Mildreth would not soon forget the day the stranger came.  She had been sitting in the shade of the wind-snarled oak tree, stripping husks from her small share of this summer’s paltry corn harvest. The green layers lay in a fragrant heap in one of the baskets at her feet. Some she would spread out to dry into brown, rattling papers, to make dolls for the little ones in the village; others would go into medicinal teas. And today, several were destined to wrap a venison haunch as it slow-roasted over her fire, venison that Aelfric, her tenant who lived down the lane with his family, had brought her along with the corn. He was a good man, Aelfric, always generous with the widow who lived to his west, even when, as she suspected was the case this year, the season left him barely enough to feed his own family and horses.

She picked up another of the precious ears.  Rip, riiip…. She let the husks drop into one basket and tossed the golden ear into the other. She would cut the kernels from most of them, drying them for her own soup pot. The stripped cobs and a good measure of whole cobs she would feed to her horse. Nothing would go to waste. She only wished the pile was larger. It had been a dry spring and an even drier summer, and Aelfric had apologized when he brought her allotment, as if the lack of rain were somehow his fault. But that was Aelfric, generous and selfless. She often wished he was her own son, but hers, like their father, had all found their way to their forefathers, killed by fever, battle and misadventure. Aelfric had come the spring after her last surviving son’s death in a late winter blizzard, looking for a place to live with his new wife. Glad to no longer be quite so alone, she let him build a house along her stream and plant crops in part of her pastures in exchange for keeping her in food and tending to her cottage when it needed repair.  Having such a good neighbor made bearing the hardships of life a little easier.  She might be eating thin gruel come spring, but she had riches in plenty with such a friendship.

She raised her eyes from the half-empty baskets and looked to the distance, her hands still stripping the ears as surely as if she were watching every movement. Shucking corn was dull work, so, as she had for the fifty-odd years she had performed such a chore at harvest, she let her gaze roam across the sere fields to the northern horizon and wondered what lay beyond the dark blue line where the sky caressed the brown and buff plains. She’d never been beyond that far line, for there lay strange lands full of dark forests and queer folk. Danger dwelt in those closed-in places where the spirit felt trapped by trees and towering stone mountains, or so her father said. He had told her many tales of Fangorn Forest and of the Northlands that lay beyond, tales told him by his own father who had heard them at his father’s knee, and he from his father before him, and so on back through time and generations beyond count. The Rohirrim had come from those who dwelt in the North in ancient days, but it was too long ago to reckon. Her father had told her of Elves and Men, and of drakes and the legends of the holbytlan, the little hole builders who trilled like birds and lived in burrows in the ground. She smiled at that, as she always did. What if the legends were true! What if there truly were little people that appeared and then vanished at a whim. She smiled. Troublemakers they’d be, no doubt.

A sound not far down the lane caught her ear, the clip clop of a horse moving slowly and erratically along the path that followed the swells and dips of the land before it ended at her door. She glanced at her own horse in the paddock. She was standing, ears pricked, looking toward the path, curious but not alarmed.  Mildreth stood, dropping the corn back onto the pile on the ground, and listened. The as-yet unseen horse had no rider. That much she could tell. The hoof falls were wandering and unhurried. They stopped, then started again, as though the horse followed its own whims while grazing along the edges of the lane.

Her heart skipped a beat. A riderless horse free upon the land--could it be one of the great Mearas, perhaps a horse in the very image of Felaróf himself? She had never seen one, but how she longed to. But they were the horses of kings, and she was but a widow in the Westfold, known to none but Aelfric and his kin and the few folk who came to her for medicines and little dolls. She had a horse—no Rohirrim went without at least one--and beautiful it was, but it was not a fine beast the like of those found in Edoras in the grand stables of Thengel King. Much as she longed to see one, she knew her chances of ever traveling to Edoras were less than seeing the sun rise in the West.

A younger woman might have gone after the horse, but her arthritic bones preferred slower endeavors, so she waited under her tree, patient, and soon the horse came into view.  She had been wrong about a rider. The horse wasbeing ridden, after a fashion.  There was a man draped gracelessly over the horse’s neck, his arms hanging limp and his head resting along the horse’s mane. His long black hair hid his face, and her heart again skipped a beat. Was this a Dunlending, one of the wild Hillmen? But then the wind lifted his hair and she had a glimpse of a face far more fair than any wretched Wild Man’s could ever be, and his clothing and gear had none of the mark of the Dunlendings.  Relieved, she then wondered if he was alive, though surely if he were not, the horse would have long since bucked him off.

The horse was not one of the Mearas, nor even one of Rohan at all, but a shaggy gelding more suited to colder climes. If the summer heat bothered him,  he showed no sign, and in fact, stopped to nibble at the bean plants growing along the fence. That would never do! She needed those beans for her winter stores!  Stiff joints notwithstanding, she hurried forward, clucking her tongue at the odd-looking horse. He raised his head, and, as if relieved to find someone to assist the rider on his back, he let out a friendly neigh and shook his head. Unfortunately, the shake was more than the poor rider could tolerate, and he let out a soft groan and toppled from the saddle to fall in a heap on the ground. That answered the question of whether he lived, at least.

