I cross my arms against the slight chill.  The caves below Helm’s Deep are never truly warm, no matter how crowded they become.  Shifting uneasily from foot to foot, I wrinkle my nose against the prevalent odor of too many humans and animals packed into far too small a space.  Behind me, my little sister whimpers in Mother’s arms.  The soft sound carries, despite the huddled mass of women and children assembled.  The only other sounds are the occasional cough, the quiet tread of pacing footsteps, and the distant lowing of livestock.  The women, the elderly, and even the youngest children are silent.  We are listening with all our being.

It is a fruitless vigil.  Many tons of earth and stone separate us from the Hornburg and the men and boys who defend it.  We can no more detect signs of the battle than overhear conversations between the stars.  I swallow hard and clench my hands into fists.  Despite the cold, I find the great caverns stiflingly claustrophobic.  Somehow, the high, arching ceilings only add to this feeling—giving me the impression of being trapped at the bottom of a well.  I growl in frustration and several of my neighbors shoot me disapproving glances.  My mother catches the sentiment and hisses “Hush, Léoma!”  I force myself not to glare at her.

I find it strange how even here, in the bowels of a fortress under siege, we women have arranged and divided ourselves by class and community.  We do not stand or sit throughout the chamber, but rather cluster against the walls and pillars with impromptu “streets” running between us.  Families huddle together.  Normally free-ranging children are kept close by their mothers’ sides.  The refugees of Edoras clump together in groups of ten or twelve, always slightly apart from the rustics of the West Fold.

The only constant movement is Lady Eowyn and her few helpers as they hurry up and down the by-ways, distributing food and blankets to the assembled people.  Only a few minutes ago, my mother hinted rather pointedly that I should join the aides.  I will not.  I cannot bring myself to serve these people—to help ease their suffering.  They deserve their suffering.  While they cower here like frightened mice, these useless, petty women are defended by my brother.  My little brother.

Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them away angrily.  They came just after the evening meal—solemn squads of men already arrayed in grimy mail with swords and axes at their belts.  With brutal efficiency, they split into teams of two and marched up and down the streets, assessing the refugees.  Every man who was not in some way disfigured was immediately taken by the soldiers to the armories.  Even those who had never bent a bow, even elders so old their hair was white and their arms shook, every one was pressed into service to defend the walls far above.  I took little note; my own father was shot down by raiding hill men more than a year ago.  Still, for a time after the last of them left, children cried for their missing fathers and grandfathers.

Little did we know, this was only the first wave of sorrow.  Hardly an hour had passed when the soldiers returned.  This time, they focused their gaze on families with older children.  Already, every man over twenty was gone, and many of the older boys had accompanied them.  Now, King Théoden’s men sized up every male child, questioning their mothers closely.  My neighbor’s son Rynan was taken to the armories.  He was ten years old.  Ten! 

My little brother Haela pressed close to me.  I tried to edge in front of him, to shield his slight form from the soldiers’ hungry eyes.  It did no good.  He was spotted by a swarthy blonde warrior in rusted mail.  At twelve, Haela’s lanky frame gave him away, though his arms were as thin as reeds.  My mother pleaded with the man for about two minutes before dissolving in tears.  I wouldn’t be so easily defeated.  I planted myself between the soldier and my brother, arguing fiercely.  I tried to use reason; Haela was no fighter, he had never used a sword before.  I tried to inspire pity; he was only a child, and all we had left of Father.  I tried to keep the dour man at bay by mere force of my will.  It made no difference.  The soldier merely set his jaw and repeated the King’s orders:  “bring every man and strong lad—able to bear arms.”  Despairing at last, I swallowed my pride and begged the soldier to take me in my brother’s place.  At this, the man barked a laugh and repeated the response the Eorlingas have given since the founding of Rohan:  “War is the province of men.”

But, Haela is not a man!  I wanted to scream, but knew it would do me no good.  My brother was dragged away, pure terror in his twelve-year-old eyes, because the King thought him a more likely soldier than his sixteen-year-old sister.

My face is sullen as I stalk up and down the small patch of stone allotted to the remnants of my family.  I picture Haela picking his way through the crowded armory, surrounded by men two feet taller than him.  I imagine how the armor will swamp him, how the helm will dwarf his tow head.  I will not imagine what awaits him when he and his fellow children are arrayed for combat.  I have seen orcs, of course, but I refuse to envision their dark, foul bodies anywhere in the vicinity of my baby brother.  Always, though, my mind dwells on how my father returned to us—his body pierced by black, splintered shafts, his flesh hewn even after he was dead.  A dull pounding is building in my ears.  I can’t see; I can’t think.  A strange fire, made of rage and terror in equal parts, runs through my veins.  I have to do something.  I have to do something!

