Chapter 19: A Healer’s Hands

Completely absorbed in their work, neither Freya nor Aragorn heard the elf and the dwarf leave, and for a while, the crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room while they freed their patient of his drenched clothes. Trying to ignore the fact that she had never been this close to Éomer as she cut the dirty garments from his limb body, Freya concentrated on her hands. It helped to clear her head that he felt so cold to her touch even if the sensation frightened her, but still she could all too well imagine how, under different circumstances, it had to feel to lie close to him, pressed against his powerful, hard body underneath a warm blanket while they caressed each other. ‘He could have been yours!’ a most unwelcome voice in the back of her head spoke up no matter how hard she fought to silence it. ‘He wanted you, but you sent him away. And now look what the both of you have: he is dying because you made him choose the way of the warrior, and you are stuck with Osred. It could have been different.’

Her eyes burning both with shame over her thoughts as well as compassion, Freya lowered her head and focused on freeing Éomer’s arm from the sleeve, hoping that Aragorn had not noticed her distraction. The sight of the hideous pattern of blue and black marring Éomer’s pale skin finally ended her unsuitable thoughts, and with a dismayed gasp, she reached out to touch the particularly dark and large bruise on his right side, her throat narrowing dangerously.

“Oh Gods,” she breathed “What did they do to him?” How could a man of such powerful build still be so frail? As Third Marshal of Rohan, Éomer was one of their strongest warriors, both physically superior and extraordinarily skilled in the use of his weapons, and still it had not been enough to protect him from the onslaught of his enemies. If warriors like he could not stop the orcs, who could? Wasn’t it all hopeless? Whispering in a despair-choked voice, Freya gently stroked Éomer’s cold cheek: “You must survive, Éomer, please. Fight! I know you are strong enough!”

Aragorn’s expression darkened at the sight of the Rohir’s injuries and the young woman’s despair, and as he cut open the sleeve of Éomer’s shirt, he noticed with alarm the deformed shape of the warrior’s hand. Frowning, he picked it up and turned it around for a closer examination, at once understanding that he had found the worst of the Marshal’s wounds. This could not wait for much longer. As soon as Éomer’s condition had sufficiently stabilised, they would have to concern themselves with it. Deciding not to mention it to Freya yet, the ranger worked even faster to pull away the wet shreds of clothing from underneath the heavy body and came upon the leg wound. Briefly he examined it and found it likewise in a state of slight infection, if not as severely as the hand. It was not bleeding exceedingly, therefore Aragorn decided that it, too, had to wait. Looking up, he saw Freya already picking up the thick woollen blanket by her side and nodded, taking the lower ends.

Quickly they wrapped Éomer in three layers of wool before they dared to pause. Kneeling on both sides of the unconscious man, the ranger and the farmer’s wife regarded each other with worried expressions, and only now became Freya aware of the fact that she and her sisters were alone in the house with a man they knew nothing about. For a moment, that thought troubled her... but then she looked once again into the stranger’s kind eyes and found her worries wane. This was no evil man. She could not say yet who he was, but somehow she could not shake the feeling that his travel-worn garments and overall rather dishevelled appearance disguised his true character; she could not deny that there were a depths and a dignity to the dark-haired man that hinted at a probably noble heritage. The way Aragorn talked, the way he behaved, all of it pointed strongly toward the conclusion that he was a lord of men, not a savage. And while his strong jaw-line and overall security in his movements indicated that the man in front of her was used to making decisions and seeing his will done, his eyes also bespoke an enormous capacity for compassion and mercy. To Freya, he seemed like a born leader, and she had no doubts that this was a man others would follow gladly into battle.

Confused how she came to feeling so strongly about a person she barely knew, Freya finally shifted her attention back to the prone figure before her, her fingers resting on Éomer's cold brow as she looked down. She did not notice that she was observed, did not see the expression of approval on Aragorn’s face as he regarded her, impressed with her composure. It was easy to see that the extent of the woman’s concern exceeded what she would have felt for an ordinary rider, that she had deeper feelings for the wounded warrior, and still she had worked fast and efficiently, not allowing to let herself be overwhelmed by her emotions.

