Chapter 44. Healing Hands

The Great Smials' courtyard was deserted when Merry galloped in, his pony dark with sweat, its flanks flecked with foam despite the chill of the winter air. A lone stable lad emerged on hearing the clatter of pony hoofs on the stones, huddled in his cloak, breath emerging in a white plume.

'Message to go back?' he said, shivers evident in his voice. 'Need a pony ready?'

'Yes!' Merry said, leaping out of the saddle and racing to one of the lesser entrances, from his experience faster than mounting the wide stone steps to the main entrance. He slammed the door open, startling the Took who watched by that door (prudently inside)--but the fellow recognised an urgent messenger when he saw one, and didn't try to hinder him. He only hoped that the message was good news, after all the bad news of recent days.

The corridors were deserted. It was the time of the late noontide meal, and Merry guessed rightly that most of the Tooks were gathered in the great room for the meal, where the gossip would be at its juiciest. He ran lightly through the hallways right to Ferdi's apartments, almost colliding with the door in his haste, and panting, tapped at the door.

No answer.

He pushed the door open, calling. 'Hullo?' He heard only silence in reply.

His heart hammered in his ears, not just from the strenuous ride and run, but from sudden fear. What if Ferdi had suddenly taken a turn for the worse? What if...?

But no. The windows had not been hung with mourning when he'd arrived, and he'd not met another rider along the way, pelting towards Buckland with grim news for the Thain. He'd seen a fine coach, probably Pippin's second-best (considering he'd used the best coach in the Smials to transport Tolly to the King), though he hadn't paused to be sure. It was most likely the coach carrying Diamond and Farry to the King's farewell from the Northlands, however. Quite handy, as a matter of fact, that Strider and his retinue had been preparing to depart southwards to reach Gondor in time for the New Year celebration. Put him in just the right place at the right time.

Merry shuddered to think how things might have been if Farry's abduction had taken place a few weeks later, after the King was well on his way to the South. Would the lad have survived the ordeal? If he'd succumbed, would Pip have survived losing his son?

He took himself in hand, giving himself a good shake as he entered the silent apartments and closed the door softly behind him. Silent, yes. Silent as...

Impatiently he pulled the hood back from his head as he crept into the sitting room, where a kettle steamed gently on the fire, and on to the hall leading to the bedrooms, marvelling at the silence in the middle of the day. Not even a servant was there, polishing the andirons. But of course, he reminded himself, the gossip will be flying thick in the great room this day, after all the recent excitement...

Reaching Nell and Ferdi's bedroom, he found the door ajar, and hearing the sound of gentle snoring, he peeped in.

Ferdi lay in the bed, face as white as the pillows, and Nell was curled by his side, her arms around him as if afraid to let him go. Neither stirred at Merry's soft greeting. No healer was in evidence (Running an errand? Ferdi was better, and didn't need watching? No, to Merry's eyes he looked somehow worse than at their last meeting, his eyes darkly shadowed, his face so very pale...), and someone had likely taken the children off to the great room for the meal.

'Well then,' he muttered to himself, shedding his cloak. 'No need to argue anyone into anything.' For he knew how Nell might protest outlandish things such as leaves from outside the Bounds, even leaves sent by a healer-King, and if not Nell, than certainly any healer returning from an errand might waste precious time and lingering essence of athelas wanting to know what the leaves were and why they were supposed to be used in just such a way, and why this or why that until all the virtue of Elessar's breath was dissipated...

He took the basin from the dresser and went back to the sitting room. Putting the basin down upon the sideboard beside a waiting teapot, he turned to the hearth to take up the teakettle. 'Lovely,' he whispered. 'It's as if they were waiting for me to come.'

The kettle was heavy with simmering water, so he filled the teapot first—the fast, hard ride had been exhilarating, but now he began to feel damp and chilled, and a cup of tea would go well once he'd done what he'd come for. Perhaps he'd lift a cup with Ferdi, wouldn't that be something?

He filled the basin next, not so full that it would slop over onto his hands, but full enough for his purpose. His hands trembled as he took the salt box from its safekeeping in an inner pocket, and he had to stop and remove his gloves before he could get it open. He removed the leaves with reverent care, holding them in his hands a moment as if he could feel power emanating from them, the power of Strider's breath, not Strider, but Elessar, even grander, come into the fullness of his power with his ascent to the throne.

Breathless, he crumpled the leaves between his palms and cast them into the steaming water. For a second he thought it had all been for naught, until he remembered that he was holding his breath. Expelling the breath and breathing in again—he'd been breathing shallowly in his apprehension, but at the living freshness that arose from the basin he couldn't help taking a deep breath, brought back for a moment to the Houses of Healing on a long-ago spring day, before the urgency of his errand returned to him.

He took up the basin and made his way as quickly as he could to the bedroom where Ferdi and Nell slept unaware of the healing he brought, and reaching the bed, held the basin before Ferdi's face.

'Breathe deep, Ferdi,' he whispered. 'Take it all in. I bring healing from the Healing Hands themselves.'

Indeed, his hopeful eyes saw Ferdi's chest, heretofore rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths, stop and suddenly rise in a slow, deep inhalation.

Pimpernel sighed and snuggled closer to her husband, a smile appearing on her face, the little frown lines gone from her forehead as if wiped away by a gentle hand.

Ferdi breathed again, another deep breath, and his lips twitched. His eyelids fluttered, though he did not wake, and a real smile bloomed faintly on his lips. 'Violets,' he whispered, and then was still, save for the steady, deep breaths, as if he savoured the perfumed steam rising from the basin.

Shifting the basin to one arm, Merry pulled out a pocket-handkerchief and steeped it in the fragrant water, then laid it gently on Ferdi's brow, bathing the injured head with the King's healing potion, and hoping against hope. Had he come in good time?

Merry didn't know how long he stood there, breathing the steam, feeling peace steal over him, watching the sleepers dreaming, lost in his thoughts and hopes. At last he blinked, coming back to himself. The water in the basin steamed no longer. He touched it with a cautious finger—barely warm it was, but he could hope it had accomplished its purpose.

He poured out the contents of the basin into the container meant for discarded wash water and replaced the basin under its matching ewer.

'Ferdi?' he said. 'Nell?'

The sleepers made no answer, and perhaps it was just as well. He wasn't supposed to be here, after all, but in Buckland, arranging a shipment of brandy for the King's farewell banquet.