On the Wings of the Storm

Chapter 13

I woke up the next morning with an aching throat, a running nose and a head that felt as if it had been stuffed with wool overnight. It was the last straw: I turned my face to the wall and decided I wanted nothing more to do with this cold, inhospitable country. If only I were a bird and could fly home over the mountains to Dol Amroth and my family!

One of the servants came to bring me a jug of warm water for a wash, and I persuaded her to fetch me some soup. The rest of the day I spent alternately dozing and tossing around in bed trying to find a comfortable position, for my whole body ached with ague. Having heard from the servants about my illness, Aeffe looked in at some stage with a pot of willow bark tea, which I accepted gratefully. Yet just exchanging a few words with her exhausted me and I was glad to be left alone again.

The night brought no rest, but only fitful sleep, plagued with nightmares. Again and again Gríma stalked my dreams, looming over me, his clammy hands roaming all over my body. Then in the darkest hour of the night I woke up drenched in sweat from a vision of Éomer lying dead on a battlefield, his face pale and cold. Dark mist swirled around us and next to him lay a banner, the white horse trampled and torn. The image was so vivid, I could see his armour hacked to pieces, could see the engraving on the sword he still clutched in his hand. In the dream I grabbed him and shook him, but he gave no answer and I knew with horrible finality that I had never kissed him. Somehow that seemed to be the most important thing in the world.

Sobbing with heartbreak, I decided to stay awake and piled up all my cushions behind me to sit up in bed. Not until the first pale fingers of dawn stole across the sky did I nod off, trusting to the daylight to keep my nightmares at bay. In the end I slept most of the morning away, but felt no better for it. The day passed slowly, the only change was a persistent cough added to my other ailments. At dusk one of the maids offered to fetch me a meal, but my appetite had deserted me and I wanted nothing but tea. I was exhausted, as if I had ridden hard all day instead of having spent it in bed, and I could feel my eyelids beginning to droop. But I struggled to stay awake, afraid of experiencing the same nightmares again. Then I had an idea and got up laboriously. One of the maids had unpacked my clothes and put them away in a chest, but the rest of my things remained in the saddlebags. I found Felaróf at the bottom and put him on the small table by my bed to watch over me. Only then was I finally able to slip into sleep.

I awoke the next morning after a night of unbroken rest, feeling almost human again. As I sat up in bed I noticed that I no longer ran a temperature and my cold had receded. Perhaps life was worth living after all. That moment a knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," I called, thinking it one of the maids.

But to my surprise, Ceolwen entered the room, followed by an elderly man.

"Lady Lothíriel, how are you?" she asked, breathing heavily from the climb. "I have brought Master Herewald to see you, he's our healer."

"Oh, you needn't have bothered," I exclaimed. "I am much better today."

The man regarded me sourly. Tall and thin, he had his greying hair cut short, unusual for the Rohirrim, and wore a faded brown tunic. "I told you so," he said to Ceolwen, "just a cold. Nothing to worry about."

I was just about to say that it seemed remarkable that he would offer a diagnosis without even having seen me, when a coughing fit shook me.

Ceolwen drew herself up. "My husband was worried about the princess. Surely now that you're here, you might as well examine her."

Reluctantly Herewald crossed to the bed and took my wrist to feel my pulse. A quick look at my tongue, a brush across my forehead and he pronounced me on the way to recovery. When I had to cough again he extracted a bottle from his satchel and poured a measure of viscous dark syrup into an empty mug.