Awed by the magnificence of the Mearas and fearing the prospect of an Éored on such awesome beasts, Leofric’s sense of foreboding surged when he recognised Finglor as one of the Rangers of the North. There had been those within his own forces who had advocated attacking Rohan when they thought it was weak, but the sight of the two riders on such horses made even the most insatiable warriors understand that they would be annihilated. He realised at once the significance of their presence, and the implication. There was no hope of victory for the Dunlendings today and his own northern lands could be under threat if the Dúnedain were to join with the Rohirrim.
Leofric and his commanders listened chastened as Finglor presented the tale of the battle overwhelmingly lost and the death of their King. And yet miraculously, it seemed all was not lost. Finglor asked if Leofric himself would, under his protection, parley with the victors for the lives of the survivors and to negotiate a binding settlement to prevent the Rohirrim encroaching further into Dunland. With 1,200 horsemen and few losses, Leofric was quick to realise that the Rohirrim could roam freely in the southern part of Dunland if they so wished. He had no sensible choice but to agree, though if, as it seemed, the new King of Rohan could be persuaded to treat with him in good faith, there was hope that these two neutral parties acting on behalf of the new King of Arnor and Gondor could avert more territorial encroachment and bloodshed. He immediately selected two emissaries to ride with Finglor and Lothíriel to the battlefield to confirm the scale of the defeat, and initiate talks with King Éomer.
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As the four arrived at the field of battle, the wounded were already being attended to. These were mostly Dunlendings, some of whom were determined to fight to the death, which was swift in coming. Lothíriel left Finglor and rode straight to the makeshift tents which were being erected to take charge of the most seriously wounded. She felt humbled that so many of the Riders were visibly relieved to see her and none argued with her as she assessed each wounded man and assigned relevant care. She felt trusted, she felt these were her people and she would protect them to the death, her death if need be. She threw herself into their care, whether Rider of Rohan or defeated Dunlending.
Finglor, carrying the flag of truce with him to protect the two emissaries, found Erkenbrand first. Briefly explaining to Erkenbrand that though the northern tribes were in position to defend their homeland if forced, they had no wish to fight. They had answered the call of their liege lord, the Great King, but since he had fallen in battle, they did not answer to the southern tribes. For now, they only wanted reassurance that their wounded kinsmen would be treated with respect and any prisoners kept safe until negotiations could begin the next day in the afternoon at a place of King Éomer’s choosing, under the neutral protection of King of Arnor and Gondor’s representative, Finglor.
Erkenbrand went in search of Éomer and returned with his agreement to the proposals. While one of the emissaries left immediately to report to Leofric, the other, a blond-haired Dunlending who spoke native Rohirric, asked if he could stay to help with the wounded as he knew that some of the more stubborn of his countrymen might still try to cause trouble. His name was Gandlend. He was half-Rohirric and bore no ill will towards his mother’s people, he informed a wary but accommodating Erkenbrand. The man both looked and sounded genuine.
Together with Finglor Gandlend began to search the battlefield for any injured Dunlendings who might still be helped and they brought them as quickly as they could into Lothíriel’s care. Lothíriel was tending to a severe spear wound when she heard Éomer’s deep, rich voice growling, ‘I’m fine, it’s a slight flesh wound. I don’t need to see either of them. I can probably get the damn thing out myself.’
Lothíriel could tell he was in pain, but she made sure first that the spear wound was dressed and sewn up properly before going in search of the King. She found him in his own tent, guarded by a young Rider she recognised as Finwine.
‘You can’t go in my Lady, he has forbidden it,’ the youngster said without much conviction once Lothíriel had pulled herself to her full height.
With a withering look, she fumed through gritted teeth, ‘Do not try to stop me!’ At which Finwine quailed and let her through.
Éomer was being helped out of his armour when she stormed in with a determined look on her face. He looked very pale and strangely fevered, with a yellow tinge around his eyes.
‘Let me see’, she commanded.
