#idhrien

“Dragons hunt at night at this time of year,” Idhrien told Celairant in a low voice. The Dunlendings crouched in the brush a safe distance away probably couldn’t hear her unless she shouted, but she had little wish to invite more taunts than absolutely necessary. “They mate in the spring and hunt during the day to feed their young, but by now last year’s clutch is old enough to hunt by starlight.”

She didn’t say, Unless they still have runts. She didn’t say, Unless the Dragon-clan knows more about dragons than a healer from the north, and know what they’re doing setting us out here at barely noon.

With shaking hands he had put back his own hair in preparation. Idhrien and Mandan would need to see to him. He knew full well the back and sides of his neck would need attention, knew and trusted both healers, but had long been his own healer. He had seen to his own wounds in Forochel, and on patrol. He had no aversion to healers, and would gladly--

Lothrandir pressed a hand to his face. Not gladly. With much reluctance. It is not easy to ask, less so to sit still.

The Wizard could not surprise him with things he himself already admitted, fears he already named. It was one less weapon in Saruman's sheath. Quite easier to scoff and say it was old news once he'd been forced to face it in the quiet. In the dark.

"I know them," he whispered to himself, "I don't fear them. I love them both dearly. ...I swore to Halbarad I'd behave." This last did little to lighten the heavy air, but he felt something better for it. He ought to be fine. They had seen other injured- other tortured- Rangers before him. Dealt with wounds and skittish patients every day. He would be brave, and in bravery still heed those who cared for him.

It was a few minutes more until Idhrien and Mandan came. Idhrien held a lantern aloft and- minus a bruise across her nose almost healed and almost just like his own- looked the same as he'd last seen her. Mandan looked as he always did: as if he'd just crawled out of a thornbush.

"Lothrandir." Idhrien greeted him warmly. He could see her face well enough and she smiled. Well, it was much more a Ranger's grimace than anything else. That put him more at ease than he thought possible.

"You haven't aggravated anything, have you?" And Mandan was as prickly as ever.

Lothrandir shook his head. Idhrien didn't bother to shoot her colleague a dark look but simply carried on. She brought the lantern to the cot and lifted up the spare board from underneath it. This she laid across the slats and set her lantern on. It would service in want of a table.

"Mandan has your salves, and I will hold the needle tonight." She explained it to him calmly, without any appeasement or parental overtones which healers sometimes took. Not coddled, not patronized. It was going better than expected, though with the worst yet to come.

Mandan started removing his own cloak. "You'll need to shed that tunic. I can already see blood through it."

Lothrandir hesitated. The blood betrayed the story he did not want to tell. Mandan didn't seem to notice, and came around in front of him with the cloak outstretched.

"Shivering does make it worse, for you and for us. You can wrap this around anything but your back." Lothrandir looked up. Mandan's normally hooded and placid eyes were alight with something that scared and comforted him. "But if Halbarad's measure is right, we won't be too long in our work."

He took the cloak and set it on his lap before taking a breath. In as quick a motion as he could muster, he pulled the tunic over his head and let it drop to the cot beside him. The wounds on his torso were fewer, and he made no attempt to hide the hasty bandaging from Mandan before he curled his arms into the borrowed cloak. It was still warm.

"Thank you." He said softly. Mandan nodded and returned to Idhrien's side.

Idhrien, for her part, hadn't begun her work without warning. Now that Lothrandir had been made as comfortable as he might, she began to look him over.

"I don't have to tell you how bad it is." There was no gentle rise in her tone to indicate any kind of contradiction or inclination to do so anyway. Lothrandir did not know her well, but he had always liked Idhrien. They had met- and Mandan as well, he recalled- the last time he ventured this southern road. They were both odd, and both sensible in their work.

He could hear the rustling of bottles and fabric and a quiet lament of Mandan's. The words were low, but part of it was a curse on the Falcon clan. He knew now Mandan had not been victim of the caves but part of Saeradan's scouting party. It seemed his stores suffered now. Whether from plunder or need, Lothrandir wasn't so sure.

"We'll clean everything first." Idhrien spoke up again. "We brought clean water and Aragorn has his own supply of athelas we might call upon." In a smaller voice she continued, "I am glad you are back with us as much as him."

None of them gave color to those darker possibilities which almost were. Lothrandir simply nodded. His heart was in his throat, and he brought his cloaked hands up near to his chin. He made to lean on them, but something pulled in his side. Wincing, Lothrandir sat up straighter.

"If the cot is disagreeable, the floor is not much better an option." Mandan, having seen his discomfort, interjected. Lothrandir heard something like a cough, and the dour healer amended. "It is workable. Better, though not much, if that would soothe you at all."

"They are not so fresh." Lothrandir said. He leaned forward again, resting his chin on his hands, and tried to find the least painful posture. "The lash-master did not waver in his work, but the wounding is worse than the mending."

He could practically hear them exchange a glance.

"Even so, our job is to heal you and not wound further." Idhrien sounded a little closer now. "We're going to start on your mending now, in fact." She placed a slightly wet hand on his shoulder, presumably soaked with water. The salve would come after, and it would sting.

"And we will prove this lash-master's 'work' poorer than our own." Mandan uncorked something loudly, and Lothrandir wondered what sort of spirits the Rohirrim offered their patients.

Idhrien actually chuckled at his antics. Long-used to them, she would know his moods better than Lothrandir. It seemed both healers were in good humor, and that as much as anything else lifted a weight from his shoulders. They were not treating him like a thing of glass, like an ornament or delicately threaded lace. No finery, but still, somehow, a precious thing.

"Will they scar?" It was out of his mouth before he gave it thought. Lothrandir pressed his lips tightly together and listened to the silence that descended on the tent. He wasn't sure if it was extended by reticence on Mandan's part, or a smothering glare on Idhrien's.

"They can try."

Something in his chest uncoiled. Melted, even, right off his ribcage and down his sides. Such a small declaration.