Mending

The fire was kept stoked throughout the night to have hot water on hand for bathing wounds and perspiring bodies. Myrhil's room had been deemed too dark and her bed too small and low for easy work, so she was instead laid out full on the table. While Laenilas and Boromir tended to Gorhend and Belaród, Cardhel and Cirien washed Myrhil's neck and shoulder, trying to cleanse the wound as best they could. Afterwards, Cardhel pressed a thick clean cloth against the ragged gouge as Cirien turned his attention to his own injuries.

"Where are you hurt?" Cardhel asked timidly.

"Every last bit of me, girl," he replied with a groan as he lowered himself onto a bench. "This is how the land must feel after an army marches over it." He lifted a hand to his collar and grasped it with fumbling fingers as he felt his entire frame begin to shake. Biting his lips, he willed himself to defeat this new enemy that attacked him from within and managed to fill his fist with the soiled and bloody material.

When Cardhel saw him struggling with his clothing, she left the cloth on Myrhil's wound and hastily walked around the table to where Cirien sat. "Here," she whispered, taking hold of his outer tunic and slowly drawing it over his head. His shirt followed and she put the ruined garments on the bench beside him.

"Thank you," he hissed as he rested his injured arm in his lap. It felt aflame and his head throbbed such that every beat of his heart was as a blinding flash of white agony behind his eyes. He reached up to his scalp with his uninjured arm and prodded it tentatively with his fingers, trying to locate the wound he knew was there.

Cardhel smiled faintly and reached over to retrieve a clean cloth. She soaked it in the bowl of warm water and wrung it out. Cirien made to take the cloth from her, but she held it to her chest. "No," she said. "Let me."

"I will tend to my own," he said. "Myrhil still needs attention."

"Then let me at least bathe your head wound," she replied. "You will not be able to do it properly." He opened his mouth to refuse, but she ignored his protest and parted his dull greying locks to find the source of the bleeding.

Against his will, his eyes closed as the girl's fingers combed through his hair, searching for the wound and dabbing at the coagulated blood with the damp cloth. His head felt heavy, the effort of holding it erect making the drumming in his skull all the more agonizing. Slowly, he let his head droop, unable to fight the exhaustion any longer.

A hand cupped his chin in a firm but kindly manner and held up his weary head. He slowly opened his eyes. Though his vision was blurred and made worse in the dim lantern light, he perceived the concerned and gentle expression on the serving girl's face. Though his sight was veiled with fog, he could see her lips moving but his ears only heard indistinct and muffled sounds. Even so, he believed -- or wanted to believe -- he heard the words, "Rest. . .sleep. . .I will heal you. . ." The relief he felt at those words prompted him to gladly abandon himself to her care.

Poking. . . insistent sharp pricks. . .a soft hiss by her ear. . . It accelerated into a rhythm before the pain became impossible to ignore and forced her into consciousness. Her body became independent of her tired mind and, even knowing that all movement would bring agony, tried to arch away from the source of pain, but she immediately felt several shackles clamping themselves around her arms and legs. A weight joined them on her chest.

"Hold her tight, Boromir," Laenilas said through clenched teeth. "I am nearly done." She bent her head to the needle and increased the pace of her stitches. "Be still, girl," she muttered to herself, "else you will rip yourself a new wound."

Poke. . .prick. . .hiss. . . Over and over it played in Myrhil's head until it felt like a constant whir in her ears. She wanted to move, wanted to get away from whatever it was that trapped her, but every move she made - however minute - only increased the tight hold around her wrists and ankles and the pressure on her chest.

Gradually the pain that had prodded her from dark sleep no longer seemed so unbearable. New woes attacked her until she wondered if there was a single part of her body that did not ache. Her head was bearing the brunt of every heartbeat, the blood pulsing through her veins like sharp claps of thunder. Her face felt like it was aflame and she twisted her head this way and that in an effort to escape this tenacious enemy, but it would not be eluded. The weight on her chest moved to her forehead, keeping her immobile and, at the same time, leashing the mad rush of blood that raged around her skull. Defeated, she slumped under this unceasing hold and instead devoted all her strength to opening her eyes, a simple act that was proving difficult.

One eye opened slowly, the lid parting unwillingly. The shape before it was cloudy and vaporous. All that she could discern was reddish-gold hair.

"Mother?" she asked, her voice a mere croak.

"Yes, it is I," came the familiar brisk tone. "Lie still. Boromir cannot waste his strength holding you down. You writhe like an animal with its tail in a trap!"

The pricking and hissing continued and Myrhil flinched at each new cycle of it. "What are you doing?" she demanded thickly.