“Here now, don’t step on the poor man,” she said as she grabbed the horse’s bridle. She patted him reassuringly and led him safely away from pitiful huddle on the ground. She tied the reins to the fence, well out of reach of her bean vines, and hurried back to kneel beside the man, who had rolled to his side and curled himself into a ball, his hands clutching at his left leg.  “Can you hear me?”

He stirred, and beneath the dust from the road and the fall of black hair, she beheld in full the fair face she had glimpsed, and saw pale features stained with dirt and blood from a  bandaged wound on his forehead. “You are  no Dunlending,  young man,” she murmured. She laid the back of her hand against one of his flushed cheeks. “Are you ill?”

He mumbled something that sounded like Ic eom cald.

“So you speak our tongue and say you are cold,” she said, keeping to Common in her reply, for he obviously was not Rohirric, and from  his clumsy accent, she was sure he could not be fluent in her language.  “To be cold on such a warm day is not a good thing.”

Indeed, he was shivering with fever, probably from an infected wound. She looked him over from bandaged head to foot and saw when his hands dropped away from his leg another bandage, stained with blood and serum, wrapped tightly around his left thigh.  Likely the infection dwelt there. Or perhaps it was in both wounds, or perhaps one or both were fouled from a poisoned blade. She felt a cold spot bloom in her belly. Her experience with poisoned wounds had produced few good outcomes. None, in fact.  “I pray your hurts are not from orc blades. Come now, wake and tell me.”

His eyes finally opened. They were grey, like the sky at dawn’s first light, before color filled the world. They wandered slowly over the grass and then her knees where she knelt, and finally his pained gaze traveled upward to met hers. He swallowed. “Not orcs. Bandits,” he whispered.

She saw the sword at his belt, and a knife in a small scabbard on the hilt. “You must have fought them off.”

He nodded.

She glanced at the horizon, worried. Dunlendings had never ventured this far through the Gap of Rohan in her day, but there might always be a first time, and it if were local bandits, the threat could be very near. “How long ago?”

He licked his lips. “A… a day?”

From the looks of the dried blood on his bandages, she’d guess it was more like two or three. She relaxed a little. Surely his attackers were nowhere near. “Where did this happen?”

When he didn’t answer, she shrugged to herself. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter, though if there are bandits near our village, the men will want to know.” She touched his shoulder when he didn’t respond. She brushed a knuckle against his cheek. “Young one, can you stay awake?”

He took a gulping breath, as if waking from a deep sleep. He grunted, and she took it to mean yes.

“Can you stand, do you think?” She was strong for her years, but he was very tall. She would never be able to carry him, and dragging him by his heels, bumping along the ground, would do him no favors.

He nodded, blinking, and with her help, sat up.  He pressed a hand against the bandage on his head and sat still for a long moment, his face grey, eyes shut. Just as she thought he might topple over and need to be dragged after all, he let his hand drop. He braced himself against the ground and pulled his good leg beneath him and, with her hand under his arm steadying him, groaned his way to his feet, hopping a little as he kept most of his weight off the left leg.  Standing, she saw he was even taller than she had initially thought. Even with his knees nearly buckling and his head bowed, her head barely reached his armpit. She threw her arm around his waist and helped him hobble into the house. She more or less dumped him onto her bed, where he lay draped sideways across it, unmoving. Alarmed, she laid a hand against his neck. A strong beat pulsed beneath her fingers. He had merely swooned, and no wonder, given his condition.

She set to work pulling off his travel-stained boots. Like the rest of his clothes, they fitted him well and were of high quality, but their style was simple and unadorned and told her nothing of his origins. She swung both his legs onto the bed and then tugged his arm to get his shoulders turned and up against the pillow.  She turned her attention to the bandage on his left thigh. She tried to peek beneath it, but it had stuck to the wound. It would need warm water to loosen. She unbuckled his belt and carefully tugged it away from him, hanging it along with his sword on the  chair by the bed. Then she unlaced his tunic and freed it from his trousers and pulled both arms from the sleeves. The shirt was stained with dried blood around the collar, but his torso, though marked with a few old scars, seemed untouched from his recent struggles. That at least was a blessing. She would not have to deal with wounds to his gut or lungs. Healing skills she might possess, but few could stop a man from dying of such horrid injuries.

His arms, too, were unscathed. Long they were, lean and muscular, the right slightly bigger than the left, the sign of a right-handed swordsman even if the scabbard that had hung from his left hip had not already told her as much.  She gentled the tunic over his head, mindful of the bandage there. It too would need loosened and changed.  He had remained silent through all the jostling, but as she leaned  over him to more closely examine the bandage, he suddenly flinched, his hand reaching toward his waist but finding no sword. His eyes flew open.

