2. Fighting for a life

It took less than an hour for Noerwen and the elf prince to return; Erion was waiting beside the bed, regarding the items they had brought with keen interest.

To Noerwens luck, the blacksmith of Emyn Arnen could not only forge simple tools for daily use, like scythes and horseshoes, he had also created the intricate trellises made of cast iron for the windows of the palace, and the huge gate, showing the emblem of Rohan and the White Tree. He was open-minded enough to try something new when given the chance, and he had followed the healer's descriptions as scrupulously as possible.

Erion turned tube and hose between his hands.

"I still have only a vague idea how you are planning to use these things," he confessed. "How will they be able to help?"

"I will make a cut to open his chest cavity. Then I'll stick the tube in to drain off the free liquid in there… blood, I suppose, and pus, if we wait too long and things get even worse than I presume. That should help his lung to unfold again and give us time." Noerwen sighed, unconsciously drawing a horizontal line over Damrod's pale skin with the tip of her index finger. "He is still strong now, but after a few more days of this he might lose the fight." Her hand laid still, fingers spread over the spot where his heart was beating.

"Are you sure?" Legolas looked at her and their eyes met. For a long moment the room was very silent; if there had been any conversation between them, it was wordless.

"No, I'm not – as you know very well," Noerwen finally said. "But I'm too afraid to hesitate."

"Better go to battle than to sit in a trap, waiting for the enemy," Legolas smiled grimly, his gaze distant and as bottomless as an infinite well. Noerwen wondered how many battles he had seen, his thought stretching back to an age when elves where much more than an awe-inspiring, bitter-sweet memory of long lost power and glory. The sudden remembrance how old he really was made her dizzy. But then he smirked, and the immortal warrior turned to a mischievous lad.

"Gimli would heartily agree," he said. "He thinks the world of you, and he calls you the 'fearless firehead', if you remember."

"Only because I yelled at him and called him a stubborn, deaf mule of a dwarf when he refused to let me look at his leg because he thought I would be unable to treat it right."

Legolas laughed.

"Your husband had a broken arm and you were close to giving birth; he simply thought you occupied enough as it was."

"I miss him," Noerwen said, and it was true. The sturdy presence of Gimli son of Glóin would have been more than uplifting right now.

"I might stay here while you use this," Legolas offered, pointing to the tube and hose on the small table beside the bed. "I certainly am no healer, but I could keep watch over his pulse and the strength of his spirit if you wish me to."

"That would be extremely helpful," Noerwen said. "But we will have to clean the tube, the hose and my knife in boiling water first, and then wash our hands, first with soap and then with brandy. And you, Erion, should be here, too, for I might need someone to dab the blood away – and whatever else comes out as soon as I have made the cut."

Servants brought boiling water, a bottle of brandy and a second bottle with a wide, thick bottom. Noerwen filled it with water from one of the buckets and placed in on the floor beside the bed.

"The tube will help to drain off the liquid," Noerwen explained. She ran both hands through her long, copper red tresses. "Which reminds me that I should braid my hair back to get it out of the way… and to order a second tube and a second hose for the future."

While her instruments were boiling, Noerwen gently coaxed Damrod back to a state of consciousness that made it possible to spoon a certain amount of poppy syrup into his mouth.

"He has to lie perfectly still," she said, turning to Legolas. "The worst thing I can imagine is my husband sitting up during this little makeshift surgery and ripping the tube out while I'm still trying to suck out blood or air."

Finally tube, hose and knife were clean, and lying on a tray that was covered with a clean cloth. It was Erion who braided Noerwen's hair into a long plait and then washed his hands with soap, water and alcohol. Then he patiently waited for Legolas and Noerwen to do the same. Noerwen dabbed pure alcohol on Damrod's bare chest. Outside the room, two servants kept watch, ready to be sent for fresh, boiling water if necessary.

"Well…" Noerwen slowly said, gazing down at the knife. "I guess I have no excuse not to begin, have I?"

"The only excuse would be if this was utterly wrong and would only do him more harm rather than save his life," Legolas replied, his clear eyes fixed on her face. "Will you wait for relief – or will you fight?"

"I will fight", Noerwen answered after a short pause. "I have to."

