With Hope and Without Hope

Chapter 57: Elves and Men

Legolas tensed when Éowyn entered the infirmary some time before dawn. After eating his fill, he had dozed, but awoke when the weight of the shadow had lifted. He wondered how Gandalf fared.

Once Lady Éowyn sat beside his bed and prepared her supplies, he wished he had not been so eager for her return. It seemed he would not be spared her therapeutic efforts after all, but he made one last attempt. "There are not many wounds that truly need tending, Lady Éowyn," he said, looking down at his torso and longing for a tunic.

He was startled to hear Éowyn's soft laughter. The clear, light tinkle soothed frayed senses within him, but for what could she be laughing? He frowned and decided it was rather inappropriate. "I have said nothing humorous."

Éowyn finally suppressed her laughter and had the good grace to look abashed. "Forgive me, Legolas. I do not demean your injuries in any way. It is only that..." Her mouth quirked. "After so many legends have passed on to us of the unfathomable nature of Elves, you sit here in my infirmary and behave as any of the warriors who come through here. Perhaps they bleed from three places, but they are in need of no aid from the infirmary. They are quite ready to return to their homes, or worse yet, to the battlefield."

Éowyn laughed again, but then became somber. "You have been held prisoner by orcs for uncounted days, and yet you sit here and tell me that your wounds need no tending." Her expression dared him to contradict her. Legolas had no wish to do such a thing. But he was curious to know the result were the Lady Éowyn contradicted—by someone else, naturally.

But did he really wish to learn what Men considered healing? He sighed. If only he were strong and hale, he would have stood beside Gandalf as the wizard faced the Ringwraith. "It is the simple truth that most of my wounds will heal, now that I am able to eat. And I thank you for the meal. It was most appreciated."

"You are most welcome, but food alone will not heal all your wounds, unless you have kept something from me on the healing of Elves. Will your broken bones straighten themselves?"

Legolas looked down to his hand. "What is the customary manner in which you fix broken bones?"

Éowyn looked at him keenly for a long time. "Have you been treated in an infirmary before?" Legolas nodded. "An infirmary of Men?"

The woman was shrewd and had deftly struck at his source of unease. "No," he said with some force.

Éowyn only nodded, then said stiffly, "Perhaps we seem uncivilized to you. Perhaps what we do makes no sense. But I am here to heal you, Legolas. If there is something I must do differently, then you must tell me."

Surprised by her forthrightness, he only nodded.

"Then I shall begin." She lit more candles and began to bathe the many injuries that covered Legolas's torso and arms. All the while, he tolerated the attention, sitting stiff with discomfort from the tenderness of the wounds, the bareness of his body, and the proximity of this peculiar woman.

After too long and too many bandages, she also rebound his ankle and his wrists, where Gandalf had created a makeshift dressing after freeing him of his cuffs. The removal had not been as terrible as he had anticipated, and to be free of the cuffs was still a joy.

Then she began to examine his fingers. They were swollen and purple, bent in various unnatural positions. Éowyn sighed. "How many days have passed since you received this injury?"

Legolas frowned. The moments were lost in a jumble of pain. He shivered and shook his head. "I apologize, but I cannot say."

"Might you suppose one day? Two? Three? More?"