There is nothing to do.  I spin and slam my fist into the stone wall.  The sound is sickening:  the dull crunch of yielding flesh against sharp rock.  It takes all my self-control not to cry out.  I slowly retract my arm.  The knuckles are bleeding, imbedded in places with glittering rock.  I try to move my fingers and immediately regret it.  Still, the pain clears my head.  The fog lifts, and I can face people again.  This proves to be a fortunate consequence, as my mother turns to me with a look of utter dismay on her face.

“Léoma!”  She speaks in a whisper that somehow loses none of its sharpness, “What on Arda possessed you?  You’ve likely broken your hand!  And look, you’re bleeding . . .”  Fortunately or unfortunately, Lady Eowyn herself chooses this moment to sweep down our street, her arms laden with bundles of rags.  My mother summons her courage and clears her throat nervously.  “Excuse me, milady?  May I intrude for a moment of your time?”

Somehow, the King’s niece hears her muttered request and turns.  Though she is dressed, like us, in a simple dress with her hair pulled back in businesslike braids, Lady Eowyn bears an unmistakable air of royalty.  She holds herself very tall, but there is nothing willowy about her firm stance.  Her face is set in strong lines that mirror the king’s, and her eyes flash like bright steel—hard and unyielding.  I swallow, suddenly feeling very small and very foolish.  The lady speaks, her tone courteous.  “What do you require, madam?”

Mother wrings her hands.  “My apologies, milady, it’s my daughter.”  She seizes my hand, which is now dripping with blood and thrusts it towards the lady.  “Might we borrow a rag to staunch this?  She . . . she fell, you see, and cut her hand on a rock when she landed and I . . .”

Mother trails off as Eowyn calmly lowers her burden and takes my wounded hand in both of hers.  Her fingers are cool against my inflamed skin.  She turns my hand over, notes the absence of injuries on my palm, and carefully brushes some dirt from the gashes on my first two knuckles.  “Straighten your fingers.”

I hesitate.  “My lady, I . . .”

She silences me with a glance.  Her gaze brooks no argument, and I suddenly realize that this woman does not for a moment believe my mother’s hastily concocted story.  “Straighten your fingers.”

Slowly, though every joint screams in protest, I uncurl my fingers as much as I can.  Eowyn probes each digit carefully, feeling the integrity of the bones.  To take my mind off the growing pain, I study the lady’s hands.  They are pale and smooth, not grizzled and dry like Mother’s.  Still, I can see at once that these are not hands accustomed to embroidery.  Her hands—like the rest of her—are not soft.  They seem chiseled out of marble.  She runs her index finger along mine, and I can feel a callus between her knuckles—the mark of many bowstrings.  Her palms, too, are callused.  The calluses run not along the heel of her hand, as they would on a laborer, but near her thumb.  I wonder what made these marks.  A sword?  The reins of a horse?  What wonders have these hands seen?

The lady looks up and flashes a slight smile that is purely for my mother’s benefit.  “Fear not, madam, her hand is not broken.  Those cuts are deep, though, and these rags are not fit for use as bandages.  I’ve some supplies stored; if I may borrow your daughter for a little while, I will have it seen to.  By your leave, of course.”

My mother sputters slightly.  “I . . . of course, but . . . you needn’t trouble yourself, my . . .”

“It’s no trouble.”  Eowyn cuts her off, inclining her head slightly as my mother hurries to curtsey.  Taking me by the elbow, the King’s niece leads me away without another word.  I fall in step beside the lady, who hesitates before releasing my elbow.  “That was very foolish of you.  We’re not waging war on our own fortress.”  She comments coolly.  I can only duck my head, shamefaced.  She leads me into a small side chamber carved out of the rock.  This is apparently a storage room of some type; crates and barrels line the walls.  The ceiling is low, but the chamber is mercifully free of people, save Eowyn and me. 