‘Lothíriel, I must insist that you leave,’ Éomer ordered. The look on her face cowed him into adding, ‘or at least call for Finglor.’
‘I am as good if not better than Finglor at many war wounds,’ she said forcefully as she batted away the attendants around him so she could see his injury.
He had sustained an arrow deep into his right thigh muscle at the top of his leg near his groin. She visibly paled when she saw it. It had been so close to a major artery. Worse still, the wooden shaft of the arrow had broken off leaving the metal arrowhead still buried in his thigh. She rounded on him in a fury.
‘How did that penetrate your armour? Less than an inch and you would have bled to death, and quickly,’ she cried. ‘Strip,’ she directed. ‘Where else are you wounded? Why did you not come to me earlier?’, she fired off in rapid succession.
‘I am not stripping – where is Finglor?’ Éomer insisted.
‘He is busy with some difficult injuries on difficult men I cannot handle,’ came her heated reply. ‘Besides his fingers are not good enough to perform this task.’
She moved closer to him while she examined his thigh. ‘Might I remind you how many times you have seen me naked,’ she whispered hoarsely into his ear. ‘We will cover your ‘modesty’ with a cloth, but I need to clean around this area and check the rest of you. This is serious, Éomer. Have your men help you if you wish but I want you cleaned all over by the time I return.’
She looked at him questioningly until she received his acquiescence and went in search of Finglor. He was too busy to be interrupted, so she left a message for him to join her when he could.
She found Éomer lying on the makeshift bed in the tent, cleaned, bare-chested with a thick cloth covering his mid-drift and very firmly tucked between his legs, but with his thigh exposed. Lothíriel cleaned the wound as gently as she could, trying not to look at the large mound under the cloth between his legs. As she opened the wound to see the size of the arrowhead he tensed in pain, almost dislodging the cloth which Lothíriel pointedly put back over him. She had decided against giving him a potion to lessen the pain. She could not be sure, but she suspected something else was afflicting him and she needed Éomer fully conscious. She wanted to consult Finglor before sending Éomer into a stupor.
‘This is going to hurt, Éomer,’ she told him gently. She bound the leg tight above the wound, selected a long thin metal implement with a twisted head. ‘How did this get lodged without the wooden shaft?’ she asked him.
‘Well, I thought it better to break off the shaft, it was getting in the way of my sword arm and it just came out like that, he said almost chattily, trying to ignore the pain he knew was coming.
Lothíriel asked the two attendants in the room to hold him down so she could extract the arrowhead smoothly. With a steady hand, she inserted the metal implement and twisted the head into the base of the arrowhead until she had a firm grip of it and very carefully pulled the arrowhead out of Éomer’s thigh. Finglor arrived just as she dropped the arrowhead into a waiting bowl and the two attendants released him. She cleaned the wound thoroughly checking for splinters before unbinding the tourniquet while speaking to Finglor in Quenya, the ancient Elven tongue she knew Éomer did not understand. ‘Look at him, Finglor, there’s something not right. He won’t let me examine him. Please would you check him? This arrowhead looks and smells clean but he’s feverish. Look at his eyes….’
She reverted to Sindarin, ‘Éomer, Finglor will examine you for signs of other injuries. Let me just pack this wound, and I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll be back to check later.’
She put a soothing paste into the wound and dressed it loosely. It would need a few stitches later once they knew it was not infected. ‘Finwine, don’t leave him and if he starts to sweat, send someone for me immediately,’ she ordered the guard.
Finglor took some time, too long, thought Lothíriel, her anxiety rises with every second. Eventually Finglor came out to join her.
‘Well? Could the arrow have been poisoned?’ she asked him concerned.
‘I think not, nor did I see anything else suspicious,’ he replied.
‘We need to see to the other wounded, but I am loath to leave him,’ she confessed.
‘He is strong, Lothíriel. I don’t know of any poison the Dunlendings might use that would be so slow to act, but I agree he’s not looking as good as I would wish,’ Finglor conceded. ‘Come, let him rest. We will be informed if he takes a turn for the worse.’