She pushed the end of the hose through the bottle's neck until it hung in the water. Then she took the knife and lowered the blade until it touched Damrod's skin. For a moment she closed her eyes; her mind was empty.

What for heaven's sake was she doing here?

Suddenly there was a deep voice inside her head, using words in a language she hadn't heard in more than fifteen years. The voice was perfectly clear. I'll show you what to do, Sabrina. Imagine a line from armpit to armpit, lass… along the nipples. And if you cut, cut over the ribs and never underneath, or you will do more damage than you could ever imagine. She didn't remember the surgeon's name from her second year, but for a fleeting second she saw his face in her mind's eye – piercing blue eyes, a dark mop of hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his explanations as sharp and precise as the scalpel in his hand.

Now.

She felt the blade glide through the skin. There was a strange, whistling sound, and the first drops of blood welled up, not bright red but dark and viscous, filling the air with the heavy smell of iron and the stale must of illness.

"Hold him down, Erion. He must not move."

This calm, cool voice had to be hers, Noerwen thought with a kind of weak surprise. She drew the knife back and pushed one finger inside the small opening. Eru, help me not to hurt him even more… and then the tube appeared in her field of vision, held be the long, slender hands of the elf. She blessed Legolas' quick-wittedness, removed her finger and pushed the tube inside the wound as gently as possible. Then she leaned back, turning her gaze to the bottle again. The water slowly discoloured to a brownish red.

"Look at that!" she said. "Blessed Lady of the Stars, it actually works!"

She leaned over Damrod again, studying his face. Perhaps it was nothing more than her hopeful imagination, but it seemed he breathed easier.

"We have to keep the wound open, to let the tube do its work," she said, kissing his brow. "Now all we can do is to wait and hope that this stabilizes him until the healer is here."

"Remarkable," Erion said, staring at the tube and hose with a mixture of confusion and wonder. "Absolutely remarkable."

"It will only be remarkable if he doesn't develop a lung infection because we weren't able to keep things perfectly clean," Noerwen murmured, nervously kneading her fingers. "We must not leave him alone, at least not during the next twenty-four hours. And if there is more liquid, we will have to change the water bottle, and…" She rose from the chair. Legolas saw that she was swaying, the blood suddenly leaving her face.

"Noerwen." His voice was gentle but firm. "I would like to guide you to Elboron's nursery now; you should sit down in a nice, stuffed chair for a while, Lírulin in your arms, and then you should rest. We will call you as soon as there is any change, and we will wake you as soon as the healer arrives."

Noerwen opened her mouth to protest, but whatever she intended to say, it was cut off by a huge yawn. She shot a last, hesitant gaze to the silent figure on the bed, then she slowly made her way to the door, followed by the elf.

They went to side by side to the nursery, a bright, friendly room in the eastern wing of the palace, and Legolas left the exhausted Healer of Ithilien in the capable hands of Alassiel and another maid. When he returned half an hour later and softly opened the door to peer in, the room was empty… save for Noerwen, sitting in a big, comfortable rocking chair, the baby cuddled against her breast. Mother and daughter were fast asleep.

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For the rest of the day Legolas and Erion took turns watching over Damrod. His breathing definitely grew easier, but most of the time the fever still kept him in deep unconsciousness. In the rare moments he more or less came back to himself, they gave him water, thin herb brews and broth, and when the last winter ice had melted, they made wrappings with the cold water from the well. Noerwen came back late in the afternoon, visibly refreshed after a few hours of undisturbed rest, and in the evening the healer from Minas Tirith finally found his way to Emyn Arnen. Éowyn brought him to Damrod's sickroom.

It was a haggard, elderly man with a bald head, his impressive, bushy eyebrows making up for his general lack of hair: they rose as high as his forehead while he examined the tube and hose and the bottle where Erion had just changed the water.

"Strange idea," he said with an astonishingly high voice, "very strange idea, Lady, and I guess we have to be thankful that you didn't manage to kill your own husband."

Erion opened his mouth to say something, but a quick glance from the Princess made him shut it again.

"What would you have done, Master Healer?" Noerwen asked, her voice delusively meek.

"I would have certainly waited longer to take any measures as… er… drastic as these," the healer lectured, raising one educational forefinger. "Opening his chest cavity was a great risk, especially if you've never done this before. You might have pierced his liver."