"Patching you up like a pair of worn socks," Laenilas replied, her tone containing only the barest trace of humor. "Your skin is certainly frayed like old wool. You are testing my skill with needle and thread, but now that you are awake and hopefully not thrashing around, I should be able to keep the stitches small."

"Why can I not see out of my other eye?" she asked, trying to force it open.

"You will not be looking out of that eye for some time," she heard Boromir say from above. "Girl, hand me a cold cloth."

An agonized sigh escaped Myrhil's lips as a cool wetness was pressed gingerly against her face. "Why does it hurt so?" she moaned.

"Remember the orc's gauntlet?" came the gentle reminder. "I daresay you will not wish to look upon a mirror for awhile."

Myrhil managed a nod and then remained still under Boromir's hands. Soon the hold on her ankles vanished and through the narrowed slit of her one good eye she saw a figure with greying hair appear, but the rest of his features were indistinct.

"Father?" she asked, attempting to rise.

"It is Cirien," the herder replied, moving closer until he stood directly behind where Laenilas sat at the table. "How are you feeling, lass?"

"Horrible," Myrhil groaned, licking her dry lips. "How are the others? Father? Belaród?"

A brief pause before Laenilas responded, "They are resting." Forcing a smile in case Myrhil's vision was clearing, she continued, "Despite how you feel, they were injured far worse. We have already tended them."

"I want to see them when you finish with me."

Laenilas paused in mid-stitch, any words she might speak stubbornly caught in her throat. She felt her lips trembling and forced them into a grim line. "Of course," she said, voice tight. "But there is no need for haste."

"If you sat up now, I am willing to wager my horse and sword that you would either faint or lose every last bit of food in your stomach," Boromir told her. He removed the cloth, asked Cardhel to soak it again, and then returned it to her swollen face. "I would advise that you try not to disprove me."

"I trust you," she replied, then tried to give a soft laugh but even so small a thing pulled at muscles and nerves she did not know were sore. Instead she settled for an amused grunt and reveled in the cool cloth that Boromir held against her throbbing face.

Laenilas looked up at Boromir, a grateful smile flitting briefly on her lips. He averted his eyes, but nodded almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement. I have not lied, I have betrayed nothing, he told himself. All will be revealed in good time, she had said. How I dislike such deceit! Why should she not know now, instead of prolonging the inevitable?

But what if it were your father? he asked himself. Would you want to know as you lay weak and faint, unable to rush to his side? And for what purpose? What help could you possibly offer for one who is beyond need or desire for it? Would you not prefer that such a terrible moment be thrust upon you when you were strong enough to withstand it?

He did not need to further ponder upon it. The answer was clear.

When Laenilas knotted her thread after the final stitch, she scrutinized her workmanship and then looked up at the first glow of dawn that pierced the oiled paper windows. "A new day," she murmured. On the heels of that came a thought she left unspoken: a new life.

Cirien had left moments earlier for the stables to give morning feed to all that was left of her husband's life work. From the kitchen came sounds of Cardhel readying the breakfast meal. Only Boromir remained beside the table. He had taken a seat but continued to apply and reapply cold compresses to Myrhil's bruises and gouges.

Laenilas reached over and stroked her daughter's hair. "You are all sewn up," she told her. "Your face will heal gradually. There are only small cuts and nicks on your cheek, but for the sake of the Valar, keep yourself clean and do not scratch at them! It is mostly bruising and swelling that will fade of its own accord." She took Myrhil's hand and squeezed it in reassurance. "You will be up and about soon. For now, just rest. But you cannot do it here! Boromir, would you help me carry her to her room?"

Boromir stood up and set the cloth on Myrhil's stomach. He flexed his arms and felt his side and the bandage around it. There was little pain, at least no more than he was accustomed to from all his other injuries won on the battlefield. "I can carry her myself, Lady Laenilas," he replied.

"I would prefer to walk," came a voice from the table.

Laenilas ignored her. "Thank you, Boromir. I will see to Cardhel and then to those. . .other matters."

Boromir slipped an arm under Myrhil's back and the other under her knees. With a grunt, he hauled her slack form to his chest and followed Laenilas as she led them from the main room. They passed the tightly latched door of her and Gorhend's room and entered the small, undecorated bower that was Myrhil's. He laid her on the bed and picked up the compress, but it had lost its chill. He turned to Laenilas to ask for another one, but found that she had already left.

"I will soak the cloth again," he told Myrhil, rising to leave.

"Do not bother yourself," she said. "If I truly look as you say I do, then only Time will heal it. No doubt I must look frightful."