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They both worked hard through the day and into the coming night. Although they had won an overwhelming victory, it had not come without loss or injury. While they had prioritised the worst of the Rohirric wounded, men and horse, they had not neglected the Dunlendings. Gandlend had made himself very useful in pacifying the more belligerent of the injured Dunlendings and the imposing, unhooded figure of Finglor inclined them to lessen their resistance. Were it not for his style of dress, most there would have mistaken Gandlend for a man of Rohan and he was treated with some suspicion by the southern Dunlendings. Yet Lothíriel felt sure he could not be one of Finglor’s spies; he was too obvious. With so many of the leaders of the southern fiefs injured or slain, it seemed to Lothíriel that the remaining Dunlendings were, despite their antipathy, deferring to him. Curious, she sought out Erkenbrand for an explanation.
‘He is the cousin of the northern chieftain, Leofric. His father’s brother took a woman of Westfold as his wife, one of the few willing liaisons and not taken to Dunland by force as were so many others. It seems she has done much to temper the northern tribes’ enmity towards us and Leofric was considered weak as a result. He was outmanoeuvred for the Kingship and barely survived an assassination attempt. Hopefully these idiots will now see the sense of Leofric’s path…’
Finwine interrupted further insights, his face etched with panic. Lothíriel did not need further communication; followed by Erkenbrand she sped directly to Éomer’s tent where they found the King flushed and sweating. Lothíriel swore in Sindarin. Éomer managed a grimaced smile. ‘That bad then? I confess I feel like shit’.
‘Water’, Lothíriel barked at Finwine, ‘and lots of it, both hot and cold’.
She rummaged inside her travel sack of medicine and started to lay out what she needed. Gently she touched Éomer’s forehead and as her fingers moved to assess the rhythm of the pulse on his neck, Éomer felt a rush of longing. Are you feeling cold? Are you aching or are you experiencing sharp needle like pains? Are you feeling nauseous? She peppered him with questions while he was still lucid enough to answer. Lothíriel turned to Erkenbrand, ‘My Lord, please fetch Finglor and tell him it is urgent.’
Éomer propped himself up on cushions with difficulty while she made him drink a hot liquid. She gently tilted his head and held the cup to his lips while he drank it as his hands were shaking too much for him to do it himself. He was now dressed in a shirt, but his wounded leg was uncovered. Lothíriel carefully checked the wound; it was not septic. Éomer had tried to stop her from untying the bandage over it. Feverish as he was, he still found her touch disturbing in ways he could no longer control. She glared at him furiously. In no fit state to argue, he collapsed back down.
Finglor came in with Erkenbrand, calm and competent. He sat down in front of the King and instead of re-examining the wound in his inner thigh, he examined Éomer’s face closely, reaching to open one of his eyes more widely to see the rim of his eyeball. ‘What is it, Finglor?’ Lothíriel enquired anxiously. ‘What do you see?’
‘Éomer, did you get bitten by an insect on your way here by any chance?’ Finglor asked the King. ‘It would be the size of a small wasp but with a shimmering blue back. I have examined you almost everywhere for the tell-tale bite mark but it’s the only thing in these parts that can, in some cases, give you these symptoms. There’s only one place I haven’t checked.’
Éomer’s reaction confirmed Finglor’s suspicion even before his answer and he raised a finger indicating the King wait a moment before replying. ‘Lothíriel, would you please bring me some Cintillian Bark and the vial of Valmuë from my right saddle bag. You know which it is. Go now, it is urgent.’ Waiting until she had raced out of the tent, Finglor turned back to Éomer.
‘Well, ah,’ Éomer hesitated, making sure Lothíriel was out of earshot. ‘I did get bitten by something as I was taking a pee in fact…It was pretty damn painful at the time, but we were soon to be in battle, so I ignored it…’ he confessed.
