Chapter 21. In the Houses of Healing

Galador had held his sword aloft with the rest of the Guardsmen crowding the Hall of Kings; Elessar alone had stood with sheathed sword, watching the approach of the leaders at the head of the Host of Harad. The Guardsman had been watching for trouble. In truth, he half-expected the slumping Man who had been supported between the two others as they entered the Hall to straighten suddenly, draw his weapon, and attack the King whilst all attention was fixed on the Ambassador of Harad as the latter first blessed his scimitar with a kiss and then extended the weapon in surrender. In any event, he’d felt himself ready for any eventuality that the three Haradrim might offer, even a sudden threat to the Ring-bearers who escorted them as a diversion preparatory to an attack on King and Steward of Gondor.

He had not been prepared for every possibility, as it turned out. He had watched the brief exchange between King and Ambassador in growing astonishment and understanding, swallowing down the sudden hope that rose in him, for how could it be?

And yet, it was!

Even as he wondered at Elessar’s actions, wondered how the Man could possibly know the implications of this ceremony, much less the intricacies involved, the impossibly complex choreography of the dancing blades that told a story, sang a song of their own, conveying its message to every heart of Harad witnessing these moments...

Galador, who had spent a goodly portion of his formative years living with the Haradrim, saw and understood and received the message. Elessar had extended his own weapon in return for the Ambassador’s, indicating that the Southron was his equal. The King of the West might have taken the Ambassador’s blade and broken it or, should the blade prove too strong, cast it to the floor, signalling to all watching that Harad was conquered – subdued – subject to this Man’s least whim. In contrast, exchanging weapons was a sign of respect, an acknowledgement that the Southerners had fought courageously; more importantly, Elessar’s response rendered the Gondorian and Man of Harad equal in the eyes of the watchers; by the King’s unspoken decree, the Haradrim were neither conquered nor enslaved but welcomed as potential allies going forward.

With growing wonder and hope, Galador watched the Men at the centre of the Hall exchange weapons once more and sheathe them, then clasp right hands. He knew what it meant when the Ambassador pulled his veil free, baring his face to the world, and the rest of the Host of Harad followed suit. Through the pounding of his blood in his ears, he dimly heard the Steward’s order to sheathe swords, and his body obeyed as of long practice, even as his mind reeled at seeing every warrior, Men of Gondor and of Harad alike, standing empty-handed in the Hall of Kings.

Overwhelmed with joy, Galador might have laughed aloud with the Ring-bearer; as it was, he gladly followed his King in raising his sword in celebration. He shouted at the top of his voice with the rest as the Hall rang with thunderous cheers for the Ring-bearers, whose efforts had, after all, made this miraculous moment possible.

Following the Southron warrior’s collapse and the Healer-King’s intervention, and at the departure of Gondorian King and General of the Host of Harad with the stretcher-bearers, the Steward caught Galador’s watching eye and gave the slightest of nods. Galador subtly signalled to his elite guardsmen to fall in behind him; with their precisely coordinated movements, the small group made a plausible honour guard as they slow-marched at a discrete distance behind Elessar and the General. He did not regret leaving the impending celebration behind. Though he’d have been happy – honoured, rather – to serve as an interpreter between the Haradrim and the Pheriannath at the feast, in all honesty, his main feeling was relief that the King was no longer surrounded by a host of former enemies. 

At least “former” was looking more likely than the desperate battle he’d been anticipating from the moment he’d heard the warriors’ battle song arise in the lower levels of the City. In Haradrim culture and tradition, the Defeated were unworthy to sing the Song; fighting to the death was considered an honourable end, and surrender was nearly unthinkable and only achieved, in the midst of recent events, because of the bewilderment that had befallen the Haradrim armies at the Black Gate when the Dark Lord’s control over their minds and hearts had shattered. By the traditions of Harad, in surrendering, they had been marching to a bleak future – or no future at all, depending on whether their very lives were forfeit, or only their freedom – and so they ought to have marched in silence, flags furled and shrouded, heads bowed, eyes lowered.

At Faramir’s command for the sword salute, Galador had unsheathed his sword and raised it on high with the rest, but his attention had been fixed on Elessar’s immediate surroundings and those nearest him. The two Haradrim in the vanguard, supporting a third between them, might have been a ploy. He had breathed deeply, readying himself to spring into action at the first indication of a threat. 