"Does that trouble you?"

Myrhil smiled, but the enlarged planes of her face instead created a bizarre grimace. "I would not mind if it didn't pain me so much to do the simplest things, like blinking my eyes or smiling."

"Even so, cold rags will help the swelling diminish," Boromir said, going to the door.

"Will nothing else relieve the pain?" she asked. "I have heard of the Houses of Healing in the White City. It is said that the healers there can cure all ailments, save death."

Boromir smiled. "You have been listening to tales. Their skill is great, but there is much still beyond their knowledge."

"Do you know some of their secrets?"

"I have spent time there, but under a healer's hands, rather than possessing them myself or allowed to read their scrolls. This is the injury I am acquainted with most and it is one that I know how to treat. I would recommend plunging into the waters of Henneth Annûn, but we are nowhere near there. So cold rags and pressure will have to suffice, I am afraid."

Myrhil closed her eyes and sighed, imagining the crisp and clear waters. "I would so dearly love to be clean again," she murmured, having realized that only a slight movement of her lips allowed her to talk with less pain. "But there is no use thinking upon it now. There is still much to do."

"Indeed," Boromir replied, looking down at the warm cloth clenched in his fingers. He left the room and returned to the kitchen, casting an uneasy glance at the closed door behind which Gorhend and Belaród lay.

Boromir returned with a refreshed compress, then left again without a word. Myrhil held it against her face, the battered flesh radiating a heat of its own. She thought that nothing could ever hurt as much as the bruises she earned from her first horse ride without her father behind her on the saddle. She had ached for three weeks and was unable to sit for one of them. A single buck and the mare had sent her through the air to land on her seat in the hardened summer earth of the training ring. This pain was entirely different. It ached all the more because it was inflicted with such violence and hatred by a vile creature, no better than a raging beast.

She drifted into sleep and spent she knew not how long in the world of dreams, reliving her struggle with the orc, but from the detached distance of an observer. She could not feel the pain as she landed on the ground after being yanked from her saddle, or the sharp agony as the monster's teeth sank into her flesh. She stood and watched dispassionately as she saw herself thrown and beaten. All the while she was aware that she was only dreaming, but could not seem to influence its course.

It was with great relief when Laenilas' entrance with a plate of food and a small glass of ale jarred her from her troubled sleep.

"You look frightened," her mother said, alarmed. "What is it?"

"Ju-just a nightmare," she stammered, bringing a hand to her face to wipe it clean of the sweat that had cast a sheen over her skin. "I was. . .watching myself being beaten. Yet I did nothing."

Laenilas looked at her in concern. "You will no doubt have dreams about last night for a long while. But here, try to eat something," she said, setting the tray on the floor. "Try to eat and try to keep it down." She grasped her daughter about the waist and together they struggled to get Myrhil into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. Laenilas grabbed a small pillow and shoved it behind her back. Myrhil hissed as her mother's efficient gesture jarred her body that demanded to be treated gently.

With the tray laid across her legs, Myrhil obeyed her mother's order and scooped some scrambled eggs into her spoon and brought them to her mouth. "Thank you," she said as she chewed the soft, delicious food, the taste clinging sweetly to her tongue where blood and dirt still lingered. Any enjoyment she might have felt at this welcome meal was smothered at the thought of her father and Belaród wounded.

Laenilas sat on the edge of the narrow bed, slipping her hands into the folds of her apron. "I will wait here until you finish," she said.

"Where are they?" Myrhil asked softly, looking down at her plate. "Are they well?" She put another spoonful of egg in her mouth and lifted her eyes to her mother.

"They are in our room. They are well," Laenilas responded levelly.

Her questions continued. "Are they suffering? Have they spoken?"

Laenilas' jaw tightened. Why must you ask when you know the answer! she wanted to yell. Surely you must know that they are! You cannot be so stupid! She turned away as these terrible words passed through her mind. She was weary. She was tired. She needed rest. She had not slept for more hours than was safe. But absolutely nothing would make her lose her sanity to an extent that hateful things such as those would pass her lips. She would not mean them and Myrhil would not understand what evil forced her to say them -- the evil of losing your husband of many years and the entirety of a life's work in one fell stroke.

Myrhil watched her mother and felt the food rise in her throat. "No. . ." she choked. She let the spoon fall onto the plate and brought her hands to her eyes, the heels of her palms digging into the bruised flesh. She did not care about the pain. Perhaps it could blunt this other one that now gripped her. For so many hours, one pain had supplanted another. Would there be a time when all would simply disappear?

