The night air was crisp and cool, the moon had just begun its side of the dance and shed its light on the sleepy city. The last bit of heat wafted from the bricks on the street and the sound of the river nearby was the music that the city faded to. A few bodies rushed out of a tavern, heading home to their loved ones, and a few held back, chatting aimlessly in the street, uncaring for the lateness of the hour.
One figure walked out of the tavern and headed out into the darkened streets. The lanterns had been previously lit, to provide light to those going home, or to cast ominous shadows for those less than sober… but for the figure walking along the streets, he walked with a careful gait of who was used to nights of drinking and gambling.
Ungoránë smirked to himself, humming a quiet marching tune. His luck at the tables that night was in his favor. The bag of gold at his hip had a heavy, comforting weight as he walked. He turned up a few more streets and began to think on the long journey ahead of him. His attention was diverted when he noticed a pretty lass on the bridge ahead of him, leaning heavily on the wall. He glanced away and turned his thoughts back to his return trip to Minas Tirith. He would be leading a company of recruits north, and he was looking forward to a restful night of sleep. He stopped. The lass was attempting to climb up onto the wall. He thought she must be drunk.
“Hey, don’t climb there.” Ungoránë yelled at her. She ignored him and he started to quickly move towards her, “That’s not a place you should be!” The lass leaned forward slightly and then tumbled over the edge and into the river! Pure reflexes took him running to where she fell, but in the dark, he could barely see her and thought he caught sight of her clothes within the dark water.
“Pechannas!” He growled as he kicked off his boots and climbed up onto the stonewall, eying the current quickly. There! He dove in and realized his mistake immediately. The icy water struck him like a blade, forcing the air from his lungs as he plunged beneath the surface. He sank like a stone as he was still wearing his chainmail, forgetting it in the habit of always wearing it. It was a part of him. And now, it would most likely be his death.
Thinking fast, he spun under water, head down. The mail moved towards his neck. He only had one try to get this right. He quickly twisted his head to the left and yanked hard with his arms, flailing in the attempt to remove the mail. It worked. He was free of it!
He kicked, attempting to orientate himself in the dark, swift moving water. He swam away from the lights of the bridge behind him, looking forward, moving with the current. Suddenly, something hit his face, and he swung an arm out towards it. A leg. He gripped it tightly, hoping that he was in time and started to pull her towards the surface.
Without warning, she kicked, knocking him in the face and he lost the grip he had on her leg. He surfaced quickly, gasping for air and dove again, easily finding her and wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her towards the surface. She kicked and flailed, she must be terrified. He grunted as her knees connected with his stomach. Over along the side of the river, he spied a dock and pulled her now prone body towards it.
Someone shouted in shock when they surfaced, and hands reached down, grabbing at them and pulling them ashore. Ungoránë shivered as the cold air bit into his wet skin, but he barely noticed it. His eyes were locked on the girl lying limp on the ground. Without hesitation, he pushed through the small crowd of men that had gathered, parting them roughly as he moved to her side. Her face was pale–too pale–and he leaned towards her, tilting his head close to hers. He listened intently, but he could not hear anything, nor did he feel her wind. No faint whisper of breath, no rise and fall of her chest.
He thought quickly, trying to recall the training he’d received in Minas Tirith. Something about breath–the breath of life, they called it. He felt insecure suddenly. All his life, he’d avoided dealing with girls, kept his distance, and now he was here, trying to save one. And she lay there still and lifeless, as if she already belonged to the void.
He took a deep breath and bent down, pressing his lips to hers. The act felt foreign and wrong under the circumstances, but he pushed the thought aside and exhaled, willing her lungs to fill. Nothing. Her cheeks puffed out with the effort. Still, there was no response. Was he doing something wrong?
Hurriedly, his eyes roved over her, searching for something–anything–that might explain why she wasn’t breathing. That’s when he noticed it. Her shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing her stomach, and beneath it, there was another piece of cloth, tightly wrapped around her waist. It wasn’t part of her shirt–it was something else. Reaching out with trembling hands, he tried to untangle it, but the knot was tight. His fingers fumbled awkwardly against her skin, the contact making him feel uncomfortably out of place, but he pressed on.
He cursed loudly when his second attempt failed, the belt was too tight! Her lips were starting to turn blue, and he felt a rising dread he couldn’t ignore. Someone nearby handed him a knife, and he grabbed it without hesitation, slicing through the cloth with a quick, rough motion. The tight belt fell away, and he tossed it aside before bending back over her.