Though he’d no doubt that Elessar could hold his own in battle, the Lord Faramir had assigned him to lead the special bodyguard to the King, and Galador had no intention of failing the Steward’s trust. 

Indeed, he had no doubt, having stood upon that grey mound before the Black Gate, taking his stance immediately between the oncoming foe and Elessar as the first assault crashed upon them. Initially forced backward under the assailing forces, he had fought his way once more to the King’s side, and a little beyond, and remained there, more or less, under the onslaught of orc-arrows and the blows of hill-troll hammers as the forces of Mordor broke like a great wave upon the beleaguered defenders, his senses battered by the roar of voices and crash of arms and his spirit oppressed by the Nazgul swooping above until it seemed that the shadow of death under their wings must inevitably strike him to the ground, to crouch in witless terror until he was released by the death of his body from arrow or sword or hammer. 

Behind him and slightly to one side, he’d been aware of Elessar’s presence, standing beneath the banner of the Tree and Stars, still defiantly waving, fair but desperate, in the rising flood breaking over the grey mounds where the Men of the West and their Captains would make what seemed all too likely to be their final stand. Trumpets sounded in his ears above the keening of the wind, which could not seem to blow away the threatening haze formed by the reeks of Mordor, veiling the Sun to a sullen, red smear in the sky as if the day – or, indeed, the world – was about to end. He ducked away from the whine of arrows passing close by and raised his shield higher, to be driven back a step by the impact of several of the deadly missiles at once. As he straightened, he was all too aware of the Nazgûl swooping above the embattled defenders, weaving in and out of the gathering mirk and crying words of death that quenched all hope. 

But in that moment of despair, he felt himself steadied from behind and glanced back to see Elessar, who had reached out and taken hold of Galador’s shoulder in a firm grasp. Strength seemed to flow from the King’s gauntleted hand, and courage rekindled. Galador nodded in response and forged his way forward once more through the deadly hail of arrows, even as his eyes measured the oncoming hill trolls and he lifted his sword, calculating the most effective strike against those fell creatures who were already beating down the first line of defenders. One reached out a clutching claw to grasp a fallen soldier of Gondor, jaws opening wide to bite the Man’s throat. In the surrounding tumult, Galador thought he saw a half-sized figure strike upwards, but he lost sight of the Ernil i Pheriannath as the troll toppled forward... And then he was much too occupied with his own troubles to think any further on the matter.

Sudden sunlight dazzled his eyes, and Galador blinked and mentally shook himself. Even as his body had marched on without breaking stride, his mind had ranged far, very far from here as he’d led his small honour guard through the downward sloping, torchlit tunnel leading to the sixth level of the City. Emerging into the sunlit street felt something like wakening from a dark dream. But Elessar and the Southron General still walked ahead of him. Such a mental lapse on Galador’s part might have endangered the King! He breathed a sigh of relief and resolved to guard his own thoughts more carefully, at least while he was on duty.

*** 

‘Steady, now, youngster – where does it hurt?’ Curiously, the questioner was not right at hand but sounded as if he were a few steps away.

Everywhere, Pippin breathed. He suppressed a yelp as Merry’s arms tightened about him, but he was evidently not completely successful, for his cousin’s hold immediately loosened again. He knew it was Merry, had known from the moment he had felt the comforting arms surround him, giving him a feeling of safety and support, had heard the older cousin whisper, I’ve got him, Frodo, had realised, at last, that the crushing troll was only dream – or memory, at most. It was one thing for Strider to murmur in his dreams that he was well and safe in the Houses of Healing and quite another to hear Merry’s voice in his ear, feel Merry holding him close, the warmth of a blanket enclosing the two of them together, the subsiding of the chills that had seized him ever since...

Clarity grew in Pippin’s mind as the young hobbit heard his friend Beregond answer from nearby where the hobbits lay. ‘His arm, he says... see the marks on his wrist where he’d wrapped the lead around it to secure his hold. That dratted canine! ...and his face... scraped as the beast dragged him over the ground.’

