done something terrible wrong.

How could he do that? She was known as just!

The door flew open, and Medros entered with a fierce look on his face, ready to accuse Lomac.

Vlohiri looked up, shocked, and dropped the bowl.

The Lieutenant kept his surprise in check and bellowed:

“What do you do here, you little bastard? How did you get in here? How can you dare…” He stamped through the room, fuming with anger. “This time no cook will stop me, understood?” He grabbed Vlohiri by his jacket, pulling the screaming boy away from the fire.

“Leave him, Medros!” Aragorn shouted and regretted it instantly. The coughing left no breath for words.

“He works for me,” Lomac said quietly and appeared from the rear side of the room, smoking a pipe and looking at ease.

Medros spun around, still holding fast to the boy’s jacket.

“What did you say?”

Lomac sighed as if he supposed the Lieutenant to be more stupid than the boy at his side.

“I said he works for me. Let him go.”

“You will explain that, old man!”

“As soon as Vlohiri stands on his feet again.”

Medros shoved the boy aside. He fled into the shadows.

“Now, Lomac, tell me!”

“Narana was so friendly as to allow Vlohiri to work for me. He will take care of the prisoner – or would you want to sit at the bedside and feed him, since the shackles are so short he cannot even move?”

Medros stared down on the prisoner.

“It stays like it is. He has proven times too many that he will use every freedom of movement to escape.”

“I did not say you should set him free – just leave the chains a little longer. He should not lie on his back all the time. He will get sore. I have seen it before. Now, loosen the chains, Lt. Medros. He is still far too weak to even get up, let alone attempt to escape.”

“There is no way you can make me do it. I have to see to the safety of all of us. I cannot let him get a chance to attack one of my men.”

“Lieutenant…” Lomac’s voice suddenly became firm and demanding. “You will either do as I ask you, or I will take my pleading to Lord Sadur. We can let him decide.”

“Then we let him decide,” Medros growled and waited outside. He called for Bayonor, who had waited at the stairs. He halted at the door when the Lieutenant ordered him to watch while Lomac accompanied him to Lord Sadur. “Hurry. I have not all day to spend!”

Lomac helped Vlohiri to stand.

“Are you all right?” he asked friendly. Vlohiri was still shaking badly, but he nodded. “Now, good – it will not take long. You stay here, do you understand? Do not leave the room.” Then he headed for the stairs.

Bayonor slammed the door shut from the outside, and the boy stood at the same spot for a moment, regaining his breath, thanking whatever goddess watched over him that he had not been whipped or even worse punished. With a shudder he turned. He felt like he had been pulled away from Medros’ whip in the very last moment. As if he could hear the slashing sound before the hit…

He wiped his face with both hands. They were damp and cold, and he blotted them on his trousers.

“The healer will watch over you,” Aragorn said wearily.

“He cannot be everywhere.” He shivered again. “Only Medros can.”

Again the coughing made it impossible for Aragorn to answer. Still deep in thoughts Vlohiri went to the pot with warm water and filled a cup. He held it for the prisoner to drink and put it back again.

“Even he cannot,” Aragorn whispered, and, finally, Vlohiri looked up. Fear still lay in his features. “He is just an angry man.” It was obvious the boy did not believe him. “Where did you hide – the night you found me?”

Vlohiri swallowed. The memory of the creatures in the tunnel was only slightly better than the thought of Medros’ venom.

“A tunnel,” he said reluctantly. “There is a tunnel from the dungeon.”

Aragorn made an effort to lift his head.

“Where does it lead to?”

Vlohiri frowned. Suddenly it came to his mind that the prisoner had talked about a new attempt to escape. And what he saw in his stare let the boy hesitate to reveal the truth.

“It’s… it’s just a tunnel,” he lied, “to another tunnel in the dungeon.”

Moaning Aragorn lowered his head on the pillow.

“You do not believe me at all, do you?” he stated flat-voiced.