“Peace, my friend. No need for panic. I mean you no harm.”

He stared at her, unblinking, before he finally relaxed. “I am sorry. I… I did not know where I was.”

“You are safe, is where you are. I am Mildreth.”

“I am…Thorongil.”

She wondered at the hesitation. It could have been from pain, but she had the distinct impression that Thorongil was not his true name. She glanced at his sword hanging on the back of the chair, but she asked no questions. He did not seem dangerous, exactly, but what man sick from wounds did? She would tend him, but be cautious about it. “I must get water. Your wounds need cleaning. Are you hungry?”

He made a face and shook his head.

“Still, I will make some broth. You will need it to regain your strength.”

“Please… just some water…”

She frowned, but nodded. “Water, then, for now.” She poured a cupful from the pitcher that she kept on a small stand beside the bed. She handed it to him, but his hands were trembling so badly that more water would end up on the bed than in his mouth.  She pulled it away. “Tsk, let me.” She slid a hand behind his head, hoping he wouldn’t notice her blush as she felt his dark hair slide over her hand. It felt like silk, like her husband’s had felt.  How many years had passed since she touched a man who wasn’t her child….

Mildreth!she chided herself. By Bema’s own steed, this was no time for such wanton thoughts, and at her age! She buried the ridiculous longing and lifted his head as she held the cup to his lips. He drank too greedily at first and choked, but then he sipped more slowly until the cup was drained. She lowered his head back to the pillow and used the hem of her apron to wipe the dribbles from his chin. His scant growth of beard scratched against the soft cloth, and she wondered if he was younger than she first reckoned.  She’d always prided herself on guessing men’s ages, but it was impossible to tell, with this one.

Realizing she was staring too long at him, she hurried away to get the water heating. As she waited, she thought again of her husband.  Fourteen summers had passed since he had gone to his fathers. Long, lonely years, most of them, though for a while her sons had kept her busy and happy enough. But one by one, they too had passed, and now she had no one with whom to share the daily joys and sorrows of life, save Aelfric and his wife, Elwynna. Most days she did not mind being alone, but this strange man had somehow managed to wrench open the door she kept on that dark emptiness. She blinked a few times, then shook herself.  Foolish old woman.

He was asleep again when she returned with a bowl of warm water and a cloth. It was probably just as well, for removing the bandages would be painful. She dreaded to think what she might find beneath the one on his leg. And there was the matter of what to do with his breeches. The left pantleg was slashed and stiff with blood, but she thought it might be repaired. The right was completely undamaged. She hated to cut them to get them off. He didn’t look to be a man of means, and they might be his only pair. Nothing for it then but to pull them off and hope he felt no shame in it. A Rohirric man would not think twice, but who knows what rules governed this man’s culture. “Be not embarrassed,” she said, then untied the drawstring and eased them down from his waist, careful not to disturb his small clothes, which seemed clean and free from any bloodstain.  His legs were every bit as muscular as his arms, and long! She had never seen anyone with such long legs. Her husband she had accounted as tall, but he would have come only to this man’s shoulders.

The breeches finally off, she laid them aside for cleaning and mending.  She could delay no more. The wound must be dealt with. She took a deep breath. She raised his knee and braced his foot against the footboard, then thought better of it and instead stuffed a pile of pillows under his calf to raise his leg off the bed.  Using a sharp knife, she cut the knot holding the dressing in place. All the jostling finally woke him.  She patted his arm. “I hope you don’t mind that I had to remove your breeches. That was the only way I could reach your wound.”

He gave her such a blank look that she thought for a moment she had garbled the Common tongue, but he finally nodded and gripped the sides of the bed.

“I will be as gentle as I can.”  Using plenty of water, she slowly and carefully peeled back the layers of blood-stiffened cloth until she had freed the dressing from the wound, which bled sluggishly but not as badly as she feared it might.  Thorongil had remained silent the entire time, though she could feel his body trembling.

“How bad?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Bad enough. There is a little infection, though it will mend. It will need thorough cleaning, and stitching.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, but it will be painful.”

Another nod and the knuckles on the hands gripping the sheets turned white.

“Would you like some spirits first, to dull your senses?”

“No. Please, just… do what you must.”

She  nodded. Whatever else he might be, he was certainly brave. She dampened another cloth and thoroughly cleansed the cut, breaking it open and letting it bleed freely. It was deep, but not all the way to the bone, nor very long. If she could keep the infection from worsening, he should heal with no difficulty. She rinsed and wiped and rinsed again and applied salve, and all the while, Thorongil remained silent, but when at last she plied the needle, he let out a long, snarling groan through clenched teeth. He did not flinch, but by the time she finished he was shaking with pain and gasping. She brushed his hair from his forehead and dried his cold sweat. “There, it is done.”