Full memory came flooding back, prompting Pippin to open his eyes as he tried to sit upright, gasping, ‘Bergil!’ But he was hampered by the enfolding blanket and Merry’s grasp. He might have continued to struggle, but that his sudden movement wrung a groan from the older cousin, giving him yet another thing to worry about. ‘Merry?’ he said anxiously.

Larger hands were pressing him down, but he was distracted by his young companion’s response from the other treatment table. ‘Pippin! I am well! Really! I took no hurt. O Pippin, please forgive me, I did not mean to... I ought to have...’

And Beregond’s voice came again, low and soothing, and the flow of self-recrimination from Bergil stopped. Pippin saw now rather than merely perceived with his other senses that he lay in Merry’s arms, and though his older cousin’s eyes were closed, he still held on tightly. Frodo was nowhere to be seen in the cluster of large bodies surrounding the surface where they lay. 

The bodies shifted, and then Beregond was there. ‘Master Peregrin,’ he said, placing his hands upon his breast and bowing his head in salute to the hobbit. ‘From what they have told me, it seems all too clear that both my son and I are now indebted to you for our lives.’

Pippin was spared the necessity of responding to this awkward observation by the bustle of more arrivals and Strider’s – er, Elessar’s voice, inquiring as to the status of the injured, followed by a gabble of voices that made it difficult for the hobbit to take any meaning from the answers.

Thus, he took matters into his own hands, raising his voice to say, ‘I’m well! Truly!’ 

‘Pippin!’ Next thing the tween knew, Frodo was there, his eyes on a level with Pippin’s when the tween looked towards the well-beloved voice.

‘Frodo!’ he answered, and would have turned his body towards the older cousin as well as his head, except that Merry still held him fast.

‘I’ve got him, Frodo,’ Merry murmured. ‘I’ve... got him.’

‘Of course you do,’ Frodo answered, reaching both hands to his younger cousins, grasping Pippin’s arm firmly but only managing to brush his fingertips against Merry’s shoulder beyond – until he was suddenly lifted up and seated on the table-top beside Pippin. At Pippin’s hastily suppressed yelp, he shifted his grip to Pippin’s hand, then reached over Pippin to take Merry’s nearer hand. ‘I’m here, Merry.’

Merry’s eyes opened, unfocused, and looked from Pippin to Frodo. He smiled, sighed, and closed his eyes.

‘And as for you and being “truly well”, Pip...’ Frodo began.

‘He ought to have been crushed under that beam, but for the efforts of the Haradrim,’ Elessar said. ‘As it was, he took little harm. Scrapes and bruises, they tell me. No bones broken, though he may have cracked a rib or two. Nothing that a little rest will not put to rights.’ He added something else that Pippin did not follow; another voice answered in the same tongue, and then someone else spoke, ‘The General thanks you for your reassurances.’ Galador? Pippin wondered. That would make sense. The guardsman had acted as Sam’s interpreter when the gardener had toured the Haradrim encampments with Frodo – was that only the previous day?

‘I thank you for the life of my cousin,’ Frodo said, looking up and over his shoulder to a brightly clad figure standing behind him. 

Galador spoke again in that unfamiliar language, and Pippin realised that he was conveying Frodo’s thanks to the Southron.

The Man of Harad reached tentatively to touch Pippin’s shoulder, and then spoke in a heavily accented voice. ‘The little one is your kin, Ring-bearer? Then it is I who I am grateful to have served yourself, my Lord, who freed my peoples from Darkness.’

‘I—’ Frodo began but stopped as suddenly, Pippin didn’t quite know why, and then Elessar broke in smoothly.

‘We will bear your cousins to the room where Meriadoc recovered from his earlier injuries, Frodo, so that you and Sam can easily keep watch over the both of them.’

‘I thank you for that, Elessar,’ Frodo answered formally, somehow giving Pippin the clear impression that Strider had stepped on Frodo’s foot a moment earlier, or done something similar, seeing as how Frodo was now perched beside him on the table, to prevent him from demurring at the Southron’s praise. Pinched the hobbit, perhaps, though so subtly as to make the gesture invisible to all that surrounded them.

He wanted to chuckle, but simply taking a breath was painful enough, so instead he considered his next move. Perhaps—

Further thought was disrupted by a commotion – shouts of surprise and alarm, exclamations, consternation, a canine-sounding yelp...