The lady proceeds immediately to one of the crates.  She briskly sets aside her burden of rags, lifts the pine lid, and selects a few items.  Turning to me, she takes my hand again and firmly wipes away the dirt and excess blood with a rough cloth.  The woman then dabs my shredded knuckles with a stinging salve and covers each with a tiny, folded square of linen.  These are held in place by a narrow strip of cloth wrapped in three tight loops around my hand.  Her treatment is brusque, efficient, and pitiless, much like the tone in which she speaks.  “You haven’t broken your fingers, but they’ll swell up all the same.”  She tells me, her eyes on our interlocked hands.  “The swelling could be more dangerous than the cuts, so you’ll have to use your hand—keep it loose.”  She puts the finishing touches on the bandage.  Though the wrapping is thin and covers only my first knuckles, I find that I can barely wiggle my fingers.  They’ve swollen, just as she said.  After a moment, the lady sighs.  “Come with me.” 

The far end of the storage room is relatively empty.  Eowyn shoves a few baskets against the wall to make a clear space in the center of the room.  From under a bundle of undyed wool, she draws a long, slim object made of gleaming leather.  There is a slight rasp as metal is pulled free from its sheath, and then she stands before me, a slim sword in her hand.  She steps forward with a sudden thrust, and I jump back in spite of myself.  The lady ignores me, instead turning with the blade above her head to slash down at some imaginary enemy behind her.  For a few moments, I watch in awe as her blade whirls through a dizzying combination of cuts, thrusts, and parries.  Despite the deliberation in Lady Eowyn’s movements, I can see that this is no dance to her.  The straining muscles in her arm and cool gravity in her face preclude any such fanciful descriptions.  Eowyn wields death; beauty is merely incidental.

She freezes with the blade a foot from my face, and I jump back one more time.  Our eyes lock, and I realize that I’m breathing as hard as she is.  She straightens and effortlessly flips the sword to offer it to me, hilt first.  I reach out, my bandaged hand trembling, to wrap my swollen fingers around the grip.  Eowyn releases the blade and I nearly drop it, unprepared for the weight.  Catching myself, I slowly raise the tip until it is level with my throat.  My injured fingers protest this new activity, but I welcome the pain.  Eowyn steps aside, and I sweep up and downward with the blade.  My first strike:  clumsy, uncertain, but mine, nonetheless.

My face flushes.  I probably resemble a forester chopping wood more than a swordswoman.  Hoisting the weapon, I repeat the strike, this time trying to connect it with a forward thrust as Eowyn did.  The lady steps back against the wall, silently watching my crude attempts at swordplay.  After a few moments, she asks, “What is your name?”

“Léoma.”

She waits, perhaps expecting me to give my heritage.  I resume my exercise.  My father is dead, and repeating his name to every stranger I meet won’t bring him back.  Finally, she speaks, her voice stern.  “It takes great anger to acquire an injury like that.”

I pause to look at her.  What would a daughter of Kings know of anger and loss?  For a moment, her gray eyes lose their composure, and the fire I see within burns away all my preconceptions.  I realize that if Lady Eowyn seems cold, it is not for lack of feeling.  Rather, the opposite is true.  I don’t know why—and Mother would slap me for the presumption—but for a moment it seems I look into the heart of this noble, distant woman and see myself reflected back. 

My mouth is dry.  “My brother fights orcs tonight.”

Her eyes seem far away.  “So does mine.”

Noon approaches.  The healing wards are hot and cramped.  The wounded sit or lie on rows and rows of narrow pallets.  A few soft-voiced healers bustle back and forth between beds, arms piled with bandages or laden with hot water, carefully sidestepping the many obstructions in their paths.  Those obstructions come in the form of the mildly wounded soldiers who line the walls waiting for their turn, their uninjured comrades who pace between cots visiting their fellows, and desperate family members seeking news.  I fall into the last category. 

I elbow my way past two tall infantrymen still in their mail and helms.  I want to plug my ears against the groans and muffled cries all around me.  More disturbing still are the soldiers who make no sound, but lie still with their eyes fixed on the ceiling.  Just a few minutes ago, a healer paused to bend over one such man.  After a moment he straightened and sought out one of his fellows.  The two exchanged a murmured word before returning to the unmoving man.  They lifted him, one by the shoulders, the other by the feet, and carried him into a shadowed side chamber.  I do not know what madness prompted me to follow them, but the image—the two healers draping a linen sheet over the still form in a room piled with similarly shrouded figures—will haunt me for a long time.