He sealed his lips over hers again and exhaled forcefully, once, twice, three times. This time, her chest rose with each breath. A moment later, her body jolted violently, and she let out a loud, ragged cough, water spraying from her mouth and hitting him squarely in the face.
He sat down heavily beside her, his body beginning to shake uncontrollably from the cold. Her body trembled as well, wracked with violent coughs as she struggled to draw air into her lungs. Her gasps were ragged, desperate, and though her breathing was evening out little by little.
“Move back!” he barked, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the small crowd that had started to press in around them. The onlookers hesitated for a moment, their curiosity holding them in place before they finally stepped back under the weight of his glare. He leaned closer to her briefly, listening to the labored rasp of her breaths. They were uneven, but she was breathing, and for now, that was enough.
Rising to his feet, he moved quickly, scooping her up in one fluid motion. She was alarmingly light, even with her clothes and hair soaked through, her body like a fragile shell in his arms. He shifted her carefully, cradling her close so her head rested against his shoulder. Her damp hair clung to his skin, and he could feel the chill radiating from her, a stark reminder of how close she had come to slipping away.
“Healer! Quickly!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the quiet hum of the riverside and the murmured voices of the gathered crowd. He glanced around, his eyes darting over the faces of those standing nearby, searching for anyone who might take action. Her body remained limp in his arms. Her dead weight barely felt like anything.
The crowd parted quickly, murmurs of concern and curiosity rippling through them. Someone stepped forward and pointed down the street, giving him hurried directions to the healer’s house. Ungoránë began moving, his steps quick and purposeful, though his body protested with shivers that shook him. The night air wrapped around him like an icy grip, biting at his wet clothes and skin. Her body trembled in his arms, her soaked clothing clinging to her thin frame. He could feel her cold seeping into him, like holding a block of ice against his chest.
His bare feet slapped against the cobblestones, the sharp chill of the stones making him wince with every step. Suddenly, her body jolted violently, her head lifting as her eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused. Her gaze darted around wildly before landing on his face. Recognition didn’t seem to reach her; instead, panic flared in her expression.
A piercing shriek tore from her throat, and her arm shot out, her clenched fist narrowly missing his jaw. Ungoránë instinctively shifted her weight, gripping her arm tightly to keep it from flailing again. He pressed her other arm against him, pinning it between their bodies to prevent her from striking at him further. Her struggles were frantic, and though her strength was little, each movement drained his own already-waning energy. She twisted and pulled against his hold, her body shuddering with effort, but he held her firmly, his grip unyielding.
Gradually, her fight began to wane. Her wild thrashing slowed, and the shrieks gave way to gut-wrenching sobs that wracked her body. Ungoránë kept moving, his pace unwavering as he followed the directions he’d been given, his heart pounding with urgency. Her cries softened into weaker whimpers as they turned down another street, her strength seemingly draining with every passing moment.
He glanced down at her as he felt her body go slack in his arms. For a horrible moment, he thought she had stopped breathing, and fear shot through him like a bolt. He paused briefly, his steps faltering, but then he saw the faint rise and fall of her chest. Relief flooded him, but it was fleeting—her skin felt colder now, like the icy wind itself had seeped into her bones.
He pulled her closer, trying to shield her from the night air as he quickened his pace, the healer’s house now just a few streets away. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he refused to slow down. She was alive—for now—and he intended to keep it that way.
The next street revealed the healing houses, their tall, modest structures looming ahead, illuminated faintly by the flickering glow of lanterns. Relief surged through Ungoránë, though he didn’t allow himself to slow. His pace quickened instead, breaking into a jog despite the cold biting at his limbs and the exhaustion pulling at his strength. The girl in his arms felt weightless, almost as if she weren’t there at all.
Reaching the closest door, he shifted her carefully, cradling her against his chest with one arm as he raised the other to pound against the heavy wood. His fist struck loudly, the sound echoing into the quiet of the night.
No response came. The door remained stubbornly closed, the silence behind it deafening. His patience was thin, his worry thick and pressing, and he grumbled under his breath as he shifted her again. She slumped against him, her head lolling to the side, her cold breath barely brushing his neck. He glanced down at the girl, his jaw tightening at her pale, slack face. Her breathing was there, but faint, and each ragged rise and fall of her chest seemed weaker than the last.
