On the Wings of the Storm

Chapter 1

"Modor!" the boy moaned and my heart contracted with pity. Had his mother survived?

"Hush," I said, stroking his matted blond hair, "you're safe now." Although he did not understand them, my words seemed to calm him.

When Dirhael returned with a crock of warm water I cleaned the boy's wound to my best ability and wrapped a fresh bandage around his head, applying enough pressure to stop the bleeding. A maid passed by with a jug of water and I begged a drink for my patient from her.

I pushed the cup into Dirhael's hand. "Look after him and make sure he drinks plenty of water to make up for the loss of blood."

He nodded and I passed on to the next one in the line, a man whose broken arm had already been set crudely and who only needed it fastened more securely, a task well within my abilities. The young woman next to him had blood encrusted cuts along her arms and thighs, but a healer already attended to her. I looked away sickened when I realized that the regularity of the cuts meant they had been administered deliberately.

In no time at all I had used up my meagre supplies of healing materials, but one of the other healers wordlessly handed me a fresh pile of bandages. Despite the apparent chaos in the hall, made worse by the flickering light of the torches, these people quite obviously had dealt with this kind of crisis before. How often? And to think that my father had sent me here for safety.

The next of the wounded lay with his arm pillowed on blankets, face white from blood loss and with his eyes closed. Not wanting to disturb him, I carefully lifted the edge of the cloth and dabbed a little water on the dried blood, intending to wash it off.

He twisted round and grabbed me with his other hand. "Orc!"

I yelped in surprise, spilling the water. Feverish blue eyes met mine for a moment. What should I do? He reached for my throat.

"Beorngar!" The voice cut like a whip across the hall and the man hesitated. I scrambled backwards.

Then somebody stepped across me and took the man by the arm, easing him back onto his pallet. The wounded man let loose a confused torrent of Rohirric. I sat down on the ground heavily and became aware that everybody was staring at me. Across the hall Dirhael had jumped to his feet, looking alarmed, but I waved him back. Slowly normal activity resumed.

The man who had intervened looked round. Lord Éomer. I had not recognised him at first, lacking the horsetail helmet and with his armour covered in grime. He gave me a sharp look. "My lady, are you all right?"

Too shaken to reply I just nodded and tried to get up. At once he leapt to his feet and took my arm to assist me. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

His eyes slid down me and away. Suddenly I became aware of the fact that my robe gaped open and the silken nightgown beneath it was soaked with water. Blushing furiously I wrapped the robe tighter around me and belted it firmly at the waist. "How is your man?"

"Still confused." He shrugged. "I'm afraid Beorngar thought you were an enemy. We doused him with spirits on the way to take the pain away."

"Well obviously you gave him rather too much if he mistook me for an orc," I said tartly.

His eyes glinted. "I suppose so. You do not really resemble one."

The man was insufferable! I knelt by the injured man's side again. "Can you tell him that I need to have a look at his arm?" I asked Lord Éomer.

Kneeling on the man's other side he nodded and translated my words. Gently I started to unwrap the stained linens. The man hissed with pain and clenched his fingers, but otherwise held still. A nasty wound. Ragged and clotted with old blood, it ran in an irregular line from his elbow up to the armpit.

I swallowed. "This needs stitching."

Lord Éomer regarded me doubtfully. "Can you do it?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? Have you done it before?"

I sighed. "Yes, many times." Stitching wounds was an easy skill to learn and the healers in Dol Amroth had valued my neat stitches, probably due to sewing and embroidering from an early age. But I had hoped to get away from that here. I reached for my healer's satchel. "I will need a candle, more hot water and if you have any spirits left you had better give them to him."

He sent a servant running for a bowl of water and produced a wineskin, the contents of which he proceeded to ruthlessly pour down the poor man's throat. By the time the water arrived, Beorngar had his eyes closed and hardly twitched when I washed out the wound. From my satchel I took out the gently curved suturing needle and passed it several times through the candle flame.

"This burns off any bad humours clinging to it," I explained.

He nodded and watched closely as I threaded some of my supply of string through the needle. Made from specially treated sheep gut, it would dissolve within a few weeks, leaving the wound to heal of its own accord. Next I regarded the arm stretched out before me, mentally planning the placement of my stitches. His sword arm. It was vital to join the muscles in a way that allowed them to grow back together smoothly.

"Beorngar needs to keep completely still," I told Lord Éomer. "Will you hold him for me?"

"Yes." He leaned over the prone body, gripped the man's wrist in one hand and placed the other on his shoulder. "He will not move."

I did not doubt it. And with all preparations concluded, I could not put off the moment any longer. Taking a deep breath to steady my hands I made the first puncture. A shudder ran through Beorngar's body, but the arm never moved. I bit my lip and continued steadily, trying to be quick yet as neat as possible. The trick was to imagine to be sewing together an old shirt rather than human flesh. But it never quite worked. Shirts don't bleed.

In some places bone shone palely below the torn muscle and the last part inside his armpit proved difficult to reach. Sweat clouded my vision by the time I tied off the last stitch. Finished. I looked up to find myself only inches away from Lord Éomer's face. He had a smear of dried blood across one cheek and his hair hung in a wild tangle down his back. Throughout the procedure I had been aware of him watching me, but now his eyes seemed to catch mine, trapping me in their dark depths. Not the cool, detached grey of Númenor, but an intense blue, alive and hungry. Hungry? Where had that thought come from? I tore my gaze away.

To regain my composure I busied myself putting away my needle and thread, but much to my annoyance my hands shook. I cleared my throat. "Make sure he does not strain the arm until it is fully healed."

"We will. Thank you, my lady."

Nothing but polite attention on his face now. I chided myself for my silly fancies and blamed my interrupted sleep. Looking around the hall I realised that the chaos had turned into order, some patients being helped away, the others made comfortable on a row of pallets. Dirhael stepped forward from the shadow of one of the pillars and offered me his hand. Wearily I rose to my feet. "If my help is no longer needed I will retire now."

"Of course." The bow Lord Éomer gave me would not have been amiss in my father's halls. "Good night, Princess Lothíriel."

Barefoot and in a night robe stained with gore, I did not feel particularly dignified, but I dropped him my best curtsy. "Good night, Lord Marshal."

His eyes followed me as we left the hall. Or at least it felt like it.

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A/N: absorbable sutures were invented by an Arab physician in the tenth century, so I thought I could let the Gondorians have them as well.