...that the tween couldn’t help echoing as large hairy paws suddenly appeared on the edge of the table where he lay, accompanied by bright eyes, a wet nose and the swooshes of a large, enthusiastic tongue. Trying to push the great head to the side to interrupt the incipient bath was unexpectedly painful, and not just because he couldn’t seem to help laughing as he protested, ‘Mittens! Mittens, I...’ Along with his ribs, his shoulder gave a twinge, and...

But there was another yelp as the doggy face disappeared once again from his sight, followed by diminishing whines and puppy protests and overlapping voices. Apparently several of the Big People surrounding the hobbits had coordinated together to take charge of the young dog.

‘Don’t hurt him!’ Pippin called, craning for a view of his wayward pup despite the pain it cost him.

‘Hurt him!’ someone spluttered, but then a voice Pippin recognised as Cuillon, a healer’s assistant he’d met at Cormallen, spoke over everyone else, saying loudly, ‘Of course we won’t hurt him, Master Perian! The poor creature is covered in dust – was he buried with you all of this time? No, but we will simply check him over to ensure he has taken no harm, and give him water and food and... and we’ll bring a full report to you later...’ But the young healer’s voice was receding even as he spoke, and then cut off completely, along with the puppy’s high-pitched protests, as a door boomed closed.

Pippin could have sworn that the entire room breathed a sigh of relief. 

‘Five more minutes, I entreat you, Pip,’ Merry murmured at his side. ‘I don’t intend to be bounced out of bed before times again today, cousin!’

‘Let us first get you into a bed before we begin speaking of bouncing you out of bed, cousin!’ Frodo retorted before Pippin could answer.

Pippin, meanwhile, found that if he supported his ribs with his uninjured arm, he could laugh after a fashion.

But Elessar was speaking now, slowly and clearly. ‘General, if you would go with the healers, they will take you to where your warrior is resting, and to where any more of your people who were injured in the rescue operation will be brought. I will send my Guardsman with you, that you might ask as many questions as you might have, and that the healers’ answers will be of use to you.’

‘I thank you, Lord Ha’alessar,’ the Southron said. With another squeeze for Pippin’s shoulder, he melted into the crowd of bodies surrounding the table where the younger cousins lay.

‘Mr Frodo?’ Sam’s voice was to be heard, but turning his head in Sam’s direction, Pippin could see only the tousled curls atop the gardener’s head above the edge of the table. ‘Mr Frodo? Strider? How are Mr Merry and young Master Pippin?’

‘All will be well, Sam,’ Elessar answered. ‘We’ll soon have them in a bed, and then you can fetch a cup of tea for your Master, and another for yourself, I deem, to help restore you after today’s prodigious labours. Healer’s orders!’

*** 

Galador and the General of Haragost followed their guides down the corridor to a nearly empty ward which had evidently been set aside for the Haradrim, for there, they found the injured warrior had been laid upon a bed, though nothing more had been done for him, and the stretcher-bearers, standing close enough to restrain him should he revive but far enough away so as not to resemble guards watching over a prisoner. 

Of course.

For Elessar had undoubtedly given orders to that effect to the stretcher-bearers, to prevent any untoward incident that might undo all the good done this day in the Hall of Kings.

The healers motioned the General and his Gondorian escort through the doorway but did not themselves enter the room, waiting as instructed, or so it seemed obvious to Galador, for permission to begin their labours. Galador saluted the General after the manner of the Haradrim, bringing raised eyebrows from that worthy. The Guardsman then gestured to the bed and its occupant. ‘If you please, my Lord General...’

Ha’alan nodded thoughtfully at these Gondorians’ apparent observation of the proper procedures, then moved to the bed and bent down. ‘My son,’ he murmured, taking his aide’s hand. ‘You are safe among our allies, who will see to your injuries.’ Ha’asal’s fingers fluttered in his hand, and he gave a gentle squeeze. ‘I will watch over your honour until you are well again.’

Suiting action to his words, he loosened the ceremonial knot in Ha’asal’s sash and eased the scimitar in its scabbard from its secure hold. The throwing knives were next, along with the rest of the aide’s armaments, that he might be prevented from harming his caretakers should he become startled or, perhaps, delirious from his wounds.