The door creaked open just a crack, revealing the stern, weathered face of an older woman peering out at them. Her expression was a mixture of irritation and exhaustion, deep lines etched around her mouth and eyes. “I hope you realize it’s the middle of the night,” she growled, her tone sharp and unforgiving, as if she’d been roused from a deep sleep and wasn’t happy about it.
Ungoránë met her gaze, his own weariness and frustration evident in his features. The shivers that wracked his body were visible, his breath coming out in short, sharp clouds. Yet, his voice carried an edge of defiance as he replied, “And I hope you don’t want the city to hear about people dying on your doorstep while you complain about the light.”
The woman’s sharp eyes darted over him, lingering on the insignia on his damp uniform before flicking to the girl in his arms. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing about the state of them, both dripping wet and shivering violently. She threw open the door wide, the warmth of the room spilling out into the cold night air.
“Come in, quick. Both of you, inside,” she said briskly, stepping aside and waving them forward. Her voice carried a tone of irritation, but her movements were purposeful as she gestured toward a room down the hall. “Through there. Put her on the bed before you both catch your deaths.”
The woman moved quickly, faster than her age gave her credit for, she pulled a curtain closed around the bed as Ungoránë gently placed the girl down. He glanced at her pale face; suddenly nervous for this girl he did not know.
He was pushed outside of the curtain and he gave a grunt of protest, “Hey!”
Her tone left no room for argument as she barked, “I’m changing her out of those wet rags. Unless you want to do it yourself, you can wait out here!” she pulled the curtain shut with a snap of her wrists.
He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, before turning away from the curtained bed. He paced a few steps, his thoughts restless, his body still cold and aching despite the warmth of the room. Sooner than he thought, the old woman pushed through the curtain with a rustle, carrying a bundle of wet clothing. She walked briskly to a bin near the corner and dumped the sodden garments inside with a grim expression.
“Well,” she said, glancing at him, her voice softening slightly. “You look a bit better than the wee girl. Poor thing.” She tsk’d under her breath, shaking her head as she turned back toward him. “Let me grab you a change of clothes before you drop from that chill.”
Ungoránë nodded mutely. He watched as she crossed the room to a large wooden cabinet and rifled through it with quick, practiced movements. A moment later, she turned back, holding out a neatly folded set of garments. She gave him a quick once-over, her sharp gaze calculating, before thrusting them into his hands. “These should fit you well enough. Go change over there—” she motioned to a small alcove with a curtain draped to one side—“just pull the curtain ’round for some privacy.”
He paused, clutching the dry clothes awkwardly to his chest, and cleared his throat, hesitating before asking, “‘E… is she doin’ alright?”
The old woman glanced back at him, her stern expression softening just slightly, though her tone remained matter-of-fact. “I won’t know until I wake the doctor,” she said with a tired sigh. “You both look like you’ve been dragged through the depths of the river. You’ll need something warm soon enough.” She moved toward the bed, pulling back the curtain that shielded the girl from view. Her practiced hands checked her over, her movements efficient and deliberate.
“Go change, boy,” she added without looking up, waving a hand to shoo him toward the alcove. “Get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.” Without waiting for his response, she turned her attention fully to the girl, her sharp eyes scanning her pale, fragile form before she muttered something under her breath and bustled out of the room, presumably to find the doctor.
Ungoránë retreated into the small alcove. He worked quickly, peeling off his soaked clothes and replacing them with the dry ones she had given him. They were rough and a little too loose, but they were warm, and that was all that mattered. He bundled his wet clothes into a pile and set them aside on a nearby bench, his movements sluggish as fatigue began to claw its way through him.
Finally, he sat down, his elbows resting heavily on his knees, and let his head droop forward. The adrenaline that had kept him upright and moving was fading fast, His damp hair clung to his forehead, and his hands hung loosely between his knees as his breathing slowed. His eyes grew heavy…
A piercing scream shattered the stillness, jolting Ungoránë awake. He surged to his feet, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword that wasn’t there, his body reacting to the shout before his mind caught up. His heart pounded, and it took him a disoriented second to remember where he was—the healing house. The scream came again, high and frantic, echoing through the hall like the wail of a Wight.
He turned toward the sound to see a flurry of movement. A few nurses rushed in from adjoining rooms, converging on the girl’s bed. She was thrashing violently, her body arching as though trying to escape invisible chains, her screams cutting through the air with raw, unfiltered terror. Ungoránë pushed forward, weaving past the bustling nurses, his height allowing him to see over their heads.