There was a long silence, but in Vlohiri’s head thoughts were running like a flock of deer. ‘You cannot trust him!’ one voice said. ‘He is a prisoner!’ The other said, ‘Did not the visit of the King of Rohan show you that everything was true that Aragorn said?’ He recalled the incidents with the prisoner, and that never before any other prisoner had been treated like him. The Lady had ordered her guards to bring him to her! Did that not show he truly was what he claimed to be?

“The tunnel leads to the lands beyond the castle, near the mountain,” he whispered, not sure if he wanted Aragorn to hear it. “I could not see much – it was dark, but the ground was flat. There might be a path.” He did not look at Aragorn. He had lied before, and he felt guilty – somehow. “But…” He chewed on the words. His vision of the world was changing due to Lomac’s stories about Middle Earth. Now he had told a convicted poacher about an escape route. This was foolish! “Don’t try to escape, Aragorn,” he begged and looked up, pleadingly. “Don’t try it. When they catch you the next time the Lieutenant will kill you.”

Aragorn’s labored breathing was the only sound in the room, and Vlohiri thought that the man had fallen asleep again when he said strenuously:

“What else could I do, Vlohiri?” He turned his head to face him. “Look at me. They want me to live, but only to let me suffer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And you will not… even if I tried to explain it.” He shivered, and Vlohiri drew the blanket higher and turned to stack up the fire. When he was finished Aragorn was sleeping.

* * *

Still Day 51, the castle

Medros could hardly wait to give words to his anger upon entering Sadur’s quarters. He inhaled, but Sadur, obviously troubled, did not let him speak. He stopped him with a look.

“Do not turn to me with any argument, Lt. Medros. I had a close inspection of the dungeon and gave order to change quite a few things. Maybe you were half blind the last years, but it seems to me that the treatment of the prisoners is not at all appropriate.”

Medros swallowed. He had not expected that.

“My Lord, it was always done what was necessary. The prisoners should not be welcomed here. They are no guests.”

“They are no animals, either. Now tell me what takes you here. Quickly. I have work to do.”

But Medros looked like a ship with no sails.

“My Lord, the healer has taken up a boy in his service.” Sadur’s eyebrows lifted. “He has taken him into the room with the captive.”

“Did you?” Sadur snapped.

“Yes, my Lord.” Lomac did not raise his voice. “In my humble opinion it is better to instruct a boy with the task than the guards. They have other work to do.”

“But the captive will truly try to talk the boy into helping him to escape.”

“At the moment, Lord Sadur, the captive is hardly able to do more than sleep. And the point is…”

Medros cut him off.

“The first thing this healer wants is to loosen the chains of the captive! I have seen before what that man is capable of! It is far too risky to let him move!”

“Lomac?”

“The man will be sore in less than a week. I know that. He should be able to turn to his side. And if you still want me to treat the injuries the whip has caused I need to turn him. I cannot change the bandages right now.”

Sadur fell silent for a moment. He walked to the window, stared into the darkness.

“Loosen them, Lieutenant. Make sure the captive is locked up in the room when no one else is around. And you, Lomac…” He slowly turned. “… you will be held responsible if any kind of escape is attempted. You can go now. Lieutenant, wait.” When Lomac had left Sadur breathed deeply. “It looks like a decision taken on the base of common sense. But it might be that the King tries to convince the boy of who he is. The boy will not be believed, but I want you to have an eye on him. Just in case…” Medros nodded. “But there is no need to act right now. It would cause too much suspicion if anything happened to that boy. Just… watch him. Make sure he cannot take anything to the captive that would help him escape.”

Medros was not satisfied, but, after all, he was not punished for neglecting the other prisoners. Only the presence of the healer had left a dull pain in Medros’ head. He did not hurry to reach the chamber in the eastern tower again.

Lomac returned to Vlohiri with a basket of herbs and put it on the table.

“Eat something, lad, take the broth-“

“With this… stuff in there?”

“It will be good for you!” Lomac’s face softened. “You might get strong, too.” He pointed with his bearded chin to the man on the bed. “Did he sleep the whole time? Now, he should take my tea more frequently.” He shook his head. “Well, now… eat, my little friend. I have to take care of other patients. It looks like half of the castle is sick!”