‘Let me see,’ Finglor ordered. Éomer lifted his shirt for Finglor to examine him. He could now see the tell-tale bite mark of the Blueback tick, beside his left groin, just inside his pubic hair. He tutted, annoyed with himself for having missed it on his first examination. ‘Right. You’re in for a rough night. We can treat this, but you will have to do everything that Lothíriel tells you to do as this can turn nasty and it can kill.’ he said firmly.
‘No, no, why can’t you treat me? This is no job for a woman,’ he rasped, panic rising in his usually deep measured voice.
‘I would, believe me,’ Finglor answered sympathetically, ‘but some of the Dunlendings have sustained injuries she is not capable of healing. If they are to survive, I will have to take care of them. This she can handle, but it’s a trickier process than you would think, and I only trust her or myself to get the dosage of the medicine needed exactly right and administered in the right way’.
‘I said no,’ he pleaded almost desperate, ‘she cannot touch me there…’
Finglor lost his patience. ‘Don’t be a fool. Would you rather die? She’s dealt with worse injuries and situations than this. We can wrap you in a cloth to protect your and Lothíriel’s sensitivities, but this area needs to remain exposed.’ he ended emphatically.
‘Oh Béma,’ Éomer swore and sank down back onto the bed, his head whirring from the effort.
Lothíriel returned with a leather pouch which was stuffed with a type of bark. The seriousness of his condition was only just beginning to sink in as Éomer watched the pair speaking urgently together in Quenya, Lothíriel’s lovely face wrought with worry and Finglor calmly explaining exactly what she needed to do. He thought he caught a faint expression of alarm in her eyes at one point, but he was too feverish to be sure of anything his mind and eyes were telling him. He barely registered Finglor’s departure with Erkenbrand from the tent, although he thought he heard Finwine ordered to bring hot water and bar all other visitors, leaving him solely in Lothíriel’s care.
He was no longer sure of his senses. His eyes showed her sitting beside him, his skin felt her hand holding his own, the other wiping his forehead lovingly with a cool cloth. He felt himself reaching out to stroke her face, in his mind he spoke words of love, only he found his voice unable to utter the sounds. His body felt as though it was on fire; his very bones ached, but his soul flowed into his love for this woman, a love he could hide from her no longer.
‘You must let me do this, Éomer. This is more serious than you think. I will be here with you for the rest of the night,’ she said softly into his ear while holding his hand. ‘You have always been there for me when I have needed you through my torment. There must be no embarrassment between us. Tonight, you are my patient, and I am your healer. No more. I have treated many men, Éomer. I am not unaware of… well, what lies beneath that cloth. And when you are better, we can go back to being embarrassed about you touching my hand or my hair as Lothíriel and Éomer, just friends, and forget this ever happened.’
Éomer had already drifted into a strange dreamlike state where her words made no sense. Lothíriel braced herself. Finglor had been most detailed in description of the likely symptoms and she needed to act quickly. Finwine would be back with the hot water she needed to prepare the bark potion at any moment. She felt Éomer tense, Finglor had warned her this might happen, and she held him down on his chest as gently as she could as he started to experience a series of mild spasms.
As these subsided, she slowly lifted herself away from him to find Finwine. She knew she had stayed holding him longer than she had needed to, and she had lent more closely to him than required. But as his body had momentarily relaxed, she thought she saw him clearly, just for that second. It had been the same look he had given her on their first meeting earlier that year in another House of Healing. She could easily have moved away when he reached out to pull her back to him, but she did nothing to resist him as he drew her towards him. He brushed some loose strands of her hair behind her ears, his hands coming to rest gently around her head. Lothíriel felt she was gazing through his cornflower blue eyes into his very soul. His lips arched upwards searching for their willing recipient. A thrill of wanting him passed through her as his lips caressed her own, his kisses becoming increasingly passionate. It was the first time he had initiated such an act of desire and it had taken her by surprise. But this was not the time for her to lose herself in her desire for him. He was sick; she needed to act. Finwine was calling to her. A stronger spasm overcame Éomer freeing Lothíriel from his embrace and she ran for the hot water; there was little time before the spasms took hold strongly enough to become life-threatening if not tempered by the potion. She forced herself to focus.