She continued to stroke his hair until his breathing slowed. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “No need for thanks. Rest, now, and be well.”

His breathing deepened, and his hand fell limp in hers. She laid it by his side, then pulled a blanket over him. She smoothed it over his chest and for a moment left her hands there, feeling the life in him. Though he looked nothing like Leofwine, he reminded her of her oldest son, somehow. Sleeping like that, his face free from pain or artifice, he reminded her of all her children. She lost herself in memories of checking on them in the night, of resting her hand on their chests, of whispering benedictions over them, pleas for their health and their safety. Some might say that their deaths signified that her petitions had gone unanswered, but she knew the harshness of life. Young men rarely lived to see their dotage. It was the women who endured, left behind to manage the loneliness as best they could. She wondered if this young man would survive to see his elder years. From the scars on his body, she had her doubts.

Still… she would do her part to see to it that his life would not end from these particular wounds. She would nurse him to health, and send him on toward whatever destiny lay awaiting him, whether it be a pauper’s grave or a king’s tomb. A little thrill shot through her. A king… now wouldn’t that be something, to die knowing that she had saved a king.

“Silly old woman,” she chuckled. “You have listened to too many tales.”

~~~

She let him sleep for an hour, while she busied herself with tending to the man’s horse, cleaning his breeches so she could mend them later, finishing up the corn, and getting the venison roast onto the cooking fire.  Now finally it was time to change the bandage wrapped around his forehead. She hated waking him, since he was sleeping so peacefully, but she gave his shoulder a little shake. “I’m sorry, but I must have a look at your head wound now.”

He said nothing, but he scooted himself back until he was sitting with his back against the headboard. He started to remove the bandage himself but she stayed his hands. “Let me.”

This bandage came free with little need for water, for the wound on the edge of his hairline was neither deep nor infected. It was more of a bad bruise than a cut, as if the blade had turned just enough at the last moment.  Regardless, she was certain it must have bled copiously, as head wounds were wont to do, and no doubt left him dazed.  She cleaned it and re-bandaged it, then cleaned his face and neck. He leaned his head back and seemed to doze as she worked on him. Since he was so relaxed, she went ahead and cleaned his arms and his chest, then dried him thoroughly with a rough towel. His eyes never opened once, though she knew he was aware, for he lifted his arms and moved slightly as she worked.

When she finished, he took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and gazed warmly at her. “I thank you. It is not often I have someone attend me with such care.”

“How do you feel?”

“Tired and sore, but better. The fever has abated, I think.”

“Good. Then perhaps you can stomach some soup, in a while. And have you clean clothes in your pack?”

He nodded.  She retrieved a shirt and found he had a second pair of breeches after all, just as well made as the damaged ones, though she left them there, for she would no doubt need to change the bandage again.  She was careful to disturb none of his other possessions, though there was little else she could see besides a green cloak.  She handed him his shirt, then left him to put it on himself while she prepared a bowl of soup. It was thin commons, cabbage and onion flavored with salt and pepper and a tiny sliver of smoked venison, but he exclaimed over it as if it were the best meal ever served to Man.

“You’ve a smooth tongue, but it is merely simple soup,” she retorted. Still, she smiled as she seated herself in her rocker. It was nice to receive a compliment, even from someone who might very well be a Wild Man.  Since his breeches were still too damp to mend, she picked up the sewing she had left when darkness fell the night before.  She pulled the needle from the stocking she was darning, then glanced briefly at him before starting. Time to find out just what this man was about. She decided to start slowly, sticking to the attack itself and hopefully working the conversation around to more personal matters. “These men you encountered, how many were there? Were they Wild Men?”

He swallowed his spoonful of soup, then replied, “If by Wild Men you mean Dunlendings, they likely were. They were dark, not light-haired like your people. Two and one; two to waylay me as I rode across a stream that flowed through a copse of trees, and the third to shoot me from those same trees. All three paid for their failure with their lives, though they left their mark despite it.”

He looked so rueful that she could not help but smile. “Their marks are little more than pricks from this needle compared to the ones you must have given them, by all accounts.  Tell me, then, about this stream… you said this happened a day ago?”

He frowned. “It may have been longer. I lay lost to the world for some time, after.”

“If it were two days ago, then I may know the place. It is known for its banditry. Despite Isengard’s watch, there is lawlessness in the empty lands so near the Gap of Rohan. You’re lucky to have come away with only two wounds and all of your possessions.”

He dipped his head once, but said nothing. Modest, then. She was beginning to like this fellow, whoever he was. “The reason I ask… there is a small village near here, less than a league south. Seven or eight families, only, but with the Wild Men so near, the men patrol the area when no King’s éored is about. They would like to hear your story, I’m sure.”

“I will be glad to speak with them.”

“I will send word, then, when Aelfric comes. He is my tenant. He tends the horses and my cottage, and we share the crops. He comes daily to check on me and will be here this evening. He is a good man, like a son to me.”

“Have you none of your own?”

“I had sons, at one time,” she said, and without undue emotion told him of her situation, keeping her eyes on her sewing.

“I am very sorry.”

“It is the way of life. Who am I to question or complain?  They are safe now, and I will see them again someday.”

She glanced up to see a light kindled in his eyes that put to mind the night stars. “You will,” he said, with such surety that she was a little taken aback. She said nothing, but she felt warmed by his words nonetheless. She returned to her darning. “I’ve told you of my life. Now tell me of yours.  What brings you to these lands?”

After a long quiet moment, he said, “A quest for knowledge.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously like a mercenary’s clever dissembling.”

“I am no mercenary, though I intend to offer my sword to your king, if he will have it.”

She sniffed. Mercenaries! Men with no loyalty except to coin. There was no honor to be found in them.   Her opinion of him plummeted. It bothered her to think she may have assisted one, despite his denials, and she started to consider how soon she could cast him from her home without appearing completely heartless. Tomorrow, perhaps, if the fever did not reappear and render him senseless.

He shifted in the bed and let out a soft sigh. “I am no mercenary,” he insisted, but he sounded more weary than defensive. “I will ask for no coin in exchange for my service, other than such food and shelter as are given to any other soldier of the king.  I seek only to honor old alliances between my people and yours, while I tarry here.”

“Your people? Who might they be? I’ve heard nothing lies north but Dunland, drakes and holbytlan, if you believe the tales.  You are no holbytla, nor are you a drake.  And the Dunlendings have never been allies to Rohan.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “I am no Dunlending.”

“Are you Elf-kind, then?”

“No. I am a Man. My people are scattered and few, unknown to any in the south, but we fight the darkness where we find it, just as those do in Rohan and Gondor.”

She waited, but he said no more.  She thought of pressing him further, for his words confused her and left her feeling off kilter, but she suspected it would be useless. Thorongil seemed friendly enough, but there was an air about him of a man who held secrets he dared never revealed. “Well, whoever you or your people are is no concern of mine, I suppose, so long as you’re not planning on murdering me in my sleep.”

“No, my lady. I would never do that.”

Despite her doubts, she believed him. As fierce as he looked, there was a gentleness about him. Something in the eyes. They flashed with pride at times, and anger, but they held kindness as well. And now they held fatigue and no small amount of pain, and those were things easily understood.  She tied a knot in her stitches and cut the thread with her teeth, then went to him and took the empty bowl from him. “I believe you,” she said. “And I also believe you need to rest now. I must see to the animals before night falls. Will you be all right if I leave you for a time?”

He nodded. “I wish only for sleep, so you may pretend that I am not here troubling your days.” His eyes twinkled as he scooted to lay flat on his back.  More quickly than she could have imagined, his breathing deepened and he slept.