“You leave?”

“Yes. A guard is on watch in front of the door now. Eat and then…” He turned and opened the door. “Guard?” Bayonor’s tall figure appeared at the threshold. “You will have to enter this room every hour to give the prisoner my tea.”

“This is not my task, and I won’t do it. You have to.” The firm voice made Vlohiri shiver, and he stood at the table with the still empty bowl in his hands.

“Then… well, I have but the choice to leave the boy behind.” It sounded almost amused.

“The boy?”

“I have to visit other patients. Or would you not want that I look after you daughter?”

Bayonor clenched his teeth.

“Then be it. The boy stays, but the door will be locked.”

“As you see it.” The healer turned, sighing, and closed the door. “Well, now, Flea, you will have to stay here.” He smiled a little, complacent smile and rubbed his hands.

“What about… the Lieutenant?”

“Ah, now, it might be easier to argue with a goat! Sadur did not look very happy, either.” He met him at the table.

“You talked with Lord Sadur?” Vlohiri asked big-eyed.

“Yes – he is just a man, you know? But, all you need to know is that Medros will be here in a few moments and do as I pleaded. Sadur agreed.”

“That is good, isn’t it?” The boy took a bowl full of broth and grimaced at the little pieces of leaves swimming in it.

“As good as this broth. That reminds me – it would be good for the prisoner to get my tea every time he wakes up. If you can do it. He might try to resist. Now, eat up! I have to go.”

“Please, no,” Vlohiri asked with his mouth full. “Wait until the Lieutenant was here. I’m afraid.”

The healer sighed again.

“And that Lieutenant, too, is only one man.”

“That’s what … the prisoner said, too.”

“And he is right, is he not? There is no witchcraft behind his doing. He does what he thinks is right to do. Alas, my arguments and his are completely different.”

Footsteps were drawing near, and Medros entered, fuming as he went, pulling the key from the chain under his cuirass. He did not look at Lomac or Vlohiri, but bellowed for Bayonor to help him. With unnecessary caution Medros opened the padlocks and lengthened the chains, fastened them again, obviously dissatisfied and ready to jump and yell at everything that was a target. Aragorn stirred and woke up. To Vlohiri it was unclear if Aragorn willingly kept his face blank of any expression. It was his luck. Medros would have taken up gladly any provocation. So he rose, stuffed the key under his cuirass and left, Bayonor on his heels.

Vlohiri let out the breath he had held the whole time.

“I must go now,” Lomac said. “Take care and sleep well. I will come back in the morning.” He left and pulled the door shut. The padlock was set in the eye, and the boy stared at the door, then ate and put back the pot when he was satisfied. To be rid of the Lieutenant, knowing that he would not return for the night, made him feel light-hearted.

“Lomac left some tea,” he said to Aragorn, walking to the table. He belched soundly. “Do you want some?” Again Vlohiri could not help smiling when the prisoner’s lips twitched with disgust.

“No, I don’t.” He coughed and leant back, relieved when it was over. “But he told you that I have to take it, right?” When they locked eyes Vlohiri felt strange – almost like laughing. Comfortable. At ease. He could not describe it. He had never felt like this before. So he nodded solemnly, trying to convince Aragorn that what he assumed was true. After some moments hesitation he made up his mind. “All right, then – get it over with.” The chains were lengthened, but still too short to allow Aragorn to hold the cup alone. Medros had not been generous, only given in to the higher order. At least the prisoner’s arms were no longer extended to the bedposts. Vlohiri carried the cup carefully not to spill a drop, knelt and lifted the prisoner’s head to help him drink. He made it halfway through, grimacing with disgust. Vlohiri bit his lower lip, but when he took back the cup he laughed. Aragorn could not have looked more surprised if Medros had personally set him free.

“I get you some water.” The boy fled the bedside and could not regain control of his self. He bit his lips to no avail.

“You are making fun of me.”

Vlohiri returned with water and knelt again.

“The healer said you should drink his tea. It is good against the cough. Despite the taste.” But he could not remain earnest. “It really is.”

