𝕰𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖆

Chapter Forty: The Fog Of War

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The ground below me was still hard when I awoke, but now it was flatter, and I could feel some sort of fabric below me. Something stiff was propping my head up. I felt a bind on my leg where I'd received a gash from an Uruk-Hai blade. Wherever I was, it was darker than outside, lit by torchlight, and buzzing with faint and quiet chatter.

Suddenly, a cool cloth was placed on my forehead. It felt wonderful on my face, which was still burning up after the heat of battle. I opened my eyes, to meet those of Éowyn, who pressed the cloth to my forehead, watching me anxiously.

She cracked a smile at seeing me awake, immediately making to stand the moment my eyes had opened.

"Wait, where are you going?" I asked, trying to sit up, but feeling a sharp jolt of pain shoot up my spine.

"Don't move on your own," she knelt back down, removing the leather armour that had been propping up my head, then helping me to sit up against the wall, "He asked that I fetch him when you woke."

With that, Éowyn turned out of the room, which I recognized as the one Aragorn, Legolas, and I had consulted with Théoden inside. It looked as though it had been turned into a medical wing of sorts; the injured fighters in rows spread out across the hall, separated by spaces just small enough to walk through. Everything that could be spared; blankets, leather armour, fabric, had been used as makeshift bedrolls for the injured. Most were surrounded by women and children, their families, and their friends. All of which sported radiant smiles at their loved ones surviving the battle.

I sat against the left wall, propped up so as to have a good view over the hall, and its tenants. I recognized Freda and Éothain's grandfather among them, injured, but not gravely. I didn't, however, spot Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn, or even Ailen among the wounded.

A woman passed up and down the narrow isles, offering hot soup to those well enough to sit up. Most took it graciously, but when she came to me, I felt my appetite suddenly vanished, and instead politely declined.

As my gaze wandered the quiescent Hall, they came to rest on the patient directly to my left, eyes closed and breathing shallow. A lump rose into my throat. A bloodied bandage covered some deep gash on his lower stomach.

"Ailen?" I asked tentatively, placing a hand on his shoulder.

The boy did not stir.

"He is only asleep," the woman who'd been dishing out soup had paused in her tracks, turning back and looking at me.

"Will he be alright?"

The woman smiled, drawing closer to me. I noticed something familiar in her brown eyes, her gentle movements.

"He's going to be just fine, thanks to you," she replied, kneeling at my side, and clasping my hand, "I owe you a great debt, for saving my son's life."

"Your son?"

The woman nodded.

"His father was slaughtered when the Wildemen took our village. We came here seeking refuge, only to find that my boy would not get it. He is only a child... Made to fight a man's battle," she shook her head disdainfully, "He was awake some time ago. Told me what you taught him, how you protected him. My Lady, I don't care what the people say... You are no monster. You are nothing like Him."

I didn't ask what she meant. I knew it already. Rumors of my powers had only grown. They thought I was a monster. I didn't even have to ask who 'Him' was. I knew that too. The people of Rohan, the people I'd fought so hard to protect... They'd begun to compare me to Sauran. And could I blame them?