~~~

Aelfric knocked on her door and she hurried to open it before he knocked again and woke Thorongil. His eyebrows rose comically as she yanked the door open and immediately put her fingers to her lips for silence.  She glanced back at the bed—Thorongil slept on, undisturbed. She gave Aelfric a gentle push and stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

“Lady Mildreth, who is—”

“Hush! Not here! To the bench.” She led him to her bench in the dark gloaming under the tree and sat, patting the space beside her. “Sit and I will explain.” As he settled himself, she told him about Thorongil.

Aelfric’s scowl grew as he listened, and when she finished, his tone was firm. “I do not think you should harbor this man. How do we know he speaks the truth? From the North, he says, but then so is Dunland, and he has the dark coloring of the Wild Men, that much I saw. Likely it was he who waylaid the others, not the other way around.”

“No. If you were to see him up close, you would know he is no Wild Man, though I too feared it at first. His clothes, his appearance, his way of speaking… no. I sense he tells the truth. You would too, were he awake so you could talk to him.”

“Then let us wake him, and I will decide for myself.” He ignored her protests as he marched down the path and let himself into her home. He stopped at the side of the bed.

“Aelfric, I wish you wouldn’t,” she whispered. “Look there, his fever has returned. He needs rest.”

Indeed, a sheen of perspiration glazed his brow, and even as they watched, his head tossed fitfully upon the pillow. He muttered something too low to make out.

Aelfric pulled back the blanket and took in the bandaged leg. He gave the man’s face a troubled look, then put the blanket back and stepped back outside the cottage. “He does not seem to be a Wild Man, does he. Too tall, for one.”

“And too fair. No Dunlending I’ve ever seen has such noble features.”

He gave her an amused glance. “Are you planning to bed him, then?”

“Aelfric!”

“I tease! Even if you wanted to, he is too lost in his fever.” He ignored her squawk. “He can do you no harm, the shape he is in now. Still, caring for him will be hard on you. I will send Elwynna over to help you tonight.”