“Try it yourself,” Aragorn replied hoarsely.

“I would not want to. I’m not sick.”

His way of speaking made the prisoner smile.

“Did I…” He had to pause, and his voice was even raspier when he continued, “Did I thank you for saving me?”

“It was not me. The healer said that Lord Sadur came down to the dungeon himself. He told the guards to bring you up here.”

“Lord Sadur? He is the Lady’s husband?”

“No, her son,” the boy said in a high-pitched voice. “Don’t you know that? Her husband is gone for… well, I do not know for how long, but not even Narana knows him.”

Aragorn closed his eyes.

“How old is her son?”

“Well… he is a man, grown-up. Perhaps younger than you.”

“So it is true then.”

“What is true?” Vlohiri frowned and waited for an answer, but he got none. Sighing he got to his feet. He rinsed a cloth in a bowl with cold water, wrung it out and wiped Aragorn’s face. Lomac had told him to give the prisoner ease, and Vlohiri was willing to fulfill his task. Only then he made himself comfortable on the floor near the fireplace.

* * *

Day 52, southern Gondor

The King of Rohan wiped his weary eyes. He had taken off the helmet and gratefully accepted a cup of water. His gaze wandered over the landscape. In summer this would be a plain with grass and flowers, bushes and few trees, soothing the onlooker’s eyes. Right now it was nothing more than a barren field with spots of snow, as dreadful as his thoughts. The trees carried no leaves, stood like soldiers erect but without a task, waiting the spring to begin a new circle of life. Éomer sighed and put down the empty cup. The fire they had started on that windy evening did not warm him. The thought of returning to Minas Tirith empty-handed sucked all warmth he had left. His hope had been that somewhere in the wilderness or in any of the villages and farms they had visited, he would find at least a trace of Aragorn, something to lift his spirits and keep him going with renewed hope. Now this hope was fading, and he could see in the eyes of his men that they were thinking about giving up. He sighed deeply. Wind bit in his face like needles, and he squinted.

Only once there had been a hint to a man living in the woods, and they had eagerly taken up the trace. In vain. The man they found had been tall and lean, even had brown hair, but he was a woodcutter who had lived in the emptiness of the forest for years. Éomer had told himself that the captors could have hidden everywhere. In the woods, in a house or in some place too remote to ever be visited by villagers. Whoever had captured the King might by now have killed him, knowing the pursuers were drawing nearer and the treason would be revealed.

So he had to ask himself if there was any hope left. Could the capturer have taken him further south to Anfalas’ long coast? Or would he lie buried in a grave with no name and no search, however thorough, would find it? Éomer wiped his face. He was sure he had not overseen anything. He could ride further south, but for how long? Was it even possible that they would turn up more than snow and dust?

He pulled his cloak tight around his broad shoulders. When one of his riders came asking he told them they would ride south, and then, when they reached the shores, turn east. He could easily recognise that his companion despised the idea of riding more weeks in vain, but Éomer would hold his promise.

* * *

Day 52, the castle

Vlohiri had followed Lomac’s orders and given Aragorn the tea as often as he was awake. Every time he rose he had found the prisoner in more distress than before, panting, sweating and unwilling to talk. The boy put himself to his self-made bed again, not thinking further than another hour of sleep. The next time he woke because he heard his name. Sleepily he wiped his eyes and sat up.

“What…?”

“Is Lomac back?” Aragorn asked breathlessly. Vlohiri squinted, shook his head. “Then you have to help me turn.”

“Me? But… I can… I will get the healer.” He was up on his feet and ran to the door, slammed his fist against it, shouting for the guard, trying to open the door. It was locked and he got no answer. Insecure he turned, unable to look at Aragorn.

“It is getting worse… You have to help me.”

Slowly Vlohiri returned, his fingers playing with each other like they had a life of their own.

“I cannot help. I…”

“You can.” He watched as the boy stepped to the other side of the bed. “Push me at the shoulder, but…” He tried to stifle the coughing. “Do not touch… my back.”

