Healing Hands

Chapter One: Midnight Detour

It was pitch dark, raining, and Eyrell was lost.

She should have reached Archet that evening, but the torrent of rain was making the journey impossible—even Ingol, her hardy Clydesdale horse, was having difficulty picking his way through the harsh conditions. The feeble lamp she brought was no good—its faint orange light barely illuminated ten steps ahead of her on a clear night, and tonight was by no means clear.

"Oh, no, no, no!" she spluttered to herself, rolling up her drenched map and trying to wring out her cloak (which did as much good as one would expect). "How am I to get anywhere like this? I shall freeze to death before morning!"

Ingol slipped in a puddle and though he did not fall, Eyrell pitched forward with a yelp and fell into the mud. The lamp dropped from her wet fingers and even with the howling of the wind, Eyrell could hear the despondent crack made as the lamp finally gave up the ghost, engulfing them in darkness.

Ingol screamed in alarm and, despite her frustration, Eyrell stood up and stroked his nose. "I know it wasn't your fault," she said. "I'm sure we can figure something out."

She looked over at the medicine cart attached to Ingol; luckily, it was intact, and the leather sheet strapped over it still repelled the rain. She began to consider crawling underneath it to stick the night out, but before she had made up her mind, she heard a voice.

"You, there!"

Eyrell turned, scanning her surroundings for the speaker.

"Hello?" she called. "Who's there?"

A figure wrapped in a cloak came into view through the heavy sheets of rain. "Are you lost?" he asked, his coarse voice raised to fight the rain.

"Yes, I'm afraid I am," Eyrell replied. "Can you help me?"

The stranger nodded and held his hand out to her, offering to help her mount Ingol. After briefly considering him, she accepted his help and allowed him to take Ingol's reins and lead them forward.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"There is a town, not two leagues from where we are standing: Bree."

Eyrell gulped. She had been told that Bree was a shady town, full of questionable people; she had hoped to avoid it, but as there seemed to be no other way, she allowed the stranger to continue leading them on.

Who is he? she wondered. Who else was foolish enough to travel these roads at night in such foul conditions? Besides myself, of course.

She decided she would ask him when they arrived in the town, as it would be too much trouble to try talking over the rain.

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She only realized she had fallen asleep when she awoke to the stranger gently shaking her.

"We're here," he said as he helped her down.

She opened her mouth to thank him, but a sneeze interrupted her. Another three followed.

"You should go rest at the Prancing Pony," the stranger suggested, pausing to point at a blurry building nearby, from which a warm glow was emanating. "I will take care of your horse and cart."

Eyrell wanted to decline him and say that it was no trouble, but a fit of shivers overtook her and she nodded resignedly, grabbed her bag, and began to wobble towards the inn.

When she walked in, she was relieved to feel a significant change in temperature; it was warm and dry, and the smell of roast beef and potatoes made her mouth water. She stepped up to the counter, where a large man with red cheeks and sparkling eyes met her.

"Good evening, ma'am," he rumbled. "You look like you need a warm bed to sleep in and some warm food in you!"

Eyrell nodded and fumbled in her bag for her money; luckily, she had enough gold for at least a few nights' stay, which she handed to the innkeeper.

"Very good!" he said, handing her a small iron key. "Your room is upstairs, first on the left. If you like, I can have some food brought up to you. My name is Barliman Butterbur—just call if you need anything and I'll make sure you get it."

"Th-thank you very much," Eyrell replied, her shivers making her stutter. "I can h-have it down here. Just g-give me a m-moment."

After that, she wandered up to her room, where the first thing she did was wash her mud-caked face and change into fresh clothes. Then she treated the scrapes on her arms and took some medicine for the cold she was developing. She didn't bother with her hair, which was snarled with enough sticks, leaves, and clumps of mud to make a whole bird's nest with; when her curls became tangled, fixing them meant fighting a brutal battle.

Afterward, she went downstairs, where she caught sight of the stranger who had helped her sitting at a table in the darkest corner, smoking his pipe. She walked over and sat beside him.

"Thank you for helping me," she said.

His face was concealed by a dark green hood, but his eyes glinted beneath it as he scrutinized her. "It was no trouble," he answered, his voice husky and quiet.

"Are you all right?" Eyrell continued. "I nearly caught a cold in that weather, and I was wondering if you're experiencing any of the symptoms; I have some medicine that can help and much experience."

His head tilted back slightly, and his voice held a trace of amusement when he said, "I am used to such conditions. Are you a healer?"

Eyrell nodded. "From Rohan."

"What brings you such a long way from home?" he asked.

"The supplies are running low back home, and our soldiers are busy with the growing war. I was the only one they could spare."

The stranger nodded, and Eyrell ventured to ask him what his business was.

"I am waiting for someone."

The tone in his voice made Eyrell think he did not want more questions asked. "I see," she said. "Well, I wish you luck in finding them. My name is Eyrell, by the way."

"You may call me Strider," the man said.

Eyrell nodded and thanked him again for his assistance; then she left him. She was quite exhausted from her journey, so she had a quick but delicious meal of beef stew and honeyed mead before going to bed.

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