How did it come to this?
Loyal to her family, her lands and her people, Théadain, the illegitimate daughter of Théoden, King of Rohan, has little concern for the world that lies beyond her familiar grasslands. When all that she loves is threatened...
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Chapter 41
As night drew in around the fortress, tensions rose and courage wavered, the people within keenly feeling the threat hanging over their heads. Théadain did all she could to usher the last of the villagers into the caves before moving to the armoury to check on her men. As she rounded the corner of the building, she caught sight of Aragorn sinking down onto the steps, his eyes following the form of a boy, Háleth, as he walked away, swinging his sword experimentally. The boy would have been called to fight even if she had not allowed him to do so earlier. Háleth would not be the youngest soldier standing on their walls that night, she had passed boys as young as twelve, perhaps even younger, gripping shields and battered swords as they made their way unsurely to their posts. It sickened her, the sight of children being sent to fight. If it had been her command to make, she would not have allowed it, but this was war, and her father's word was final.
Biting her lip, she moved to the man's side, taking in his exhausted appearance. He had not rested since his arrival, nor had he tended to his injures.
"On your feet, soldier." She commanded with a small smile, offering Aragorn her hand as he looked up at the sound of her voice. With a weary smile he grasped her outstretched fingers, letting her pull him up. "You look awful." She murmured, ignoring his soft sound of protest as she reached to examine his shoulder, "Come, I'll patch you up before you need to arm yourself. Putting mail over those wounds will aggravate them."
"There is no time, Théa."
"There is time." She insisted softly, linking her fingers with his and gently leading him towards the Hornburg. The makeshift healing quarters were empty when she led him in, settling him in a chair with a firm hand on his chest before moving to gather a dish of water and some bandages. He said nothing as he watched her pull up a stool to sit opposite him, close enough that she could tuck her knees between his as she sat, his eyes following her hands closely as she dampened a cloth and moved to gently begin cleaning his face.
He sighed softly, closing his eyes as he surrendered to her touches, feeling how light and careful she was being with him, their quiet breathing and the drip of water in the dish as she rinsed the cloth the only sounds that disrupted the peace of the room. Slowly, she moved to his shoulder, carefully pulling back the torn fabric of his coat as she exposed the shallow wound. He could not recall if he had received it in the river, or hitting a rock, or perhaps even when the warg dragged him over the edge, but it gave him little bother. It would not impact his ability to fight. As she cleaned away the blood and grime from his skin, she moved to rest her forehead against his, just to maintain a little more contact as she focused on her task.
Satisfied that his shoulder would not hinder him, she carefully padded the exposed flesh with a folded bandage, before tugging the torn fabric of his shirt and coat over it to hold it in place. Rinsing her cloth once more, she moved to tenderly take his left hand in hers, slowly slipping the Ring of Barahir from his finger and laying it on her lap before gently wiping the dried blood from his hands. She had asked him about the ring, one night in Lothlórien, so long ago, when he had been tending to her wounded arm just as she tended to him now. The symbol of his lineage, of who he was had enchanted her at the time, and he had let her ask every question that had burned on her lips as he had begun to truly fall for the young woman before him.
