Chapter 20. Interlude

Merry shivered, which he tried to suppress because even that small movement hurt his head. He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain on the hard surface of that high table, surrounded by Big People. He’d thought he recognised a few of the faces from his earlier time in the Houses of Healing, but what with his increasingly blurred vision, it was difficult to say. He was thoroughly miserable, and despite his aching head, growing nausea, and the sudden chill now assailing him, he wished desperately that the Rohirrim had carried him away from here with Frodo and Sam. Why was he still here? He should be at his liege lord’s side, even now, to greet... to greet...

As he groped for the elusive thought, he heard Pippin moan nearby. Now what sort of trouble had his young cousin got into this time, he wondered, even as he jerked upright, instinctively trying to get to the youngster – or, at least, he tried to do so. The retching that resulted from his sudden movement brought up the light meal Samwise had been at some pains to feed them before they’d left the guesthouse for... He fought the pounding in his head in his effort to grasp the rest of what he’d been thinking. Where had they been going? They’d been going somewhere, and somewhere important, he thought it had been – or had they been going to find Pip? For the life of him, he didn’t know.

A basin had been in the right place at the right time, thankfully, and now hands eased him back down. ‘But Pip!’ he protested. Pippin needed help, and Frodo and Sam had gone, and even Strider, and... His distress grew as he heard his younger cousin groan his name, as if in response.

‘...but we cannot call Elessar back!’ someone was saying. ‘Not when they are in the middle of—'

‘Yet if we do not call him back, and the perian’s condition continues to worsen...’

Whose condition was worsening? Which perian? Merry wondered, his worry growing. ‘Pip,’ he said again, trying to roll to his side, to reach for the young Took. His fingers closed on soft cloth, and large hands enclosed his, for Big People surrounded him for some reason, and Pippin was beyond them, out of reach. ‘Pip!’ Though up until now, he’d been fighting for calm so as not to alarm anyone – especially his young cousin – he couldn’t keep the desperation from his voice this time as They eased him onto his back again, and a voice commanded him to lie still, master perian. We need you to...

‘Cuillon, what are you—’ someone exclaimed.

‘Hobbit healing,’ came the succinct answer. Merry remembered the name and the voice that belonged to it, somehow – a young healer’s assistant who’d sat with him in the earliest days of his recovery after the Battle of the Pelennor, when he’d only been allowed up out of bed for short walks with his friends. He wasn’t sure if Cuillon had been assigned to watch with him or had only been curious about the Shire and Shire-folk; the young Man had asked so many questions as he kept Merry company, he’d reminded the convalescent hobbit of Pippin at his most inquisitive. Their acquaintance had been deepening, well on the way to friendship, when the healer’s assistant had been pulled away to march with the Host to the Black Gate. 

At Cormallen, Merry had been occupied with his cousins’ and Samwise’s recovery, while the healers, Cuillon included, had been run off their feet in dealing with the many wounded in battle and carried to Cormallen to recover, and with the improvement of the hobbits and the soldiers had come the celebrations, and then the time was at hand to march to Minas Tirith for the Coronation. Since the Army had returned, Merry’s free time had not coincided with that of the young healer, whose duties currently had Cuillon working throughout the night and sleeping during the day. Merry wondered dimly why the young healer was awake while the Sun was still shining? It did not occur to him that the Houses of Healing might have roused all its staff who were not on duty to help deal with the emergency. (What emergency? he wondered. Something hovered just out of reach of his conscious mind... but he could not quite grasp the thought...)

Merry’s jumbled musings were interrupted by what seemed to be a ripple, then a parting in the wall of large bodies on one side of the table, and then something – no, someone! – was being gently laid down beside him, a familiar presence that brought an end to his restless need to reach out, somehow, and other hands were sliding Merry over to make more room for... for...

Close to his ear, he heard a whisper. ‘Merry?’

‘Pip,’ he responded weakly. He managed to roll to his side once more, and this time the hands appeared to be helping rather than restraining him. He eased his arms carefully around the tween, who some part of his mind registered had been injured somehow, though he couldn’t quite remember what the details were now. Though he didn’t feel any movement on his younger cousin’s part, it seemed to him as if Pippin settled deeper, safe now in the older cousin’s protective hold, and he sighed, though it hurt his head. I’ve got him, Frodo, he murmured.