She teased the pith of the bark carefully to loosen the most potent part into the hot water, adding two drops of Valmuë, a powerful and rare herbal essence. Éomer’s spasms were becoming more frequent. With some difficulty she was able to help him drink the brew. Taking more herbs and pounding them into a paste while she waited for the potion to take effect. She came once more to sit beside him to place another cold compress on his head and as she did so, he reached his hands out to her to stroke her body. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. He thought she whispered to him, I am going to have to touch you where you were bitten, Éomer. I need to smear it with this paste. I am sorry…. Part of his mind fully understood and was horrified but another part was totally relaxed, almost amused by the situation. He felt as though he was floating above the bed looking down on them both.
From this vantage point, he saw himself stroking her hair, indeed any part of her body he could reach. He loosened her clothing to reach her soft skin, delving underneath the bodice encasing her fulsome breasts and yet she did not retreat from him. He no longer had active control over his body; all he could do was gaze down at her in acute longing, as she gently lifted his shirt, moving slightly aside the loincloth which was firmly covering his manhood to find the spot where he had been bitten. He imagined his cock hardening as she administered the paste. She was looking at him, her lips parted. Her face blurred and his head filled with images of the slaughter he had witnessed that morning, the faces of the men he had killed, he saw his cousin Théodred dying in his arms, Éowyn dead on the Pelennor Fields, Lothíriel in the Houses of Healing the first time he glimpsed her and then he felt her kiss him.
His body was spasming, he was both hot and cold, pain shot through him and then subsided; he felt he was floating. He remembered brief interludes when she held him in her arms and made him drink the strange tasting potion. There were moments when he was calm, and she stroked his face while she put another cold compress on his head and his hands roved under her undergarments, pulling her towards him to kiss or caress her. She had taken off his shirt and he was lying naked in front of her, the loincloth having become dislodged, whether from his thrashing about or by design he neither knew nor cared. His body found pleasure, pleasure at the height of pain, as she used the cold water to wash away the sweat from him. His responses to her were raging through him as much as the blueback’s poison.
The hours passed. Éomer was increasingly delirious, his mind was an explosion of colours and sensations yet there was one sensation that overwhelmed him, one he could not control, even had he wanted to, which his conscious mind accepted he most certainly did not. No longer able to distinguish between reality and illusion, except that she was there, always there, so close. He had felt this before but never to this intensity. Images of Lothíriel flashed into his consciousness, yet she was always just out of his grasp. Nevertheless, he felt sure she was physically there, touching him as he had so often desired.
His hands gently entwined themselves in her luxurious hair while he experienced an ecstasy beyond that he had felt before. His mind was filled with his love and desire for her, he was dreaming a dream he had had on many a waking hour by himself when his body longed for her to be with him. His pace quickened and he cried out as he released his pent-up torment of the last months. He imagined pulling her towards him to lie next to him, her clothes barely covering her body as he caressed her, feeling her fingers softly stroking his chest. It’s a dream Éomer, nothing more, she whispered into his ear, nuzzling up to the side of his face, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, his lips. I love you, he thought he heard her say as she kissed him. He was exhausted and confused. He could not tell if he was dreaming or not. His body ached, though no longer with pain. Finally, he lay still on the bed and fell into a deep slumber.
Lothíriel looked down on her sleeping patient emotionally confused, elated and yet shocked at herself. She was not unaware of the secondary effects of Cintillian bark when ingested, reactions that the Valmuë essence blunted. Finglor had deemed Éomer safe for Lothíriel to treat alone; his faith in Éomer proving as sound as his faith in her was misplaced. Éomer could not be blamed for his natural reaction to such a potent drug. It was one Lothíriel would have ignored in any other patient, only she had not wanted to ignore it. Lothíriel had learned much from Galador’s friends in Minas Tirith. Unlike the men on Tuor’s ship, they had not protected her from such knowledge. It had seemed so natural, his hands had guided her, she had not been able to resist, she had not wanted to resist… This was not his fault. It had felt so normal, so wonderful, but she knew it had been wrong. She was so confused. Her only hope was that he would not remember.