He didn’t come out and say that he thought that Mildreth was too old and feeble to nurse a man through the night, but he may as well have. “I am perfectly capable of tending him. I already did the hardest part, cleaning the wounds and stitching him up.”

“Still, with Elwynna with you, what work remains will be halved. He is a large man, and attending to his needs will be hard for you if he cannot walk. Please allow her to come.”

She snorted. “As if you’d listen if I refused. Sometimes I think you forget you’re just my tenant.”

He grinned as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You know I am only looking out for your safety and well-being, as I always do.”

“I suppose,” she grumbled, but her eyes twinkled beneath the scowl. “Go, get your wife. But hold no grudge against me for depriving yourself of her warmth in your bed tonight.”

“Just be sure she keeps out of his,” he laughed as he left.

She chuckled as she returned to Thorongil’s side. He was awake, after a fashion, looking bleary-eyed at the door. “Who…”

“My neighbor, Aelfric. He was convinced you’re a ne’er-do-well, out to slay me in my sleep, but I persuaded him otherwise. In fact, I may have done such a good job at it that he now thinks I’m out to bed you.” He favored her jest with a weak laugh, but the glaze in his eyes troubled her. “How do you feel?”

“Grateful.”

“How neatly you sidestep questions! Tell me, young man, how are you?”

He rubbed his eyes and then his face with both hands. He finally seemed more alert. “Weary and a trifle ill, to be honest, but it will pass. I simply need some sleep.”

“So who’s the healer now! Still, I pray you are right, young man. Sleep, rest and good food are often the best healers.” She poured some water into a cup. “Now drink, so you do not wilt further under the fever’s heat.”

He obediently drained the cup, but instead of settling to sleep as she expected, he sat up against the headboard and looked about her home.  She watched him as he took in the detailed carvings of horse heads along the rafters, the thatched underside of the roof, stained black from of years of cooking fire smoke. She sighed a little. “I remember when my husband built this house, how he danced along those beams as if they were as wide as a ballroom. I was certain he would fall and leave me a widow before we had our first child.”

“He must have been a master craftsman.”

“He could do anything he put his hand to. He cut the trees, hewed the timbers, carved those figures. Then he raised the house with none helping me but me and his brother.  The two of them raised horses for the Lord of the Westmark and sometimes for the King’s Eored.  Not the Mearas, of course. Lesser horses for the soldiers, but great steeds nonetheless. How I loved to look out on our pastures and see them running through the tall grasses! Although those days are behind me, the happy memory of them lingers.  But enough of me; tell me of your horse. I’ve never seen its like.”

“He is typical of our horses in the North. Sturdy, built for endurance more than speed, though he can fly like the wind if needs must. His shaggy coat keeps him warm in winter and cool in summer.”

“Does your horse have a name?”

“Niben,” he said, and he seemed secretly amused.

“It’s a very nice name.”

Another of his soft laughs. “It simply means ‘small’ in our language. My cousin’s young daughter named him the day he was born, caring not that eventually he would grow quite large.”

“Ah, yes. My son once named a runt of a litter of puppies ‘Tiny’. It grew into a beast nearly the size of a bear.”

“Children seem to live only for the moment.” He looked wistful. “There’s no small wisdom in that.”

“Bah. Too much living in the moment means come spring you starve.” She put the cup back on the shelf and then settled into her chair. “But still… they seem not to worryabout the future. There’s the difference. Best not to think so far ahead that you lose heart.”

“Are you always able to live by that creed?”

“Moreso now than when I was young. Life has taught me that no matter the trouble, there’s always a way to get through it. If it’s privation that plagues you, you’ll eventually find food, or you’ll starve. Either way, your problem will be solved.”