‘Merry,’ he heard again, still close by, and this time he heard relief replace the disquiet in Pippin’s tone, and without his conscious will, his anxiety-taut muscles relaxed, even as he felt himself and his cousin enfolded together in a soft, warm blanket. With Pippin secure in his arms, Merry allowed the welcoming darkness to claim him once more.

*** 

At first, the young dog had hauled the greengrocer’s assistant along in the wake of the stretcher-bearers carrying Turambor from the Second Circle up the winding street to the Houses of Healing. Walking the long uphill stretch had taken almost no effort on his part with the “pup” doing most of the work. His main task seemed to be keeping a firm hold on the heavy collar lest the enormous canine should break free. Who knew what sort of havoc the creature might wreak?

But part-way through the Fifth Circle, things had changed suddenly. The young dog had begun to whimper, and then its steady pull had faltered, then stopped, and the dog had sat himself down and rested a pleading muzzle on Calendil’s hip, a weight that quickly increased until it was almost too heavy to hold aloft as the oversized head leaned ever harder. ‘What is it, pup-pup?’ he said, stroking the downy head and feeling rather silly at addressing the pony-sized animal as if it were a small dog. 

With a prodigious yawn, followed by a long-drawn-out groan, the dog flopped at his feet and heaved a massive sigh. ‘O come now, you’re too big to be carried!’ the greengrocer’s assistant protested, feeling as if he were trapped in some ridiculous dream. He pulled at the collar, watching Turambor’s stretcher, Eliniel having caught up and now walking alongside, disappear around the next bend in the road. ‘Come now! None of this nonsense!’

It was a good thing he was already leaning over. As it was, he was almost jerked off his feet as the “puppy” rolled to its side and began to snore. After a cautious moment, half-suspecting some trick, he let go of the heavy collar and straightened, staring down at the slumbering beast. Incongruously, the tip of its tail wagged in its sleep, then was still.

What was he supposed to do now?

*** 

As the echo of the massed cheers began to die, Ha’asal swayed, and when the General reached out to steady him, the young aide sagged against him, scimitar clattering to the stones. There was no time to sheathe his own weapon, raised in acclaim to the Halflings who had thrown down the Dark Lord. Somehow Ha’alan managed to catch the younger Man with his free hand, shifting his grip to take his weight and then ease him down, even as he held his deadly blade out of harm’s way, until he’d lowered himself and Ha’asal close enough to the ground to lay his blade down gently beside the fallen weapon.

And then the Gondorian was there, his own sword quickly sheathed, and the General could now clearly see the dust sprinkling his hair under the tall crown, and powdering the mail under the snowy mantle, at this close proximity. And on either side, the two Halflings crowded, plainly concerned for the fallen Haradrim’s well-being, while behind them, he saw the Ambassador flanked by the White Wizard and the other leader – the Steward – he thought, who up until but bare moments ago had been one of his intended targets, along with King and Sorcerer. Cut off the heads of the serpent had been the idea.

The Steward of Gondor looked at him with a curious expression, almost as if he were able to discern the thought, and the General bowed his head and touched his forehead, a gesture of respect. Lifting his chin again, he spoke in careful Westron and heard the Ambassador immediately echo the word. ‘Peace.’ 

‘Peace,’ the Man responded, and then he was taking the high-winged crown from the Gondorian king, who had removed it, and he held it while the King unfastened and shrugged out of the mantle, which the Steward also took up and folded over one arm, as if he were a glorified body servant rather than the second-most-powerful leader in the White City. But he belied that impression by raising his voice to call an order, speaking too rapidly for Ha’alan to make out the words. Yet there was an instant response; a guardsman at the entrance to the Hall of Kings turned and relayed the same order, whatever it was, shouting it out into the courtyard, to be echoed by another, further away, and yet another, some kind of message being passed along...?

But the High King was speaking now, the common tongue of Harad rolling rich and flawless from his lips. ‘We will bear him to the Houses of Healing.’ No reproaches did he offer, to the effect that Ha’asal ought to have been carried there in the first place, instead of marching five levels higher in the White City, uphill all the way, after being half-crushed in the collapsing ruin. It was almost as if he understood honour and duty as the Haradrim saw them.