"Did you believe they would survive?" Laenilas asked, reaching out a hand and resting it on Myrhil's uninjured shoulder. "After all that your father told you and Larhend about battles and wounds, did you really believe that he and Belaród would survive, broken as they were?"

"Yes," Myrhil lied. "Yes." She smeared tears that were squeezed from between her purpled eyelids across her face. Her eyes were tightly closed and she had tucked her head against her chest.

Laenilas stroked her cheek with a palm. "Cry all you like for that will help you accept it. You will never know that peace if you do not shed a tear."

Myrhil looked up at her. "Then why are your eyes dry?" she asked, swallowing another sob.

"I shed my tears over unknown battles years ago," was the reply. "I have already lived this day, over and over." She moved closer and returned the tray to the floor. Then she enveloped Myrhil in her arms and held her daughter's head against her neck. "Now your mother is here beside you, able to help you as a mother should, instead of useless with grief."

As Myrhil pressed herself further into Laenilas' arms, she was selfishly glad that she was allowed to be weak, that someone else was willing to put aside their own sorrow so that she could give vent to hers. She knew she should feel shame for feeling so -- she wanted to feel shame-- but her beaten body would not allow another intruder.

Her tolerance broke and with no care to what hurts she would inflict on herself by moving, she struggled until she had twisted half of her body over the edge of her low bed, her palms flat against the floor. She pulled herself along inch by inch, her teeth gnashed together as the wound on her shoulder pulled at its stitches with each movement of the skin over bones. Her arms could no longer support her weight as most of her body was now suspended above the floor and she collapsed onto her elbows, the side of her face smashing against the wood. Stifling a groan, she lay there only briefly, not wanting to be found in this position.

"Get up," she muttered. As she spoke, she felt one of her teeth shift and she closed her eyes with a whimper. It would have to be pulled if it became any looser. She curled her knees up to her waist and, still propped on her elbows, slid her legs underneath her so that she could raise her body into a kneeling position. Halfway there, she thought triumphantly.

She could not believe how much she ached all over. Why had her mother forced her to lie abed when lying still was the worst thing for a sore body? Father had always said to move around and never let the aches burrow in. Sound advice, and never wiser than now.

Soon she made it to her feet and stumbled forward to brace herself against the wall. Lifting the latch of her door, she edged into the short corridor and with one hand on either side of her against the walls, she made her way to her parents' room. Perhaps they had not been moved yet. The graves were still being dug and she thought she had heard no one outside her door as she lay awake and frustrated with her helplessness. Her mother would be angry with her for disobeying, but. . .she was no longer who she had been at this time yesterday. Everything had changed.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. Her breakfast rose in her throat when she heard the soft buzzing of a few flies startled at the disturbance. The odor that met her nostrils was strangely sweet, but revolting nonetheless - the stench of death mixed with the waxy scent of candles burned to mask the budding decay. She looked at the bed, but no one was there. The flies were only lingering over the blood stained blankets.

Myrhil felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. At least the flies were not feasting on them in her father's bed. She had wanted to say her farewells, now that she had wept her tears. They still burned her eyes, but would not spill forth anymore. For that she was grateful. She could barely see through her swollen eyes and if she cried more, she feared she would lose her sight completely. It had taken almost all of her strength to make it this far, and her search was not over. But she would look upon them again, even if she had to crawl the distance. I will not simply look upon a grave marker, she thought.

"Cardhel?" she called out, having to clear her throat twice before her voice would obey her. "Are you here?"

"Miss?" came the reply from the kitchen. "Mistress Myrhil?" Hurried footsteps approached and when the woman appeared before her, Myrhil realized how horrific her appearance must be when Cardhel's hands flew to her mouth. "Ai!" she gasped. "By my eyes, in the light you look like you have been trampled underfoot!"

Myrhil found herself smiling at Cardhel's reaction, another grimace contorting her lips. "I assure you I feel the same," she said, her voice sounding strange even to her ears. "Where are they?"

"They?"

"My father and Belaród."

"Lord Boromir and milady are out by the barn, digging the. . ." Her voice faded. "They are putting them to rest."

Myrhil propelled herself forward, hands on the walls again. "I want to see them before I am no longer able. Help me get out there." She wanted to weep. Would her mother hide them from her forever without a final farewell? Anger began to seethe inside her and reaching out a hand, she gripped Cardhel's shoulder so tightly the woman cried out softly. "Help me!" Myrhil pleaded. "Hold me up!"