Hours before dawn, Finglor whistled outside the tent to see if he could safely enter. His fever broken, Éomer was sleeping soundly. Finglor was pleased when he checked the bite mark; there was no sign of the dark blistering which showed the presence of venom. ‘I assume he was an easy patient?’ he asked. ‘His natural temperament is kind and respectful and the bark only brings out one’s true nature, besides, ten drops of the Valmuë would have rendered him immobile.’
‘Yes,’ she answered somewhat hesitantly, ‘but I think it might help if you are here when he wakes, and you can tell him that you were here for most of the night during which he was dreaming – vivid dreams being one of the consequences of the bark potion.’
Lothíriel allowed herself a cautious glance towards the Elf to gauge his thoughts. He observed her evident discomfort in bemusement.
‘It might be very awkward between us for a while if you don’t,’ she confessed in a rush. ‘Anyway, I need to get some sleep before we leave to meet Leofric. Will you wake me?’ she requested as she turned and fled, leaving Finglor with a level of suspicion he had not expected.
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Éomer woke mid-morning to find Finglor seated on the floor beside his bed with his back leaning against the tent’s main pole. It was possible that he had himself been sleeping but he was awake as soon as Éomer cleared his throat to try to say something. Finglor was at his side with a tonic he asked Éomer to drink.
‘I’ll ask for some hot water to make us both some tea. You’ll need it to clear the effects of the Cintillian bark,’ said Finglor before Éomer could speak and he left to ask the guard to arrange it.
‘Where is Lothíriel?’ Éomer asked as soon as Finglor returned.
‘She went to get some sleep as soon as your fever broke and I’ve been with you since then,’ he replied.
The hot water arrived and Finglor prepared the ‘tea’ which was not the usual kind but more pleasant tasting than the bark tea he had been given through the night.
‘Are you hungry? I hope so, it would be a good sign and you’ll need to eat if you are to take part in the negotiations,’ asked Finglor.
‘These will be no negotiations, Finglor. The Dunlendings have no right to negotiate terms. They will have to accept what we decide,’ said Éomer grimly.
‘That’s one way to approach it certainly, but one which may not bring lasting peace to your people. Resentment breeds further resentment from what I have observed over many years. It depends if you are dealing with reasonable people, of course. I think you will be pleasantly surprised by Leofric, if you give him the chance. He did not want this war and counselled strongly against it,’ Finglor advised calmly.
There was something about Finglor’s voice which compelled Éomer to listen despite his reservations about this strange, deformed Elf. ‘You know Leofric well?’ Éomer enquired with suspicion.
‘Let us say that I have observed him since he was a child and understand him and his situation well. He has met me on many occasions, although he does not know that himself,’ replied enigmatically.
‘You were a spy in his lands then?’ Éomer shot back in ill-concealed distaste.
‘If that’s how you would like to view it, then yes,’ came the good-humoured response. ‘If you are dealing with sensible, good people, then showing mercy from an overwhelming position of strength will result in goodwill which will encourage understanding and build lasting respect. Seeking revenge will only perpetuate hatred and bad neighbours. Aragorn is reaching out in kindness and respect to the Easterlings and Haradrim. I think he would welcome good relations with his neighbours to the west of Isengard and safe passage to his lands in the North. But he will not interfere with your relationship with Dunland, that is for you to determine, Éomer King. Now, I should go to wake Lothíriel as we need to leave soon. I have left instructions with your healers how to attend the wounded, at least those who will survive. I can do no more for them. Their bodies will prove strong enough…, or not…’ Finglor ended.
‘I would like to see Lothíriel before you leave. To… to thank her for her care,’ Éomer said hesitantly, unsure of his real reasons for wanting to see her.
‘I’m afraid we won’t have time. We need to leave now that you are awake. You will see her soon enough. You should try to eat.’ And with that, Finglor left.