“Your back,” he boy repeated and, hesitatingly, took away the blanket. He dared not to breathe. His hands were cold and clammy, and he wished for nothing more than the appearance of the healer. “Aragorn, I…”

“Get it over with. Now.”

Vlohiri evaded his stare. His mouth twitched; he wanted to say something, but would find no words to lift the task from him. This seemed too much for him to handle. He could give the prisoner tea, and he could wash him – after all tasks that were easy enough for a boy of ten years. But this… He gently put one hand under Aragorn’s shoulder, the other under his thigh. He did not even know if he could do it, but the weeks in the mine had strengthened him more than he had realised. It was a fluent motion with much more force than necessary. The chains clanged against the rods, stopping his right arm over his head. Aragorn clenched his teeth not to scream.

“It’s all soaked!” the boy exclaimed. “The whole sheet!” He took his hands away, unable to decide what to do next. He but stared at the reddish and brown bandages covering the lower half of the prisoner’s back. Only then he realised that the prisoner was panting. He hastened around the bed. “Are you all right?”

Aragorn had closed his eyes.

“Take the bandages… away,” he rasped between shallow breaths.

“No… no! Lomac will do this! He will truly come soon!”

“Wash your hands and do it!”

Vlohiri was repelled by the commanding tone and the task ahead. Once more he felt like protesting, but turned and filled water in a bowl to rinse his hands, wiped them on the hem of his jacket, fighting the sobs and the bad feeling that he could do something wrong. He shivered kneeling beside the bed again.

“But why…” He stopped himself, and Aragorn was in too much pain to answer. As carefully as he could he lifted the first part of the bandage, swallowing hard. He had never been confronted with a wound like that before. The bandage was wet with blood and pus, and more was to be seen beneath. The chains clanged again, and Vlohiri saw that Aragorn had stretched them to their limits, his hands clenched into fists. He did not know if to hasten or work slower. But with the care needed he took away the other parts of the cloth, revealing the long gashes the whip had cut into his flesh. Shivering he dropped the bandages, and all too vivid images of himself whipped by Medros’ cruel anger made him cry. Slowly he rose, pulling the cover as far as Aragorn’s hips, then rounded the bed again. The prisoner was shaking badly, and again Vlohiri felt his helplessness as a weight too hard to carry. He touched the man’s shoulder. “Aragorn, please, …”, but he got no answer.

Then there were voices near the door, one belonging to a guard – harsh and demanding – the other soft and friendly. The padlock was opened, and Vlohiri stumbled to the door to almost embrace Lomac as he entered.

“Hold it, my little friend! I carry things that should not fall.”

“Aragorn… he is… he wanted me to…”

“Wait, now, slow and precise, if I may please.” Lomac put down the basket and a pot he had carried on the table, then quickly, frowning, he looked at Aragorn. “He told me to…”

“I see it.” He rounded the bed and knelt. “Ah, now, as much as I feared.” He shook his head slightly. “Go, and fetch fresh water to heat! Do it quick!” Vlohiri took the empty bucket and ran into the guard, standing on the threshold. He apologised hastily and fled the stairs.

When he returned he filled water into a big pot to heat it over the fire. The healer stood at the table, murmuring into his beard.

“Can you help him?” Vlohiri asked when the healer did not give any sign of activity but counted the silvery-green small leaves in his hand. It looked like a weed. “Lomac, can you do anything for him?” He glanced at the man on the bed. He was still panting, his eyes were closed, but his hands had relaxed.

The healer looked up.

“He is in great pain, lad. And will be for some time. Do you remember when he was whipped?” He stared at the boy. “Now, as precisely as you can.”

“No, I can’t tell. Some days ago…  perhaps longer. I did not see it.”

“Now, surely, Medros would not let anyone see it,” Lomac growled, and suddenly his expression became fierce. “And now that it is done they call for the healer to make it undone.” He said some sentences Vlohiri did not understand, but it sounded like curses. He stacked up the fire, then watched as Lomac filled the hot water into a bowl with the leaves. “This little plant here has travelled far,” he sighed with a little smile that quickly faded. “I got it from a friend in Ithilien. Come and enjoy the smell.”