The doctor was at her bedside, struggling to hold her flailing arms. Her wide, wild eyes darted around the room, unfocused and filled with a primal fear that made her seem more animal than human. She twisted and kicked, her movements frantic and uncoordinated as though she was fighting off unseen attackers.
“Hold her!” the doctor barked, but even as he said it, his grip slipped. He shifted one hand from her arm to point toward something—a nurse or perhaps a restraint—but that brief lapse was all she needed. With a sudden burst of desperate energy, she wrenched herself free and launched off the bed, her body moving with sheer instinct.
“Stop her!” one of the nurses cried, but Ungoránë was already moving, his muscles coiled as he prepared to intercept her. He sidestepped quickly and caught her as she bolted past, his arms wrapping firmly around her flailing ones. Her strength, though fueled by terror, was no match for his steady grip, but she thrashed wildly, her movements desperate and uncoordinated.
“We’re trying to help you!” he grunted, wincing as the heel of her foot connected sharply with the top of his own. She twisted and kicked, her panicked cries ringing out in the small room. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, her mind seemingly trapped in a place far from the present.
“Please, p-please don’t h-hurt me!” she gasped, her voice breaking as her struggles began to slow. The words, so raw and desperate, “Don’t hurt me… p-please… d-don’t hurt me…” Her strength ebbed, her body sagging against his encircling arms, trembling violently.
He held her firmly but gently, his grip relaxing slightly as her fight gave way to exhaustion. She collapsed fully against him, her head resting against his chest, her breaths coming in heaving sobs.
The nurses, quick to act, moved in and carefully pried her from his grasp, murmuring soft reassurances as they carried her back to the bed. She didn’t resist this time, her body limp as they laid her down.
Ungoránë stood back as he watched her. She lay curled on the bed, her shoulders shaking with quiet, ragged sobs. The nurses adjusted the blankets around her, their voices low and soothing. Gradually, her sobs faded, her body stilling as she drifted back into a restless sleep, her face still etched with the remnants of her fear.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, glancing toward the doctor, who was shaking his head and muttering to a nurse. He took a step back, his arms falling to his sides, feeling the lingering ache of her struggle.
The doctor returned with a small cup in hand, his expression tight with concentration. He handed it to a nearby nurse, who stepped forward without hesitation. Gently, the nurse cradled the girl’s head, tilting it back as she carefully brought the cup to her lips.
“Easy now,” the nurse murmured, her voice soft and steady as she tipped the cup just enough to let the liquid flow into the girl’s mouth. The girl gurgled weakly, her body momentarily resistant, but then her reflexes took over. Her throat worked, swallowing the bitter medicine despite her unconscious state.
The nurse eased her head back down onto the pillow, brushing a few stray strands of damp hair away from her face. “That should help settle her,” the nurse said quietly, glancing toward the doctor, who gave a curt nod.
The haunting sound of the girl’s screams still seemed to echo around the room. For a moment, the curtained room felt unbearably small, the weight of her suffering pressing down like a physical force.
The doctor rubbed the back of his head, his brows furrowed, before turning to Ungoránë with a scrutinizing gaze. His eyes flicked over the soldier, taking in the soaked clothes he’d discarded moments earlier and the tension still radiating from his frame. “That should help her rest,” the doctor said slowly, his tone tinged with both weariness and curiosity. “But… how do you know this poor creature?”
Ungoránë straightened, caught off guard by the question, “Pechannas. I had the misfortune of seeing her fall off the bridge.”
The doctor’s expression remained unreadable, but his brows knit tighter. “Into the river?” he repeated, skepticism creeping into his voice. “And you just happened to be there?”
Ungoránë’s jaw tightened, and he met the doctor’s gaze squarely, “I had no choice but to dive in after her. We were close to being two corpses in the Anduin and you have the nerve to insinuate I’m the one who harmed her? Do I look like a regular thug to you?” He sneered at the doctor.
The doctor’s eyes softened slightly, though the suspicion didn’t entirely leave them. He looked him over, glancing at his unkempt appearance, and a few weeks’ growth of stubble on his cheek and gave a quiet hum, ignoring what he said.
Glancing back at the girl, now lying still in the bed, her breathing shallow but steady, he muttered a “Hmph,” and then rubbed his chin. “She’s lucky you were there. That jump could’ve killed her outright. She is not well from what I could examine before she… awoke. She’s alive, for now. But she’ll need more than a cup of medicine to heal from whatever brought her to that bridge in the first place.”