“We will treat his wounds later,” Aragorn spoke lowly, inclining his head to regard Éomer’s still features. “For now, the cold is my greatest concern. He must have lain outside for a long time. How far is the water?”

“Willa?” Freya lifted her voice, fighting to remain calm and controlled before the stranger. “Willa, is the water ready?”

“It must not be too hot,” Aragorn reminded her. “If it is too hot, we will do more damage than good.”

“Skin temperature, I know,” Freya said, and noticed how his brows went up as if he had not expected such knowledge from her. “I have treated men exposed to cold temperatures before. We are well equipped for such cases.”

“It is almost ready,” a young voice called out to them from the kitchen. “How many do you need?”

“As many as you have.” She noticed Aragorn’s inquisitive look. “Sheep stomachs. We use them as vessels for the water. They adjust very well to the shape of the body and give off the warmth without loss. We have made very good experiences with them.”

“Very good.” He nodded approvingly, astonished by the woman’s resourcefulness.

“And we could fix him some yarrow tea to warm him up from the inside as well, even if he cannot drink it for as long as he is unconscious…” Wyndra threw in from behind, already rising to her feet in her eagerness to provide more help for the man she had known and loved like an older brother since childhood.

“Yes, that would indeed be helpful, not just for the additional warmth, but in his battle against the infection as well. Please, do so.” Aragorn shifted his gaze to Éomer’s face, studying his pale features until a different thought surfaced and he turned back to Freya. “You do not have Athelas in the house by any chance, have you?”

“Athelas?”

“It is a weed, also known under the name of “Kingsfoil”.”

“Now, that I have heard of,” Freya said. “But I have none. I’m afraid that it doesn’t grow around here. But we could fix him spelt water in addition to the yarrow tea. I have seen it doing wonders on other men.” Yes, it certainly seemed to her that a wonder was needed to help Éomer survive. Underneath the blood and dirt that caked his skin, he looked like his own ghost.

Following her gaze, Aragorn inhaled deeply. It would have to do. “We will have to wake him to make him drink it though; one way or another.” A taxing glance found Freya, and she tensed, not sure what the expression in his eyes meant. Afraid of what she assumed it meant, she bent over in an attempt to wake Éomer in a gentle way.

“Éomer, if you hear me, give me a sign. Can you open your eyes?” She waited, hoping for his lids to flutter and listening for the lowest groan that would indicate that her words had been heard, but there was nothing to see, nor anything to hear. Except for the irregular and laboured rising and falling of his chest, Éomer seemed lifeless. Anxiously, she stroked his brow, and again the coldness of his skin caused her stomach to twist. “Éomer, it is I, Freya! Follow my voice! Please, you must wake!”

Silently observing her efforts, Aragorn turned around at the sound of approaching steps from the corridor, and the next moment, the other of the two young women entered the room with two arms full of half-filled, flexible things of which she handed him one to feel for himself.

“I hope that the temperature is right. Will these suffice, or should we make more?” She received an approving nod and a faint, thankful smile, and warmth spread in the pit of her stomach, causing her face to glow.

“It feels right. Thank you—“

“Willa.”

“Thank you, Willa. You might save his life with these. And yes, we will have use for more once they have cooled. We will have to keep Éomer warm throughout the night.”

“Then I will go back to the kitchen and boil more water.” Standing behind Aragorn and hugging herself with thin arms, Willa watched as the ranger placed the sheep stomachs upon the blankets between Éomer’s arms and body and evenly all over him while Freya talked to the unconscious man with increasing urgency.

“He is so pale,” she whispered from behind, the warm feeling Aragorn’s praise had woken in her extinguished by a sudden chill. “Can he survive? How grave are his wounds?”

“They would not appear life-threatening to me except for the infection in his hand,” Aragorn said. “But the most immediate fight he has to brave is that against the cold. Is your sister preparing the tea?”

“Aye. We had some hot water left, so it will be ready soon.”

“Tell her to sweeten it with plenty of honey. He will need the additional energy… if we can get it into him.”

“We always drink it with plenty of honey, for we do not get it down otherwise,” Freya said without looking up from Éomer’s pale face. Why did he not respond? Was he already dying? Her stomach clenched at the thought, and her pleading now became urging, as if she could will him back to life. From the corner of her eye, she saw Aragorn turn toward the corridor again.