I press my way up and down the rows of cots, glancing at each occupant.  I see many young faces, but not the freckled, gap-toothed boy I seek.  A man to my left vomits all over his bed sheets.  I avert my eyes from the blood-flecked mess and struggle to breathe through my mouth.  After the stench of this ward, the caves could be a perfumery.  At every turn, I pause to tug on the sleeves of healers and attendants, repeating what I’ve been saying for hours.  “Please, sir, I’m looking for my brother.  They said he was taken here . . .”  “Please, his name is Haela.  He’s about this tall, has blonde hair . . .”  “Please, they said he was shot on the wall.  They said I could find him here . . .”  “Please . . .” Please.

I am met with blank stares or gruff instructions.  Try another ward.  Try this bed.  Try that one.  Not now, can you not see this man is hemorrhaging?  Get one of the others to help you.  Get an attendant.  Go.  Finally, I have a stroke of luck.  A boy not much older than me staggers past, burdened by several jugs of water.  I take one from him and receive a look of gratitude.  I fall in step beside him, speaking quickly.  “I’m looking for my brother, Haela.  His captain said he was in this ward.”

The young healer looks up.  “Little one?  Eleven or twelve years old?  Light hair?”  I nod, my heart in my throat.  The boy points with his chin.  “Might be him back against the wall.”  I look where he indicates.  A few beds, surrounded by cloth screens, line a small alcove by the window. 

I swallow hard.  “Is he badly hurt?”

The attendant shrugs as much as he can under the weight of his burdens.  “The lord from the North is with him.”  As if that answered anything.  The boy stops by a certain bed.  I set the water jug down and offer a quick word of thanks before edging my way towards the alcove.

My father once told me that when he hunted his vision became like a tunnel.  He saw nothing, heard nothing, but his prey.  I didn’t understand what he meant then.  I think I do now.  As I approach the curtained beds, the sights, sounds, and smells from around me and behind me become irrelevant.  It is as though all my senses have rotated, the way a horse rotates its ears.  Every particle of my being is focused on that one small alcove.

I can hear the soft whisper of many lungs breathing, some rasping as if in pain.  The light from the window casts shadows against the closed curtains, revealing the silhouette of a large figure gently lifting a smaller one.  A soft whimper reaches my ears and rockets through my body, leaving a sharp dagger twisting in my chest, a heavy stone collecting in my stomach.  A deep slow voice follows it, murmuring in Rohirric.  Clenching my hands to keep them from trembling, I step around the screen.

There is Haela, sitting up in bed supported by a pair of strong arms.  His face is pale, but hearing my approach he lifts his head and offers me a weak smile.  I find I am unable to return it; I’ve caught sight of the black shaft sticking out of his shoulder.  “Hi Léo, is it dinner time yet?”  Well, he sounds alive.

The man supporting him laughs softly.  I turn my attention to him, and my breath catches in my throat.  For one wild moment, it seemed my father sat there, Haela’s small form nestled against his side.  Then, the man meets my gaze, and the spell is broken.  This is a stranger with dark hair and stern, gray eyes quite unlike my father’s laughing brown ones.  He does not look like Father—not really.  It was just a crazy impression brought on by his tall frame and low, gentle voice. He addresses me in the Common Tongue.  “He is your kin?”

I nod and swallow past the lump in my throat.  “My brother.”

“Would you brace his other shoulder?  This arrow must come out, and quickly.”  Though I would rather be twenty leagues away, I slowly approach the bed and lean my weight against my brother’s back.  Though I try not to look, my gaze is drawn to the arrow like iron to a lodestone.  The shaft protrudes several inches past the back of the small mail shirt my brother wears.  Its edges are splintered where the arrow head was broken off.  With a sharp knife, the stranger cuts away the worst of the broken ends.  Haela stifles a groan.  I can feel his muscles trembling, tensing as our actions aggravate the wound.  The man continues murmuring to him, his voice almost too soft to hear.  When the near end of the arrow is worn to an almost smooth point, he grasps the fletched end firmly, shoots me a meaningful look, and dislodges the shaft in one swift twist.  Haela cannot quite swallow a yelp of pain, and his face pales to the color of old milk.

The man quickly presses a hand against the wound, but it bleeds only sluggishly.  He waits a moment for Haela’s breathing—and mine—to return to normal.  “Can you lift your arms, lad?”  My brother nods bravely.  The man gathers the skirt of the mail hauberk and lifts it swiftly over Haela’s head.  The boy gasps as the blood encrusted iron is pulled free.  The stranger hands me the mail and goes to work cutting away Haela’s blood-stained shirt.  As the man cleans and bandages the wound, I turn the mail shirt over and over in my hands.  It is heavy.  My brother has been wearing this all night? 

