A Healer's Tale

Author's Note: Thanks to those who previewed this on LJ and convinced me that this story was worth pursuing.

Prelude: Deathwatch

Why would anyone want to be a healer to the Tooks? It is the question I find myself asking more often than not, especially in the depths of the night when sleep is elusive and my love is deep in dream—“sawing logs” as he puts it, but “rolling thunder” would be more like.

Often my ruminations go on... healer to the Bankses, now there’s a fine and solid Shire family. The Burrowses, they’re a sensible lot. The Bracegirdles, now, they’re rather sour and liverish and likely to refuse to pay anything if they don’t like what a healer tells them. And should the patient die—O my! Well then, it’s worth your own life to ask them to pay anything for your time or medicines!

A sigh from my patient brings me back to the matter at hand, poor lad, poor ruined lad, a shadow of what he once was. Sunken eyes blink open, a bony hand gropes for mine, gives a squeeze of comfort—Him! Offering comfort to me!

 ‘Is there anything you be needing, Sir?’ I ask, trying for a matter-of-fact tone, and I see the ghost of a smile cross his face.

 ‘Sweet Woodruff,’ he whispers.

 ‘None of your nonsense, now, lad,’ I say automatically, and the smile brightens.

 ‘Diamond?’ he breathes, and I move my hand to take up his, giving a gentle squeeze. Brittle as bird bones, it feels, and as likely to crumble in my grasp.

 ‘She’s sleeping, Sir,’ I say. ‘I sent her off to her bed some hours ago, and young Farry as well. I don’t want them making themselves sick with worry, and the Mistress with that new life growing inside her...’

His look grows far away, and I wonder what he’s thinking. Of course, it’s not too long before he tells me. Tooks and their Talk. If you don’t know what’s what, just wait and listen and soon you’ll know more than you ever bargained for.

 ‘A son, I wonder,’ he says, and his smile dims, though his eyes are dry. His face brightens again as he adds, ‘perhaps a little daughter. I do hope it is, for my darling’s sake.’

A son who’ll never know his father, I think. That’s the dimming of the smile. A daughter to remember him by, and to give comfort to her mother. But what I say is, and in the briskest tone I can manage, ‘As you’re awake now, Sir, let us make good use of the time. A little sip of something, a little sup?’

He makes a face and I remember the little imp I once knew, seeing them as if they were there in the room, my Mistress trying to coax a draught into a young lad who’d been dragged from the icy grasp of a well. I know there’s little point in it; he gave up eating some days ago and simply waits now, the release that death will bring.

He has fought long and hard, and bravely too. But in the end the pain had the victory; it gnawed away at his strength until strength of body was gone and he continued on will alone, and then it ate up his will until there was nothing left, save those eyes, looking into a place I cannot see.

I squeeze his hand to call him back once more. ‘A little sip,’ I say more firmly. ‘At least a little water. You promised Master Meriadoc that you would greet him on his return.’

 ‘I told him I’d try,’ he whispers, his head moving restless on the pillow before he stills again. ‘Told him...’

I give his hand another squeeze and release it. He is already propped up with cushions to ease his breathing—what little breathing he’s allowed by his ruined lungs. I pour out half a cup of pure, cold water, drawn fresh less than an hour ago. I’ve given orders for fresh water to be brought on an hourly basis, you see. I let it trickle into the cup, hoping the sound will entice him.

It seems my hopes will be answered this time, for he does not turn his face away as I lift the cup to his lips. But then, neither does he sip.

 ‘Drink,’ I say, and hope my voice does not reflect my desperation, nor my sorrow.

He closes his eyes wearily.

 ‘Drink,’ I say, ‘for Merry’s sake, if not for your own.’

I’d say “for Diamond’s sake” but for the fact that she’s already given him up. Heart-sick for watching his suffering, she has fought down her own need, her own sorrow, her own desire, and given him leave to be leaving her. No longer will she plead with him to fight on, to stay. The price he’s paying is too high.

And with his wife, the last bastion of the Tooks, fallen, it seems a hush has descended upon the Great Smials, a dreadful waiting where scarcely any dares to draw breath, as we await the passing of the Thain.