“Here is the tea.” Wyndra handed the ranger an earthen mug of steaming contents. “I made it strong, and there are three spoons of honey in it, but it may have to cool for a few moments before he can drink it.”

“Thank you…” Probing, Aragorn took a sip and found the temperature almost ideal.

“Wyndra.” She smiled unhappily and stepped back to where her sister stood. Eyeing the twins with an encouraging expression, Aragorn nodded.

“Wyndra. Willa –“ He looked at the first girl. Except for their hair, the sisters looked almost identical. It was only Willa’s mass of ashen curls that made it possible to tell the two young women apart. “—and Wyndra. Very well. You may save him with this.” He turned to Freya and saw her flinch in reaction to his sudden look of determination. “Is he responding?”

“No…” She swallowed. “What will you do?”

“He must drink this. I need you to trust me now, Freya.”

The urgency of his grey eyes almost burned her, and a hard band suddenly tightened around her chest, almost cutting of her breath. Did she trust that man? Yes, she did. She could not believe anything else than that the expression of concern for Éomer on his diamond-cut face was genuine. After all, he had brought him here, so why should he do him evil now? She nodded.

“I do.” And it was the truth. “But please, don’t hurt him more.”

“It will not be pretty, but it needs to be done. He may look frail to you, but he is not as frail as you think. He won’t die from what I will do now, and if I don’t do it, his time is running out. I want you to understand this before I begin.”

Again she nodded, her insides twisting into a painful knot.

“I understand.” Upon his silent signal, she moved back, reluctantly taking away her hand from Éomer’s cold cheek. While she exchanged a worried glance with her sisters, Aragorn bent over the Rohír.

“Éomer, wake up!” The abrupt transformation of his low, compassionate tone into a hard commandeering voice caught the women unawares, and they looked at him with widening eyes, stunned by the complete change of his demeanour. While they still looked on, Aragorn’s hand suddenly landed with a sharp slapping sound in the unconscious man’s face. “Come, I know you hear me! You do not want to surface from this comfortable place you found inside of you, but it is treacherous and you cannot remain there.” Éomer’s head lolled under another slap, and the women winced. “Wake up, Son of Éomund! Your time has not yet come!”

“Lord Aragorn, perhaps—“

“You must wake up!” Before their eyes, the stranger grasped the wounded man by the shoulders and shook him. Her hand on her mouth, Freya stared wide-eyed at Aragorn as he bodily assaulted Éomer, and the sight of it sickened her. He had promised not to hurt him further, so how could he do this? Yet before she could voice her protest, she suddenly beheld the briefest flutter of Éomer’s eyelids, and her heart jumped into her throat.

“That is good, but it is not enough. Fight, Marshal! Your people need you, you cannot give up yet! You must wake if you want to live!” With relief in his eyes, the rangers gaze briefly grazed the women as he turned around to pick up the mug. “Freya, I need you to hold up his head now.” She rushed to his aid and gently placed Éomer’s head on her lap, reassuringly stroking his cheeks.

“I am here, Éomer. We have something to drink for you; it will warm you up and help you to heal. It may taste a little bitter, but you must swallow it. Can you do this for me?” She noticed how his eyes rolled underneath their closed lids and felt a light twitching of muscles underneath her fingers. He was not yet fully conscious, but perhaps it would suffice to get the tea into him.

Careful not to spill it, Aragorn pressed the mug against Éomer’s lips… and at last they parted. He lifted the mug, and the first drops of golden liquid disappeared in the young man’s mouth… and were swallowed.

“Oh, Béma be praised…!” Unexpectedly Freya found herself beaming at the stranger before her, feeling the strong urge to fall on his neck. “Thank you, my lord! Thank you so much! The Gods must have sent you to us!”

“The battle is not won yet,” Aragorn reminded her, but finding himself also smiling with relief. “But it is an improvement. Quickly, let us get the rest into him as well, and then we will have to concern ourselves with his wounds.”

----------------------------

“Come, my friend. I will do you no harm, you should know so by now.”

