On the Wings of the Storm

Chapter 20

Éomer lay on the trampled grass – sightless eyes staring at nothing, a sword protruding from his chest. Streamers of fog flowed around us and a wolf howled in the distance. Sobbing, I fell to my knees next to him and ran my fingers over his cold face. I had not kissed him!

Somebody laughed. "You're mine now."

Gubrak stood on Éomer's other side. Baring his fangs, he reached for me. "To the victor the spoils of war."

I screamed and sat bolt upright in bed. "No!"

My heart hammered in my chest as if I had just run a race. Gasping, I buried my face in my hands. It wasn't true! Gubrak was dead, Éomer alive. But the dream had been so vivid! Just a nightmare brought on by the traumatic events of the previous night, I told myself. Faramir was the one with dreams sent to him, not I. It would not come true. It must not!

With shaking fingers I pushed back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Then I paused. The last thing I remembered, I had been tending to the wounded in the caves, yet here I was in my room. How had I got up here? Looking down, I found myself still fully clothed, except for my boots lying on the floor. From his table by the side of the bed, Felaróf was watching me enigmatically, as if he knew more than I did.

"How did I get here?" I asked him.

Unsurprisingly, the wooden horse gave no answer. To judge by the light falling in from my window it was evening. Had I slept away the whole day? I listened for a moment, hearing nothing but the reassuring everyday noises of a busy castle: muted steps on the stairs outside my room, servants chatting, a horse neighing somewhere.

We had survived. Had miraculously won the battle. I thought of all the still forms on their pallets in the cavern, of Wulfstan dying while holding my hand. Every day forward from now on would be a gift. A gift that I might get the opportunity to talk to Éomer and explain my actions, perhaps once things had settled down... But I dared not think of that yet. Dared not hope.

Sighing, I got up and poured some water into the shallow bowl on top of the washstand. Splashing the cold water over my face made me feel slightly more awake and tore away the last lingering cobwebs of my nightmare. I grimaced as swirls of dirt and dried blood coloured the clear liquid a rusty red, and reached for the cake of soap lying ready. First of all, if the rather ripe smell clinging to me was any indication, I needed a good wash!

It took no time at all to use up the water left for me and still I felt no cleaner. What would I have given for a long soak in a hot bath, but I couldn't very well expect such luxuries in the aftermath of a battle. However, just rinsing off the accumulated dirt would be nice. Perhaps I could find a servant to fetch me more water?

With dripping hands I opened the door to the corridor and nearly fell over Wuffa, who sat just outside.

"My lady," he exclaimed, "you're awake at last. Lady Ceolwen told me to wait here. Let me get her for you."

But when he scrambled up to go running off, I stayed him.

"Wait! Can you get a servant to bring a bucket of water for me?"

"Yes, of course." He nodded eagerly. "Will you look after Wulf while I'm gone?"

My eyes fell on the grey wolfhound that dozed curled up against the wall. Somebody had renewed the bandage on his injured leg and I knelt down beside him, inspecting the extremely neat work.

"Who did this?"

"Oh, that northern lord with the strange title who came with the king," Wuffa answered.