He stared at her for a moment, then he laughed. “I will do well to remember that.” He settled back down. His gaze was still merry as he stared at the ceiling, though his lids grew heavy. “Yes, there is much… wisdom… in…”  He fell asleep before he could finish the thought.

~~~

“Goodness, he is a tall one, isn’t he?” Elwynna whispered, then gave her a sly look. “I wonder if he is as long as he is tall.”

“Elwynna! For shame!” But Mildreth couldn’t help but giggle. Oh, if Aelfric could hear them!  Good thing he was a mile down the lane.  She grasped Elwynna’s elbow and pulled her away so their smothered, choking laughter wouldn’t wake him. She glanced back at him to be sure he was still asleep, then whispered, “I’m sure he is!”

Elwynna grinned. “You’re a wicked one, Mildreth!”

“Well, if you can’t speak freely at my age, when can you.  He’s handsome, is he not?”

She sniffed. “If you go for the dark-haired savage sort, I suppose. I prefer Aelfric’s golden hair.”

“As well you should. I can’t have this fellow turning you from your husband, after all.”

“No man could ever turn my head.”

Mildreth gave her an approving smile, but said nothing.

“Is his fever worrisome?”

“Perhaps. It may ease by morning. If it lingers, we may have to open the wound and clean it again. Time will tell.”

“Where is he from, do you think?”

“He claims from the North, and his horse is definitely bred for colder climes than we have here.”

“Maybe he’s an Elf,” she whispered. “Have you looked at his ears?”

“No, I haven’t. It didn’t occur to me. He said he’s a man.” Still, she found herself biting her lip. What if he was an Elf? Goodness, he might wake and put a spell on them!

Elwynna tiptoed to the bed and started to reach for his hair, but jerked back when he sighed and mumbled something.

“What did he say?” Mildreth whispered.

“I don’t know. It sounded like ‘arwen’.”

“I wonder what that means in his tongue?”

He again muttered a string of words.

“’Bandit melted’? What on earth?”

Mildreth shrugged. “Perhaps it is a war cry? Rain fire on his enemies, that sort of thing?”

Elwynna stared at his face. He was smiling, and again he sighed the word arwen. “I do not think it’s a war cry. Maybe it’s his lady’s name.”

“He does look happy about it, whatever he’s dreaming. But here now, check his ears!”

Elwynna used one finger to gently lift a lock of hair away from his ear. “Round. He’s no Elf.”

“Good. One less thing to worry about.”

He sighed again as Elwynna let the hair drop, and this time he reached up and grasped her hand. He muttered something completely incomprehensible and to both women’s shock, turned his head and kissed Elwynna’s hand. Elwynna looked with panic at Mildreth. “What do I do?” she mouthed.

Mildreth waved both hands at her, motioning her to simply continue on. She felt a gale of laughter building in her chest. Elwynna let him hold her hand, but she had to press her free hand against her mouth to stop her laughter. Her eyes started to water. Finally, he dropped her hand and seemed to fall more deeply into sleep.  The two women wasted no time running for the door.  They slipped out and ran to the barn, where they finally let loose howls of laughter.

“We will nottell my husband of this!” Elwynna said once she’d regained control.

“No, best not. I do wish we could ask this young man about it when he wakes up, but we shouldn’t embarrass him.”

They returned to the house, their mirth well concealed, and the rest of the night passed peacefully. Thorongil talked no more in his sleep, and by morning, his fever had broken, though he seemed reluctant to actually awaken. Mildreth shook his shoulder and called his name, but he slept on, his breathing deep and even. His color seemed rosy enough, and as there was no actual fever that either of them could feel, Mildreth simply shrugged and the two ladies got on with the morning chores.  By the time they’d finished with them, including mending Thorongil’s breeches, he still had not wakened.

“I cannot imagine what could be wrong with him that he sleeps so heavily,” Mildreth said, not bothering to keep her voice down.

“Are you sure he has no fever?”

She felt his forehead, then his cheeks, and even ran her hand down along his chest and ribs. “None. He’s cool, but not overly so.”

“Maybe he is simply exhausted.”

“Perhaps.  I think I’ll check his wound.” She pulled the blanket back and carefully lifted the edge of the bandage. She straightened up and looked at Elwynna, then bent back to the leg. “That’s very odd.”

“What? Is it infected?”

“No. If anything, it looks… oh, but that makes no sense.”

“Let me see!” Elwynna leaned down. “Why, beyond the stitching, it looks nearly healed!”

Mildreth peeked under the bandage on his forehead. She sucked in her breath. The bruising had already faded to a pale lavender with the dullest of yellow margins, something that usually takes a week.  Heart hammering, she tossed the blanket back over Thorongil, and they both hurried away from the bed and stood together near the doorway.

Elwynna’s hands found their way into Mildreth’s. “Are you sure he’s not an Elf?” Elwynna whispered. “I hear they do magic, and spells… There is an Elf that lives in the Golden Wood, and they say she is a witch!”

“No. He is no Elf, if the stories be true about their ears.”

“What if those tales are wrong?”

Mildreth had no answer.

“We must get rid of him!”

“Elwynna! Do you propose killing the poor man? All he’s done is fall asleep and heal quickly. That’s hardly grounds for murder!”

“Well, no, but if he is a powerful Elfwitch—”

“Can men be witches?”

“Sorcerer, then. We must put him on his horse and send him away, before he awakens and puts a spell on us both!”

“Oh, Elwynna, you’re letting your imagination run wild!”

“Am I? Have you so quickly forgotten seeing his leg only moments ago?”

Mildreth chewed her lip. Before she could come up with an answer, Thorongil stirred. He stretched both arms over his head and blinked at the stream of early afternoon light streaming across his face. He spotted the two women huddled by the door and smiled, though he looked quizzically at Elwynna. “Good morning, my ladies.”