The man expertly loops the bandages to make a sling for Haela’s arm and eases my brother back against the pillow.  With his arm and torso swathed in white linen, Haela looks even smaller than usual.  Finally, the healer steps back.  “Your brother did a man’s work today,” he says, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag, “I’ll give you a few moments, but then he needs to rest.”  With that, the stranger turns and steps a few paces away to bend over another bed.

I keep my voice low.  “Are you alright, Haela?”

He shrugs as best he can.  “My shoulder’s a lot better now.”

“That’s not what I asked, little brother.”

He may be my little brother, but somehow, Haela no longer seems young.  His face is pale, though from pain or weariness or grief, I can’t tell.  He avoids my gaze.  His voice is an agonized whisper.  “They killed Rynan.”

Rynan.  Our neighbor’s child.  The ten year old.  Now it is I who can’t meet my brother’s eyes.  “I’m just glad we got you back in one piece.”  I pat his sling, trying to make light of it, “Mostly, anyway.”

Haela does not smile.  He is looking away, at something I cannot see.  “They killed so many.  I lost track after the first few minutes.  But now, Rynan’s is the only face I can remember.”  I rest my hand on his uninjured shoulder.  I want to comfort him, but cannot; I’ve never walked in his new world.  The silence between us grows and stretches.

Finally, the healer returns bearing a steaming cup and a gentle half-smile.  “Drink this, tithen maethor.  It will speed your healing and grant you a few hours uninterrupted sleep.”

My brother seems to come alive again with the man’s return.  He reaches for the cup, and for some reason I’m reminded of how I reached for Lady Eowyn’s sword just hours ago.  “What’s a ‘tithen maethor’?”  He sips the steaming tea and makes a face at the taste.

A grin steals unexpectedly over the man’s face.  “It means ‘little warrior’ in the Elvish tongue.  It’s something my . . . my father used to call me.”  A twinkle graces his silvery eye.  “He also used to say ‘Drink all of that or it does you no good.’”  Taking the hint, Haela swallows a few gulps of the stinking concoction.  The medicine works fast, and in moments his eyes are drooping.  I help the healer ease him flat.  The boy is asleep before his head touches the pillow.

‘Little warrior,’ the man called him.  Maybe my brother does walk in another world now, but seeing his pale face against the white sheets, I cannot help but plant a kiss on his brow, as though he were still a babe.

The strange healer rises slowly.  For the first time, I notice that his face is just as pale—almost gray—with weariness.  He walks with a slight limp, and I hurry to help him gather the used cloths.  Now that my brother rests, I inspect this man more closely.  He dresses like the other healers in a simple linen shirt and breeches.  His face is clean, but from the grime around his hairline, I gather that this is due to an all too brief scrub.  As he rinses his hands in a large stone basin, I realize that not all of the blood he scrapes away is Haela’s; the man’s knuckles are shredded on both hands, and his palms are riddled with small cuts.  He speaks without looking up.  “Haela will recover with time, but he may never wish to speak of it.”  He glances at me and raises his eyebrows in surprise.  “But, it seems you’ve seen some combat as well.”  When I frown in confusion, he reaches out and takes my right hand in both of his.  I had completely forgotten about my . . . incident the night before.  Now, as he tugs away the grimy bandage, my earlier shame comes back in a rush.

“That’s no war wound.”  I mumble.

The man smiles.  “Who is to say?  There are many types of wars.” 

“It is nothing,” I protest.  The healer ignores me.  I glance pointedly at his own very battered—and completely untreated—hands.  If the man catches the irony, he gives no sign.  I sigh in resignation.

“Whoever tended this had some skill; the wounds have almost closed.”  As he runs a warm stream of water over my hand and dabs it dry with a cloth, I am struck by how familiar it all is—familiar and yet completely different.  The man’s hands have the same corded strength as Lady Eowyn’s, the same quick efficiency, even the same callus patterns from bow and sword, and yet where her hands felt like stone, his are warm and gentle.  There is something delicate in the way they move—carefully dabbing more salve on my hands, rewrapping the bandage—that seems utterly incongruous with their obvious size and power.

When I was small, my father used to sit by the hearth with me on his knee, whittling tiny toys out of blocks of wood.  I remember watching his big hands turn the block over and over, shaving away minute fragments, until it took the form of a miniature doll or horse small enough to stand on my palm.  I get this same impression from the strange healer; he uses but a fraction of his strength, so perfect is his control.