"Well, I didn't." Noerwen retorted, her lips forming a thin line. "And after one of his lungs collapsed, the only choice I had was to take drastic measures… or to let him die."

The healer leaned over Damrod, examining him thoroughly. She kept close to the bed, following each movement. Despite his arrogance, his ministrations were gentle and skilled, and whatever he thought about her, he clearly knew what he was doing. But he could not help noticing that the chest cavity was free, that both lungs were now more or less working as they should, and that the man he had been sent to rescue had already been rescued, though not by his hands. Finally he turned to Noerwen, eyeing her from head to toe with a certain displeasure.

"I must admit that this is not a bad result for someone who has never done this before," he sourly stated, apparently taking Noerwen's surprising success as a personal affront. "Still, where would we be if each and any layperson presumed to take the difficult art of healing into their own hands?" He sniffed haughtily. "Curing someone by taking up the knife is not the same as making coin by knowing your herbs."

His last sentence tipped the balance and brought Noerwen's battered self-restraint after the past two dreadful days to an abrupt end.

"You don't know anything about me," she said, her usually warm voice dangerously cold and soft. "I will grant you the knowledge and experience that brought you, but you came dangerously late, and I saw enough suffering and death during the Ring War that I could not sit here with my hands in my lap, waiting for help. I have seen the flight of the Nazgûl and the fall of the Great Gate in Minas Tirith. I have cared for the wounded withering under the Black Breath and held the hand of a warrior from Rohan who called me 'mother' while he was dying. What did you do? I knew most of the men and women who were on duty in the Houses of Healing then, and I don't remember your face!"

The healer paled visibly. None of them noticed Legolas who had soundlessly slipped into the room and melted with the shadows in a corner behind the bed.

"My old friend Mardil would be surprised to hear what you think of the importance of herblore," Noerwen continued, her green eyes shooting thunderbolts. "Most of what I know about the use of herbs I have learned from him, and I will never be able to thank him enough."

"You… you know Mardil?" the healer squawked, paling even more. The old herb master had retired three years ago, making way for a younger successor and enjoying a late, unexpected marriage with the remarkable and quarrelsome Ioreth, but he was still a legendary figure in Minas Tirith.

"Yes, I do. I had the honour of assisting him during the siege and afterwards," Noerwen said, her voice still cold. "Does that elevate my worth in your eyes, Master Healer? I have learned that it is the deed that counts, not the names and the reputation of those you call friends." She turned to Éowyn. "Would you excuse me, Your Grace? I… I need some fresh air."

She left the room with quickly and hurried down the corridor and the stairs leading to the entrance hall. Deep golden light streamed in through the coloured windows, spilling an ocean of rainbows on the polished marble floor. But Noerwen ignored it, heading blindly for the door and passing the guards without a greeting. A few minutes later she had reached the herb garden and walked along the beds, angrily wiping her eyes. Lavender, Lady's mantle, sage and foxglove… the rich, sweet aroma of goldenrod and thyme… She took a deep breath, slowly calming down, and strangely comforted by the abundance of scents she loved and knew so well.

"Noerwen?"

She saw Legolas coming from the direction of the main entrance and awaited him.

"I know I should have been silent," she said before the elven prince could even open his mouth. "I shouldn't have insulted that pompous dullard, and I will never learn the courtly behavior that I need to manage a situation like this without losing my temper. Is… is the Princess very angry?"

"Yes, she is," Legolas said, and she felt her heart sink into her boots. "She is indeed… but with that… erm… 'pompous dullard', not with you. When I left, she was just – how do you say it? – 'giving him an earful'." He grinned. "When he found out that he had managed to fall out with the Healer of Ithilien and the slayer of the Witch King at the same time, he turned positively green."

Noerwen felt a hesitant smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "He may be a pompous dullard," she said, "but he is a good healer, whether I like him or not. I should have been more… patient."

She walked a few steps and stood in front of a blooming rosemary bed, her head tilted backwards. She knew that he watched her silently, and that he was most certainly able to feel the cold waves of a belated shock that made her shiver. Suddenly she turned around, her eyes so dark that they seemed black.

"I nearly lost Damrod," she said. "I nearly lost him, Legolas."

"He is alive," he reminded her. "You saved him."