As the grey eyes rose from their examination of the unconscious aide and met the General’s searching gaze, Ha’alan thought to his shock, But he does. He understands them as completely as if he’s lived them. While he did not know how such a thing could be, he bowed his head once more, an acknowledgement of sorts, and then forced himself to look up again, to endure that piercing regard that seemed to measure him where he knelt.

As if satisfied, the High King nodded, and Ha’alan felt as if he’d passed some test. The General of Haragost swallowed hard and answered, simply enough, ‘Yes,’ then added, ‘As you will, Lord.’

A rustling in the crowd diverted his attention, and he saw what he soon was able to understand was the fruit of the Gondorian Steward’s shouted order, seeing stretcher-bearers push their way through the massed warriors. Upon reaching Ha’asal, they laid the stretcher down alongside the fallen aide. ‘If you please, sir,’ one of them said, speaking slowly enough for the General to understand. Ha’alan picked up both weapons, his and Ha’asal’s, and slid his blade into its sheath, then held Ha’asal’s razor-edged scimitar firmly at his side, safeguarding anyone nearby from the cutting edges, and moved out of their way.

The Men eased Ha’asal onto the stretcher and lifted him, only to be halted by the Steward with a spate of words too rapid for the General to follow. Seeing Ha’alan’s lack of comprehension, Faramir gestured expressively and spoke more slowly. ‘His honour,’ he said. ‘He must not go without his honour.’

The General sucked in his breath at this show of understanding. How had he believed the Gondorians to have no honour of their own, to be worse than the Dark Lord and His forces? 

He spoke a blessing now in his own tongue, then lifted Ha’asal’s scimitar and carefully slid it into the younger Man’s sheath. As he looked up again, he thought he saw the Sorcerer smile, but there was no malice or mockery in the Wizard’s expression. Satisfaction, perhaps, but not like the dark, cruel satisfaction he’d seen on the face of, say, the Mouth of Sauron, which had congealed his guts within him. No, but somehow the Wizard’s expression warmed him, as if courage and strength flowed from the Sorcerer to the General.

Bewildered, he blinked, managed to keep from shaking his head in wonderment, and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘I will walk with him to the Houses of Healing.’

‘Of course,’ the Gondorian affirmed, as if he’d expected no less from the General. And so the High King walked to one side of the stretcher, and the General to the other, moving through the crowd of warriors which parted to allow their passage, Haradrim and Gondorians alike saluting the fallen warrior as he was carried past them. 

Not long after the little group began to walk towards the entrance to the Hall, the Gondorian said something to the bearers, who slowed their pace in response. In looking around for the reason, Ha’alan saw that the Halflings had hurried to catch up with them, and he realized that the Gondorian had adjusted the stretcher-bearers’ pace to accommodate the Ring-bearers’ shorter stride.

Feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind and spirit, it seemed to the General as if a bright light filled the great Hall that had, upon the arrival of the vanguard of Harad, seemed to him a dark and forbidding place. Even his steps felt lighter, now that he had been freed from the grim, single-minded purpose that had held him in its power from the moment he had marched from the encampment outside the City Gate, all the way to this topmost level of the White City, with the exception of the extraordinary interruption at the collapsing ruin. Now as he made his way, walking freely as a Man and not marching in lockstep as to war, General Ha’alan noticed for the first time the dust sprinkling his robes, and almost without thinking, he moved to brush it away. One corner of his mouth lifted as he realized the Gondorian, walking at the other side of the stretcher, was doing much the same thing.

*** 

Swords and scimitars firmly sheathed, veils tucked away and helms removed, the Steward of Gondor and the Ambassador of All Harad marshalled their respective troops to make their way to the grand banquet following the ceremony, under the benevolent eye of the White Wizard, even as the High King and Halflings joined the General of Haragost in escorting his injured aide out of the Citadel and onward to the Sixth Level, to the Houses that, by their very name, promised help and healing.

*** 

A/N: Cuillon originally appeared as the Head of the Houses of Healing in As the Gentle Rain, which is set at a much later point on the timeline after this story. At the time of the War of the Ring, Cuillon had only recently begun his apprenticeship as a healer. In this chapter, some descriptions or turns of phrase were borrowed from “The Houses of Healing” in The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.

***