Vlohiri found it awkward to bend his nose over the steam, but the healer was right. The smell was indeed enjoyable and lifted his heart. He still felt the sorrow for he could not help Aragorn, but it seemed less dreadful than before.

“What is it?”

“Kingsfoil.” He filled some water with the leaves into a small bowl, handed it to Vlohiri. “Here, hold it to his face. It cannot do much, but might give him ease.” Lomac took some pieces of cloth out of his sac and slowly put it in the water while Vlohiri squatted in front of the bed and held the bowl under Aragorn’s nose. “And this,” he heard the healer in his back, “will help against the inflammation.” He knelt on the other side of the bed, wrung the cloth and spread it out over the wounds. Aragorn suddenly inhaled, tore at the chains and let out a cry that made Vlohiri stumble back. The hot water spilled over his trousers, and he yelped.

“I did nothing!”

“It is true, my friend, you have done nothing,” the healer said in a stern voice. “I should have done that much earlier. Where did I put my head?” Again words followed Vlohiri could not understand. He came to his feet again and saved the rest of the hot water. He held it to Aragorn’s face again while Lomac wrung a second piece of cloth. “It is not the weed that hurts him, my friend, it is only the contact of the cloth with the wounds.” Vlohiri was aware of it now and drew away in time. But Aragorn’s reaction got weaker. He gave in to the pain, got carried away by it. “You can take it away now,” the healer said rising. His knees cracked, and it took him some time to stand upright again. “Ah, now, I’m getting old! To all that comes.” For a moment he paused, his right hand’s thumb and forefinger rested on the bridge of his nose. “Stack up the fire, lad. Ah, there is not much left… Go, and fetch some wood. We have to keep him warm.”

Vlohiri ran to the door.

* * *

Day 53, Gondor, westbound

For six days Faramir had ridden south with his men. To their right they had passed Lossarnan, to their left Emyn Arne. They had crossed the River Erui three days ago and turned westward, into the icy winds and gusty weather of the southern part of the White Mountains. They rode slowly, not willing to force the beasts to run faster on the hard and partly slippery soil.

Still Faramir thought about the strange meetings he had had with Nereghor and Haridis. If it was true that Lady Saborian had had a son with his father he would come to meet his half brother. And he would get a chance to talk to a woman who had shared hours with his father different from those he himself had lived through. It was impossible for Faramir to think of his father as a giving, and loving man, as someone who would share his thoughts with someone else. Denethor had always been a very reserved person, and though it seemed that he had lived another life with the Lady, Faramir would have had no doubt that his father had never married that woman.

But this meeting was at least ten days away. If the weather did not improve he would have to wait in the next village along the old path to the west. A cart with a horse approached, and he called to the coachman to halt. When they had reached each other Faramir asked the man for Aragorn, without naming him. The elderly man, lean and small enough to appear like a juvenile, cocked his head and looked at them suspiciously. He smoked a pipe and did not take it out when he spoke.

“I was asked that before. Who are you, lad? You look strangely familiar. Have you been here before?”

“My name is Faramir. Now, my friend, did you see someone fitting to the description?” he replied politely.

“Now, yes, Faramir. You are the Prince of Ithilien, right? Ah, well, I knew I had seen you before. But… no, as to your friend… well, I said to those riders from… ah, Rohan, yes, they came from quite far away!” He nodded to himself and looked at his almost empty pipe. “No, I have not seen your friend. Or whoever he might be. That man from Rohan called him his friend, too.”

“Where do you come from?”

“West of Morthond.” He pointed in the western direction with a short finger. “I bought ore, you see?” With his chin he nodded to the freight in his cart. “Bring it to Osgiliath.”

“You drive frequently on this route?”

“Well, as frequent as I get paid, my young Lord. But right now – yes, well, if the weather would no be so bad I could go faster.”