Cardhel put an arm around Myrhil's waist and grasped one of her arms. Together they passed through the main room and out through the door into the crisp spring air. The scent of emergent life filled Myrhil's lungs and she paused briefly to savor it, unable to withstand the pure sweetness. The birth of the growing season is sweet, she thought, but then so is the smell of withered grass and dead men. She shivered at the comparison coming unbidden to her mind. With a word of encouragement to Cardhel, they staggered over towards the barn where she could see Boromir and Cirien working on the earth to provide the final resting places for the enshrouded forms Laenilas watched over.

Myrhil tried not to let her anger rise. "Unless the Valar lay their hands on me, I do not think anything could heal me quickly. I had to leave my bed." Her voice was drawn tight as she fought the pain that had not lessened and leaned against Cardhel for greater support. "I am following Father's advice instead. He never spent a day abed in his life, other than the day he was born."

Laenilas was silent, startled by her daughter's vehemence. Then her eyes softened and she held out her hand. "Come," she said.

Cardhel slipped out from under Myrhil as soon as Laenilas had taken her place. They walked the few steps to where Belaród and Gorhend lay wrapped in linen. Cirien straightened from his bent posture and nodded to Myrhil in sad greeting. She returned the gesture, managing a feeble smile, and asked her mother to help lower her to her knees beside her father.

Boromir paused and watched as Myrhil peeled the linen away from Gorhend's face and contemplated him silently. When she bent her head and brought a hand to her face, he swallowed and returned to his task at an increased pace.

As he dug, he recalled the short time he had spent alone the night before, a bare few minutes outside that small home, made all the smaller by the sense of death that crushed the air and robbed it from the living. Myrhil had lain insensible on the table, the servant had been preoccupied with assisting one person or another, and Cirien had enjoyed the solitude of the barn for part of the evening, but Laenilas had remained by that bedside for the entire night. She had been there when both had pulled their last breath and readied them for burial. She bathed them, dressed them in clean clothes, and then wrapped them in clean linen shrouds. All night she had been in contact with dying and death and bore it as a soldier should. Yet he, a soldier, had sought relief from it, if only for a little while.

He was not a little ashamed, and hoped that it was not the birth of a weakness. Perhaps he had seen a little too much of this distasteful aspect of life, had seen too many lives come to an end. He had many years left to him should his life be lived to the full. Would this disgust increase as he aged? When he was Steward and had seen even more of life and death, would he find even slight wounds too much to bear? Gondor's troubles would only increase as time passed if a decisive victory did not come soon. Such had been the pattern for ages. He could not let Gondor's defenses weaken due to his own frailties. It is not Gorhend I am burying, he thought. He is not dead, but only a worthy soldier who once served Gondor well. Do not feel it too deeply, he told himself. Do not let it chip away at what should always be strong.

She bent over and kissed her father's forehead. The spring breeze ruffled a lock of his hair and it brushed against her face in a farewell caress. She brought her fingers to his face and ran the tips through the familiar old crags. "Sleep well, Father," she whispered. She kissed his cheek and then drew the linen back over his face and secured it tightly.

She crawled around to kneel beside Belaród and remained silent for several prolonged moments, simply gazing down upon him. In this moment, she told herself that she loved him and it was the truth. He had been an irresistible sort and she recognized her own weakness in being too willing to listen to his engaging voice and seductive words. Her mother was right in that she had been foolish, but she found it hard to regret her loss of sense when Belaród was concerned. Her anger the night before had been dashed away when he was wounded, which in itself was foolishness. I can no longer be so capricious, she thought. What if Belaród had indeed meant me harm? I have no way of knowing it for certain now, but he cannot be alone. There are others who might be of the same purpose, unknown to me. What if I allowed my girlish notions to overrule sense every time?

Even as these doubts circled through her mind, she ran a fingertip over his lips and along his jaw, admiring the handsome features. These, combined with his confident words in her ability to be a worthy heir, had created an intoxicating potion that nearly overwhelmed her for two marvelous years.

"I did not know you felt so strongly for him." Laenilas still knelt beside her husband but she had watched her daughter's entranced contemplation with avid interest.

Myrhil smiled. "I will probably always adore him."

"You surprise me that I did not see what was so obvious." Laenilas could not deny that she was displeased at such blindness on her part, but there was no use being upset about what could progress no further. She was indeed a fool to think that her daughter could have remained completely innocent.

"But it is ended," Myrhil replied, her gaze still fixed on Belaród. "You need not worry about him any longer." She gave a final kiss on Belaród's lips and pulled the linen over his face. Smiling weakly at her mother, she said, "I will have greater things on my mind than simply a handsome face."

By mid-afternoon, the graves had been filled and markers placed with names and years. Three graves now lay side by side and with a final moment of silence beside them, the gathered mourners returned to the house.