“Léo is a strange name for a maiden, even in Rohan.”  His deep voice startles me out of my reverie.

I swallow.  “My proper name is Léoma.”  He doesn’t respond immediately.  I summon my courage.  “You were in the battle?”  It’s a stupid question, and we both know it; every man in the fortress was in the battle.

He glances up as if I, in turn, have startled him from some deep reflection.  After a moment, he merely nods.  “I am called Aragorn.”  The name means nothing to me, and he can surely see this in my face.  He smiles ruefully.  “Lord Eomer, in a fit of melodrama, chose to term me ‘Wingfoot.’”

I recognize that name; everyone in Edoras has heard Eomer’s tale of the three hunters who pursued a hundred orcs on foot.  My eyes widen.  The young attendant’s words suddenly return to me.  “The Lord from the North,” I murmur.

“The fool from the North, more like!”  I jump at the gruff voice, for it comes from behind me.  I turn and am confronted by the hairiest face I have seen in my life.  It takes all my self-control to keep from jumping again.  It is one thing to hear a rumor of such outlandish folk as elves and dwarves in Rohan, but quite another to see breathing proof of their existence.  The Dwarf—for with such a face he could be nothing else—flashes me a grin.  I can see very little of his features—just a brief impression of white teeth behind a russet beard and bright eyes almost completely obscured by the thick linen bandage around his head.  Thankfully, he takes little further note of me, instead directing those sharp eyes at the man behind me.  “For love of mercy, Aragorn, it’s midday!  Whatever became of your lofty aspiration of getting a few hours rest?”

I try to slink back against the wall, only to realize that my right hand is still firmly in Lord Aragorn’s grasp.  He ties off the new bandage and releases me before addressing the Dwarf with a sigh.  “What would you have me do, Gimli?  There were those in need of my skills.”  His eyes dance over the Dwarf’s thickly bandaged head, “Not the least of whom was you yourself.”

“And yet, unless the last half a day has been an invention of my bruised brain, you’ve only a few hours before we ride to Isengard.  You have not slept in . . . how long has it been, now?  I’ve lost count.”

An edge enters the lord’s voice.  “You, too, were ordered to sleep, Master Dwarf.  You should consider it.”  I press close to Haela’s bedside, torn between fear and fascination.  Are they . . . bantering?  Who could have guessed that lords and legends can banter?

“Imagine how it will look in the history books, my lad:  ‘Last heir of Elendil faints from horseback.  Brains himself on a rock at Saruman’s feet.’”

Lord Aragorn groaned aloud.  “So much for the fabled gratitude of the Dwarves . . .”

“I must be sure to devise an appropriate lay.”

“Enough!  In exchange for mercy, I will sleep.”

The Dwarf bounded to his feet with a grin.  If he suffered from his head wound, he gave no sign.  “Excellent!  But not in these quarters.  No offense to the wounded, but I would like to see my own bedroll again, even if it is just a blanket on stone.”  Gimli offered a short bow in my direction.  “It has been an honor, young lady.”  He turns and strides towards the door before I even have a chance to blush scarlet. 

Lord Aragorn watches him go with a wry smile on his graven features.  He offers me a courteous nod, and I hurry to curtsey.  “Your brother should be fine, given time to recuperate.  Make sure that he gets plenty of rest and does not try to use that arm for at least two weeks.”  I stare at this man—this warrior—who sacrificed his own rest to ease my brother’s suffering.  There are no words for this kindness, so I merely nod and curtsey again.

And then he is gone.  The infirmary is no less crowded, but healers and attendants alike part ranks to let the lord pass.  One heartbeat passes, and then the ward is back to its noisy, stinking, crowded state of normalcy.  Slowly, I lower myself to sit on the edge of Haela’s cot and brush back his damp hair.  ‘Little warrior,’ Lord Aragorn called him, and so he is now.  I tuck my hand into his.  His palms are torn and blistered.  Soon, he will have calluses of his own.  My brother is changed; I must come to terms with the fact that the little boy who was dragged to the armories never came back.  Still, looking into his sleeping face, I feel hope for the first time since Father died.  I am able to hope because a stranger from a foreign land has shown me what being a warrior truly means.  I have seen that the hand that deals death can also bring healing, and the mouth that utters war cries can also laugh.  ‘Little warrior,’ he called Haela, and I realize now that there are worse things to become.