Mildreth dropped Elwynna’s hands and attempted to compose herself. “It is afternoon, actually. You’ve slept long.”

He looked at the window. “So I see,” he said. He sat up and, after peeking beneath the blankets, hugged them to his waist and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Lady Mildreth, would you happen to have my breeches and my belt?”

“Of course.” She snatched them both from where they lay draped over the back of her chair and stretched her arm out as far as she could to hand them to him. He gave her a puzzled look, but took them with a polite word of thanks. She nodded, then turned quickly and ushered Elwynna out the door. “We’ll leave you to your privacy.”

They waited under the oak tree and it was hardly any time at all before the door opened and Thorongil stepped out. Elwynna gasped a little, and even Mildreth was surprised at just how very tall he seemed, standing finally straight and whole. He smiled and walked over. She was slightly ashamed to be relieved to see he limped heavily.  “Your care has done wonders, Lady Mildreth,” he said, giving her a graceful bow. He held his fist over his heart as he did so. She’d never seen the like but it was quite fetching, she had to admit. Sorcerer he may be, but he did have impeccable manners.

“I think it was more to do with that restful sleep.” She didn’t quite phrase it as a question.

He smiled, but offered no explanation. Instead, he turned his attention to Elwynna. “I am Thorongil,” he said, giving her the same odd bow.

“Elwynna,” she squeaked, managing a clumsy curtsy. She looked ready to bolt for her horse and ride for her home. Mildreth nudged her with an elbow.

Thorongil looked from Elwynna to Mildreth and back, then sighed. “I seem to be frightening you both, though I assure you, I mean no harm. I am grateful beyond words for all you’ve done for me, but I will take my leave and let you get back to your lives. I only ask that you tell me the best way to Edoras from here.”

He seemed so very ordinary then that Midreth felt ashamed of herself.  “Are you sure you cannot stay longer? You still heavily favor that leg. And you haven't broken your fast.”

“After your excellent care, it will give me no real trouble, I’m certain, and I have food in my pack. I wish to be on my way.”

She nodded, and told him the best way to Edoras, down a hidden road that few knew about. He would be bothered no more by bandits.  She and Elwynna watched in silence as he gathered his scant belongings, saddled his horse and climbed up. He moved slowly and carefully, but she somehow knew that had his leg been sound, he would simply have leapt up. He had that sort of grace and strength about him. He gave them another of his odd little bows, then turned his horse south. It wasn't until he had disappeared over a rise that she remembered she had intended to have him talk to the village council about the bandits. Oh well, it was not as if such things were new occurences.

She sighed a little, then glanced at Elwynna. “I wonder what Thengel King will make of Thorongil.”

“I might have said he would do well to clap him in irons and lock him away where he could cast no spells… but my heart tells me that there is only good in him, whatever manner of man he might be.”

Mildreth again had that queer sensation that somehow she had just met a king. But even if he were, he had no realm. A king of nothing, yet noble and proud and kind. “I think your heart speaks true,” she said softly, “and I wish him the best, wherever his road leads.”

She looked to the south, and though he was long beyond sight, she bowed her knee in a curtsey.

~fin~

A/N: I may have stretched Aragorn’s innate healing abilities a little, using the idea that he can send himself in the “sweet forgetfulness of sleep” in order to deeply heal, just as he sent Sam and Frodo into a healing sleep at Cormallen. And though I do like the long, lingering illness fics, this time I played a bit with the idea that, being Númenorean, he's a fast healer.

Regarding my interpretation of “corn” as “maize”, (thanks to Nath for helping me clarify my thoughts): There's always debate over whether or not any American foods (and flowers and any other flora) made it into Middle-earth, and there's also debate over Tolkien's use of the word "corn". Here's my thinking: both tomatoes and potatoes originated in the Americas (the Andes and Peru, respectively) and feature prominently in the stories, and, just like those crops, maize also migrated as a crop to England and Europe with the European explorers (it's been cultivated in southern Europe since the 1500s, far longer, actually, than tomatoes and potatoes, which until the mid-18th century were suspected of being poisonous and so not widely eaten, at least in Britain). Also, there's a reference to the corn being "tall and full" in the Shire, in FOTR. Wheat also can grow tall and be "full" but most of the time, that's a description of a ready-for-picking maize field (unripe wheat heads don't look a whole lot different than ripe ones, whereas ripe ears of corn get visibly large and 'full', when the corn stalk itself is very tall). But even that's rather vague and hardly definitive. So one can argue that he's referring to wheat, based on the European/old English usage of "corn" to refer to wheat, and one could argue that he meant maize, since he wasn't picky about including the only-recent-to-English-diet tomatoes and potatoes, but without being able to ask Tolkien himself, it's an unsolvable riddle. I think there's enough canonical wiggle room based on Tolkien's inclusion of tomatoes and potatoes to include maize as a crop in the Shire that may also have been grown further south in Rohan.

*Ic eom cald, Anglo-Saxon for “I am cold”, from the Tolkien Society website Anglo-Saxon Study Pack, http://www.tolkiensociety.org/ed/study_a_s_1.html