Faramir thanked they man and spurred his horse. If the riders had taken the King of Gondor on this path they would have been seen. For some time Faramir dwelled on the thought of turning south again to follow the capturer’s possible path, but he then decided that Éomer would have thought it that possibility, too. He rode straight on westward, thinking about the dream. It had not occurred again, but Lady Arwen had been sure that the prisoner was her husband, and they both had fallen silent for a while. Faramir had not had the heart to tell her how deplorable that prisoner had looked like, but he had felt that the life of that man was fading. If anything could be done for him either Éomer or he himself had to find him quickly – or his life lay in the hands of that young boy he had watched at the bars.

He hoped to find some answers soon enough.

* * *

Day 53, the castle

Vlohiri had seen the healer’s face and instinctively known that he must listen carefully. Lomac’s voice had been low but forceful, telling the boy that he should not leave the room, but look after the prisoner at all times,change the cold cloth on this forehead and around his calves every time they were too dry or too warm and wait for the minute the man was awake enough to give him some tea to drink.

The boy’s head was swimming. Lomac had left him to take care of all the other patients he had. Now Vlohiri sat at the head of the bed watching Aragorn breathe. He feared that the man would die that night, and though he wanted to be strong he could not hold back the tears. He knew that something terrible had happened when Lomac had cursed (he supposed) in that strange language again and had hastily ordered him to fetch more pieces of cloth and a new bucket with water. After that he had called for Medros, but the Lieutenant was not found. So the healer prepared more kingsfoil in hot water to change the bandages and spared the rest for a small cup to enjoy the steam. Vlohiri needed the easing, but it was short-lived.

The prisoner’s breathing sped up, and Vlohiri waited anxiously for him to open his eyes, but the look was that of a haunted man.

“Water,” he whispered and when he swallowed he coughed again. The boy hastened to fetch a cup of tea and when the prisoner had turned halfway back held it to his lips. The taste was the same, but he gulped it down. The boy brought water in another cup.

“Lomac changed the cloth twice. Is it still bad?” he asked when he was finished. Aragorn closed his eyes instead of answering. “He is gone right now to other patients. But I change the cloth – the others, I mean. And I stay here.” He put down the cup and cocked his head to see in the prisoner’s eyes. “Please, are you all right? Aragorn?” The answer was the shadow of a smile, quickly gone, but for the boy it was a sign that the man had not yet given up the fight.

* * *

Day 57, Gondor, westbound

Snow and drizzle had stopped when the small group pitched a camp near the River Gilrain, which still carried rapid waters. They could not dare to cross it in the darkness, so they had halted between tall trees, now bare of leaves, bowing over the river’s edge. The place was the best to choose. Some bushes and few bigger rocks granted a protection from the icy cold winds. Faramir was glad to dismount. He knew that he had not regained his strength to the full, and the long hours in the saddle exhausted him more he would admit.

Three men left the camp in search for dry wood to light a fire, and returned with some hands full that would last the night and warm the water, for it was too cold to drink from the stream. Faramir put his blanket on the cold and almost grey grass. He was tired, his hands and feet cold, and he gladly accepted a cup of hot water to drink and warm him up. Deep in thoughts he held the cup with both hands, stared into the fire, but instead of the flames saw the man on the floor in that cell, then the boy at the door.

He had dreamt of his brother’s death long ago, and to his regret it had come true. He could not shake the image that the unconscious prisoner of his dream would face the same fate.

“My Lord, rest,” one of the man said, and Faramir turned, startled. The same moment an arrow out of the darkness whistled past, so close Faramir could feel the slight touch of the feather on his neck. Instinctively he dodged, crouched away from the fire. Tried to pierce the darkness, but it was impenetrable.

“Quick, retreat!” he ordered, and the men gathered in the complete darkness behind the stones, watching, waiting. Looking beyond the lively fire.

“We have to follow him,” a guard said, but Faramir held him back.

“There is no use trying to follow him. He will be gone by now.”

“He might try it again.”

“We will set out a watch.”

“It might be the same man you fought.”

Faramir nodded.

“That is what I thought.”

Mixed with the sounds of the water they heard hoofs on the hard ground. For now they would be safe.

* * *