Ungoránë didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as his gaze lingered on the girl, her fragile form swallowed by the blankets. He barely noticed the nurses filtering out of the room until the old woman’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“You look like death warmed over,” she said bluntly, her sharp eyes narrowing as she paced toward him.
He grunted, unwilling to acknowledge her remark, and turned his head to avoid her piercing gaze. She didn’t wait for a response, grabbing his arm and tugging him with surprising strength toward one of the empty beds along the wall.
“You can sleep here for the night,” she added firmly, gesturing to the bed as she released him. “No use in you wandering off into the cold when we’re more than able to house you here. Unless, of course, you enjoy freezing to death?”
Ungoránë huffed but didn’t argue. The truth was, his legs felt like lead, his body shivering from the lingering dampness of the river and the night air. Reluctantly, he eased down onto the bed, the thin mattress creaking slightly under his weight. Sleep clawed at his eyes, tempting him with its sweet promise. He barely noticed the old woman approach until her voice broke the silence.
“Drink this,” she said briskly, holding out a small clay cup. “It’ll help you sleep deeply.”
He took the cup, the bitter scent of herbs wafting up to meet him. Without hesitation, he tipped it back and swallowed the thick, unpleasant liquid in one go. It coated his throat, leaving a sharp aftertaste that made him grimace. He handed the empty cup back with a muttered, “Thank you.”
The woman huffed, her sharp eyes softening just a fraction. “You’ll be out before you know it,” she said, taking the cup and shuffling back toward the table. The doctor appeared beside him, a quiet presence in the dimly lit room. He placed a firm hand on Ungoránë’s back, a silent acknowledgment of the night’s events, before giving him a small nod, before simply stating, “You did good tonight.” Ungoránë didn’t respond as the doctor moved away from the bed, pulling the curtain partially closed behind him, allowing for a touch of privacy, the other beds in the long room visible still.
Ungoránë wiped at his nose, annoyed at the steady drip that had started while they were all talking. He sniffed quietly, rubbing his sleeve against his face before giving in to the growing weight of exhaustion. He lay back slowly, letting the thin mattress take his weight, the rough fabric of the blanket pulled loosely over him. His eyes traced the uneven ceiling above, the dim light flickering faintly from the lantern on the far wall. The hum of the quiet healing house buzzed faintly in his ears, the tension in his body slowly giving way to the pull of rest. His eyelids closed of their own accord, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as he drifted into sleep…
Ungoránë jolted upright at the sound of shouting, his heart pounding. His eyes darted toward the other bed, where the girl thrashed wildly, shouting incoherently at the phantoms that seemed to haunt her dreams. Her movements were frantic, her arms flailing as if warding off invisible blows, and her cries shifted to whimpers before her body stilled. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her face slick with sweat that made strands of her brown hair cling to her forehead.
His gaze fell to her left hand, which hung limp along the side of the bed. A jagged scar cut across the palm, the gnarled lines extending to some of her fingers, telling of past wounds that had never healed cleanly. The fever was clear in the flushed redness that bloomed across her cheeks, standing out starkly against her pale, damp skin.
Ungoránë instinctively touched his own forehead and winced when his hand met clammy, cold skin. A faint shiver ran through him, and he grumbled under his breath as he tugged the blanket from the foot of his bed over his shoulders. He leaned back slightly, his heavy-lidded eyes not leaving her as her breathing evened out, though her body remained restless.
A young nurse entered the room, her quiet footfalls breaking the stillness. She glanced at the girl and made a soft tsk-ing sound, shaking her head as she approached. “Poor dear,” she murmured. “She’s been tossing and turning for the last hour.” Without waiting for a response, she dipped a cloth into the basin of water by the girl’s bedside and gently placed it on her forehead, dabbing at the sheen of sweat with careful movements before leaving the cool cloth in place.
The nurse turned her attention toward Ungoránë, her sharp gaze narrowing as she neared. “You don’t look very well yourself,” she said, her tone almost scolding. She moved quick, just reaching out, and pressed her hand against his forehead.
Ungoránë flinched slightly at the contact, his discomfort growing as her brow furrowed in concern. “Why, you’re burning up!” she exclaimed.
He pushed her hand away with a gruff motion, muttering, “I’m fine.”