Slowly, the hand reached over the stall door. With pricked ears, Firefoot watched its approach, and his widened nostrils tasted the scent that wafted toward him from the strange being talking to him in a foreign tongue. Never before had he encountered this scent, and he did not trust it. As the hand moved even closer, the stallion’s ears suddenly flattened against his head and he retreated into the very back of his stall, huffing in exasperation.

Confused, Legolas shook his head and took his hand back. Never before had he encountered a horse that had retreated from him. “He will not let me touch him. I do not understand.”

“I told you that he looked like a grumpy fellow,” the dwarf reminded his friend helpfully, annoyed to still be standing in the stables when they could already sit inside the warm house, preferably with something to eat and drink on the table the young wife of their host had promised them earlier when they had entered. “If he rejects your help, you should leave him alone. Why bother? He is not even your horse. Perhaps he will change his mind once he is in enough pain.”

Frowning, the elf stared at the beast which was still hiding from him in the furthest corner of its stall, making no secret of its disdain for its visitors.

“He should know that I would never hurt him. I have never met such a stubborn horse before.”

“Oh, he is a truly Rohirric steed, my lord,” Halad threw in from behind, fighting against showing his amusement too openly. After preparing the medicine for Firefoot, he had handed the bowl and cloth to the elf and then sat aside on a sack of oats to watch, knowing in advance how the stranger’s efforts would be rewarded. “All of our horses have a mind of their own; they cannot be compared to ordinary horses.” He turned toward the grey. “And Firefoot is truly a unique steed. He is solely Éomer’s horse, and won’t let anyone else handle him... except for me, perhaps. We know each other quite well, and have done so for a long time. Do we not, brother?” The stallion’s ears flickered toward him. Smiling, Halad rose from his seat and walked up to the two strange beings. It was the first time that he saw an elf and a dwarf with his own eyes, and yet it was Firefoot who occupied his attention. “Please, will you let me try? I think that he will trust me.”

He accepted the bowl from the elf’s hands and opened the stall-door, sceptically observed by the strangers and the stallion alike.

“That is madness,” the dwarf uttered, sadly shaking his head. “That beast will crush him.”

“He will not. He knows me.” Confidently, Halad met the scrutinising gaze of the large dark eyes. The sight of the blood on the grey’s hide saddened him, and yet at the same moment, he felt pride over the stallion’s courage to defend his master even against a pack of wolves when most horses would have bolted. Aye, the horses of Rohan were special indeed. “Will you not let me help you, my friend?” he said, switching to Rohirric, and noticing how Firefoot’s ears turned toward him at the familiar sound. “Your master would want you to be treated, but he cannot do it himself. Will you allow me to touch you instead?”

At last, the mighty stallion shook his head with a deep intake of breath, and all tension left his body as he approached the young man inside his stall with three steps and pressed his nose against Halad’s chest. Smiling in joy over this great proof of the horse’s trust, the young man reached up to rub Firefoot’s brow, his fingers cautiously circling the gash on the stallion’s cheek while he examined the wound. It did not look deep, but needed to be cleaned. Slowly working his way down to the horse’s nostrils and noticing how the grey closed his eyes in enjoyment of his caress, Halad lifted the bowl and looked back over his shoulder.

“See, he trusts me. I will tend him, and then let him rest.”

“Will you come with me then, my lords?" Fléadwyn’s voice suddenly rang out from behind, and the men turned around. Wrapped into a heavy shawl, the young woman nevertheless looked half-frozen with her hunched-up shoulders and the tip of her nose as well as her cheeks rosy from the frost. She also looked very young to Legolas and Gimli, but the expression of open friendliness on her frail features prompted them to smile in return. “The meal is ready, and I assume that you must be hungry after a day in the wilderness.”

“The meal is ready?” the dwarf exclaimed joyfully, and his heavy hand landed with a slapping sound on his friend’s side. “You certainly know how to revive a dwarf’s spirits, lass! Come, Legolas, let us go! That horse will live on without your help, but without some food in his stomach, this dwarf will not!”

“I still don’t understand it,” the elf uttered, offering little resistance as the dwarf pulled him along, already having forgotten about the horse as he followed their host outside. “I did not mean to hurt him…”