Of course, Galador thought, the General’s precautions only precluded harm from the weapons every seasoned warrior of Harad carried on his person, and not from the weapon that was the warrior himself. In fact, the four stretcher-bearers who had carried Ha’asal to the Houses of Healing were themselves fully trained and weathered Guardsmen, though they wore plain clothes in their current circumstances, and they would remain in this room to fetch and carry for the healers – or defend them from harm – as needed.

As the General was in the process of disarming the injured warrior, more stretcher-bearers arrived, bearing the spearmen who had been injured during the rescue operation at the collapsing inn. These were laid upon the adjacent beds, and their bearers were dismissed.

At last Ha’alan straightened, only the sheathed scimitar in his hands (all the other weapons had disappeared into his robes), which he secured in his sash after the manner of some warriors of Harad who could draw two blades in the same blink of an eye and therefore carried and fought with a weapon in each hand. He nodded to Galador, speaking in careful Westron. ‘Your healers may commence their work.’

At this cue, the healers moved into the room and scattered to the various patients in the beds, each attended by a stretcher-bearer in the latter’s capacity as an assistant (considering the state of the Southrons in the beds, defence seemed unneeded at the moment).

‘My Lord General,’ Galador repeated in the common tongue of Harad, bowing the Man towards the doorway. ‘The healers here will care for them as they would their own beloved children, and you shall receive regular reports on their condition until they may be restored to you once more.’

‘My thanks,’ Ha’alan answered, no longer surprised by this one’s grasp of language and custom. Though the Guardsman was to all outward appearance a Gondorian, he spoke the common tongue without a trace of Northern accent and seemed as familiar with the proprieties as any warrior of Harad might be. Although he might wonder how such a thing might come about, it would have been an egregious breach on his part to inquire of the Man. Perhaps some day... but he had other business to attend to.

...some of which, he was reminded by a squirming sensation against his ribs as they exited the room and began to move down the corridor, needed attending rather sooner than later. He reached out to forestall his Gondorian escort when the Man indicated they would return to where Elessar awaited them. ‘A moment, my child,’ he said.

As he expected, the Guardsman showed no surprise at the chosen form of address which, among the Haradrim, could serve as either a compliment or an insult, depending on the speaker’s tone. In this case, the General had delivered a compliment of the highest form, which the Gondorian obviously recognised as such.

‘My Lord General,’ Galador answered with the appropriate bow that signalled he was listening and ready to respond as requested.

‘It seems to me that the infant canine must belong to the injured Halfling – the kinsman of the Ring-bearers,’ Ha’alan clarified, ‘from the scene we witnessed soon after we arrived at these Houses of Healing,’ he said. ‘The dog was most eager to greet his Master, as is the way of that breed...’

‘The injured Halfling is the Ring-bearer’s cousin,’ Galador affirmed. Somehow he managed to maintain a bland expression as astonishing events began to unfold from that point of the conversation, as if the day had not already held its fill of wonders.

‘I had thought the young canine belonged to the child I saw in the ruins... the lead was wrapped around its wrist, after all, and I thought the Halfling merely a would-be rescuer of the child and the pup who had suffered the ill fortune of becoming trapped under the collapsing ceiling with the others, but I saw just now that I had been mistaken in my impression since the greeting went to the Halfling and not the child.’

‘It is truly spoken, my Lord General, that the dog belongs to the Halfling,’ Galador acknowledged.

‘Then I have something that belongs to him.’ Ha’alan reached beneath his robes and brought out a small handful of fur, which he extended to the Guardsman, ignoring the latter’s hastily concealed surprise.

‘This little one, I suspect, is what drew the three younglings into danger,’ the General said. ‘Even after the beam collapsed upon the Halfling and the child with him, the dog still sought to reach this precious one, deep in the ruins and in desperate need of aid.’ As the Guardsman stretched out his hands to receive the treasure the General held, Ha’alan nodded approval and deposited the kitten into his Gondorian escort’s cupped palms.

‘This Honoured One is very young, I deem,’ he said, ‘and is in need of sustenance and care. I do not know where its mother might be; perhaps crushed in the disaster. The young canine has obviously claimed it and placed it under his protection, and so I must request that you carry this Honoured One to the Halfling who owns the pup.’

‘My Lord General,’ Galador said, at a loss for words.