The nurse straightened, fixing him with a disapproving look. “Fine or not, you’re not leaving this bed until that fever comes down, I’ll fetch the doctor.” She said sternly, crossing her arms. Her expression softened as she glanced back at the girl, her voice quieter as she added as she walked away, “Neither of you are going anywhere anytime soon.”
Ungoránë grumbled again as the nurse left the room, her scolding tone still ringing in his ears. He pushed the blanket off his shoulders and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his bare feet on the cold stone floor. With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, only for a sudden wave of dizziness to wash over him like a gust of wind knocking him off balance. He staggered, his hand shooting out to brace against the bedpost, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him.
He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the spinning to stop. The faint pounding in his temples began to subside, and he drew in a slow, steadying breath. He shook his head as if that could banish the lingering fog clouding his mind.
Once the dizziness passed, Ungoránë steadied himself, gripping the side of the bed for a moment longer before releasing it. His gaze flickered to the girl’s bed, where she lay still now, her breaths ragged but even. Satisfied that she wasn’t about to start thrashing again, he turned his focus back to the task at hand. Taking careful steps, he moved toward the door, his stride growing steadier with each step, though a faint tremor still clung to his legs. Whatever his body was fighting off, he refused to let it keep him down.
“Do you think you are leaving?” The doctor’s voice appeared to his left as he gripped Ungoránë’s elbow with a strong hand. “You are sick, you are no good to the defenses, sick and no good to yourself. I also don’t know where you think you’re going without shoes, or your clothes.”
Ungoránë stopped mid-step, glancing down at his bare feet and fever-damped, borrowed clothing. He looked back at the doctor, whose arched eyebrow and firm grip on his elbow left no room for argument. The man’s hand felt like iron, unyielding and steady, as if daring Ungoránë to try to pull away.
Ungoránë opened his mouth to reply but knew this was a battle he had already lost.
“You’re burning up, boy. You’re already staggering around like a drunkard. If you collapse on the streets, that’ll be on my head.” The doctor’s stern expression softened only slightly. “You think you’re helping anyone by pushing yourself into the ground?”
Muttering, Ungoránë moved more willingly towards the bed and sat down heavily. Sleep, he thought, I guess would not hurt.
The doctor leaned in slightly, his voice low but firm. “I’ll be sending a note to your commanding officer whether you like it or not. You’ll stay here until you can leave on your own two feet without keeling over.”
Ungoránë’s shoulders slumped, and he glanced back toward the bed he had just left. He hated the thought of staying longer, of feeling useless while others were out there defending the city. But the look on the doctor’s face was resolute, and deep down, he knew the man was right. There wasn’t much he could do in his current state except rest and recover.
Once the doctor was sure that Ungoránë was settled, he added, “Get some rest, and let us take care of you. I’ll even make sure someone brings you a proper pair of shoes before you go running off again,” the older man added with a smirk. “We’ll see to it that you’re well enough to leave soon, but only when you’re ready. Your body’s been through a shock—don’t make it worse by being stubborn.
Ungoránë shot the doctor a sideways glance but said nothing.
“Your belongings from yesterday are being washed and dried by the aides, so you’ll have them ready once you’re healed.” The older man turned as a nurse entered the room, leaning in to speak to her in hushed tones before she nodded and exited. He turned back and added, “I’ll bring you something to help you rest and clear your head.”
The nurse returned, briefly catching his eye as she approached the doctor. Her expression was neutral but professional as she handed him a small bundle of herbs wrapped in cloth. After a brief, whispered exchange, the nurse left again, her soft footfalls fading down the hall. The doctor turned back to Ungoránë, holding the small bundle. “This will help with your fever and give you a clearer head. I’ll have it steeped for you shortly.” He gave him a pointed look, one that left no room for protest. “Stay put.”
The tea did what it was meant to do, and Ungoránë fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
The next morning, Ungoránë woke with a sore throat, a persistent cough, and a pounding headache that left him grateful he wasn’t on the road to Minas Tirith with a company of fresh recruits. The days passed slowly and uneventful, aside from the occasional visits from younger nurses who seemed charmed by his presence. They fussed over him with bowls of hot soup and gentle attempts to coax him into conversation. Though, once they realized that conversation was not to be had, they brought him books to pass the time, and yet he still found himself growing restless. Boredom was creeping in as he remained confined to the bed. Meanwhile, the girl across the room lingered in her fevered state, slipping in and out of restless dreams. At times, she shouted incoherently or thrashed against unseen forces, and despite the care she received, her condition showed little improvement.