"Yes. But still…"

"Do you remember the day we first met?" he asked. "We came back from that skirmish near the Morgul vale, your husband had a broken arm and Gimli a broken leg."

Noerwen's lips twitched. "Yes, I remember. I yelled at Gimli who didn't want me to treat his leg, snapped at Damrod who was afraid that I might go into labor right on the spot, and I ignored you."

Legolas laughed softly.

"And in return you ignored my scandalous behaviour – as you have ever since – took my hand and then gave me the most curious glance I've ever seen."

His grey eyes turned to her, and again she saw the unfathomable years behind that fair, youthful face.

"I can sense the spirit of mortal men like the flame of a flickering candle," he said, "coming and going like a fleeting blaze of light. I thought I was accustomed to that particular strangeness, to that taste of transience and the mixture of joy and sorrow that fills my heart when I meet someone who could become a friend… but I suppose I never will."

"You didn't know that we would be friends." She looked at him, remembering a conversation they'd had not long after their first meeting. "But you knew that I didn't come from this world."

"Yes." He smiled. "I saw the same flame, but it had a different colour."

"Indeed? You must have been surprised." Noerwen said in a pensive tone.

"The human race has never ceased to surprise me." Legolas sighed. "And there is still something I have to apologize for."

"What might that be?" She furrowed her brow. "As long as I have known you, milord, you have shown me nothing but kindness."

"Oh… so we are back to 'milord', then?" Legolas grinned, settling on the lawn beside a blooming rosemary bed with the easy grace of a big cat. "Come, sit down beside me – and I would prefer my name, Noerwen of Ithilien. As would Éowyn."

"I know. I called her 'Your Grace' again… but I was beside myself." She wiped her brow. "What is it you think you have to apologize for?"

He looked at her.

"Do you remember what I said when I found out where you came from?"

A long moment of silence.

"Yes," she finally replied, "and quite clearly. You said: 'What whimsy of the Valar brought you here?'"

"Which was impudent," he said, taking her hand and kissing it with a kind of solemn reverence. "And rather brazen."

"You are forgiven." She gave him a tired smile. "I thought for more than two years that counting on a fulfilment of my love for Damrod of Ithilien would be both, impudent and brazen. And yet I was allowed to return."

"Which is exactly what your husband said to me, the morning after your daughter was born," Legolas said, following two swifts as they flew circles of over the roof of the palace. "I was wise enough not to repeat my remark for his ears, this time deciding to listen rather than to speak. And he told me about you… about the two years he had spent hoping and waiting that you might return one day. He thought it a miracle that you actually did. He called you his 'answered prayer'."

"And he is mine," she whispered, biting her lip. "You don't, perhaps, have a spare handkerchief?"

"No, I don't." the elf said, jumping on his feet and reaching out to help her up. "And we should return to the palace now. The healer has certainly finished his work by now."

"He has turned tail and run, you mean," Noerwen retorted, shooting him an ironic gaze. "But you are right; I have embarrassed the poor man enough for one evening."

They walked down to the main entrance in companionable silence; when they reached the sickroom in the first floor, the healer was nowhere to be seen, and a dinner tray was waiting on the table. The room filled with the delicious smells of roasted chicken, vegetables and spiced wine.

Noerwen stepped over to the tray, filled a glass for Legolas and a second one for herself, and lifted it to her mouth.

"Love…?"

She spun around and, with a lightning-fast movement, Legolas caught the glass before it was dashed on the floor. She sank to her knees beside the bed and found her husband looking at her from under heavy lids, a smile in his eyes.

"Hello, my heart," he croaked. "I have missed you." He lifted a trembling hand and touched her face; his fingers were much cooler than an hour ago. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm laughing," Noerwen murmured, hiding her tear-streaked face against his neck.

"Thank Eru, I was beginning to worry," Damrod said. "Oh… and while we're at it, could you please explain to me why there's a metal tube protruding from my chest?"

Legolas chuckled under his breath, left the room and softly closed the door behind him.

FIN

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1: Sindarin for linguist - the name those in Middle Earth who got to know him gave Tolkien. -- You have no idea how they came to know him at all? Read Winter Fire (also here on this site).

2: That tale has just been written and posted, you'll find it here on this site, titled Morning Singer.