‘I will return to the Grand Ambassador now,’ the General said with the bow of a superior to a subordinate who is nearly at the same hierarchical level. ‘I imagine your Ha’alessar will provide me with adequate escort to the feast.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ the Guardsman said. Though he looked slightly dazed, to the General’s sharp eye, Ha’alan politely said nothing about the matter but simply repeated the bow and strode away, leaving his erstwhile escort staring after him. 

*** 

Galador quickly recovered his wits and stared down at the furry mite cradled in his palms. A tiny kitten it was, indeed, mewing weakly. He could feel it trembling in the open air, no longer sheltered under the Southron’s robes.

From his intimate knowledge of Haradrim Law and tradition, he understood with extraordinary clarity the Southrons’ reverence of felines, from the large and fearsome predators of the plains and jungles of Far Harad to the sleek and pampered rodent-slayers found in humble dwellings and palaces alike. General Ha’alan would be expecting reports on the well-being of this scrap of kittenhood, the Guardsman knew of a certainty, and a kitten this young that had been trapped in the crumbling ruins for hours would be in urgent need of feeding and warmth and life-saving attention. Well, they were in the right place for that!

He tucked the kitten under the fine wool of the tunic underlying his mail, letting his body heat warm the little creature as he went in search of the Hobbits. In answer to his enquiries, an assistant directed him to the room where the injured Ernil i Pheriannath and the Esquire of Rohan had been carried, and just outside the room, he found the principal Ring-bearer himself.

‘Ah, Galador!’ Frodo said. ‘I’m that glad to see you. Elessar has already departed with the General, and...’

‘Did you need something, my lord Ring-bearer?’ Galador said respectfully. 

The hobbit neither sighed nor blinked at this exalted form of address, for he had not yet had enough time with this particular Guardsman to inform him of his wish to be called, quite simply, “Frodo”. They would get around to that in good time, if Frodo had his way, and since no wish expressed by a Halfling seemed to be too large or too small in this grand City, he was fairly assured of getting his way eventually.

‘Yes,’ Frodo said, ‘thank you, Galador. You see, the healer who was here went off to fetch something, and Sam has gone off to find us a bite to eat, and...’

‘If you please, my lord Ring-bearer,’ Galador said with a bow.

Frodo went at once to the heart of the matter. ‘My cousin Meriadoc has a chill and would benefit from another blanket, I deem.’

‘Of course, my lord Ring-bearer,’ Galador said. 

‘Frodo,’ the hobbit said firmly. Enough was enough.

‘My lord...?’ Galador began.

‘Please address me by my name,’ Frodo said. ‘I find my lord Ring-bearer unbearably cumbersome. Please... just call me Frodo if you please.’

‘As you have ordered, so it shall be, m— Frodo,’ Galador said. ‘I will fetch blankets for your cousins with mine own hands, Frodo, that they may find warmth and relief all the sooner.’

‘Thank you, Galador,’ Frodo said with a grateful smile, both for the promise of the rapid relief of his younger cousin’s discomfort and his preferred mode of address, all in the same breath.

‘But first,’ Galador forestalled him as he would have turned back into the room. ‘I have an urgent matter for Master Peregrin.’

‘For Pip?’ Frodo said. ‘Can it not wait until a more opportune time? My young cousin is asleep at the moment, and...’

‘I regret to say that this matter cannot wait,’ Galador said humbly. ‘You see, immediate attention is needed...’ and he brought out the kitten, now mewing piteously, from under his tunic. ‘His kitten...’

‘His kitten!’ Frodo echoed in frank astonishment.

‘Yes, my lord – Frodo,’ Galador said. ‘As the General of Haragost himself laid this commission into my hands, I must warn of the potential for a serious breach with Harad should this kitten not receive immediate care and aid, and fall ill or – perish the thought! – die of neglect. But I deem that it has already gone too long without its mother’s milk...’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Frodo said decisively, suiting action to word by scooping the kitten into his hands and cuddling it close to his breast. ‘All you need to worry about now are those blankets for my cousins!’

‘As you wish, Frodo,’ Galador said, and with a bow, he departed.

***  

A/N: Some descriptions or turns of phrase were heavily borrowed from “The Black Gate Opens” and “The Field of Cormallen” in The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Next chapter: Epilogue