First Aid

A Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction

by Murasaki99

Any LOTR character you recognise belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs. I don't own 'em, I'm just borrowing them for some non-profit fun.

Washing day meant time spent at the shallows of a stream, rinsing the grime from Moro's clothing. It also meant washing the child herself in an attempt to lower the level of dirt clinging to her body. Moro shrieked and giggled in delight as Herumor attempted to bathe her. Stripped to the waist, he knelt by a pool of shallow water warmed by the sun and did his best to clean his daughter. She splashed around merrily, slowing his efforts. Glorfindel lay at ease on the bank of the stream and watched, well out of the way of the water being flung everywhere.

"Moro, you've pollen behind your ears. Your ears!" Herumor scooped up handfuls of water and rinsed Moro's head and face. "And there's enough dirt in your hair and on your back to grow mushrooms. How did you get so much in your shirt?"

"Badger, Papa. Followed the badger. She knows where the pretty flowers are and the shiny stones." Moro laughed as Herumor poured more water on her hair, which began to look less dusty brown and more silver-grey.

"You went down a badger sett. That explains the dirt."

"In Gondolin, there once was a House of the Mole," offered Glorfindel from his position of relative safety. "The people of that House were renowned as miners and workers of fine metal."

"So, was there a House of the Badger?" Herumor asked as he inspected Moro's fingernails and gave up with a mutter of 'it's clean dirt'.

"No, but that is not to say there could not be one." Glorfindel watched as Herumor released Moro. She scrambled up onto the grassy shore, got down on all fours and shook herself off like a dog, sending droplets flying. Herumor soon joined her, plucking his dry under shirt from the heap of his clothing on the ground. As he stretched his arms to put on the shirt, he shuddered and hissed in sudden pain.

Moro watched, her bright eyes suddenly sober. "Papa hurts."

"It is nothing," Herumor soothed her, pulling the shirt on carefully over his shoulders.

"Papa hurts," said Moro again, looking at Glorfindel.

"You have been wounded? Let me see." The elf beckoned Herumor over. The Nazgûl hesitated, trying to draw his shirt closed with one hand while sorting through Moro's clothing with the other.

"It really is nothing. I am used to being in pain."

"Now that is hardly reassuring, Herumor of Anadunë. Come here." Glorfindel adjusted his position so he was kneeling rather than reclining. Reluctantly Herumor drew near and knelt facing the elf. Glorfindel pulled back the front panels of the shirt from the Nazgûl's chest. A cut gaped along Herumor's right collarbone, seeping clear fluid. Now that he was so close, Glorfindel could see the shirt was stained with dry deposits of the same 'blood'. He frowned. "I gave you this cut two weeks ago on our first meeting. It should have healed by now, not remained open."

"It probably would have, except it was dealt by your enchanted sword and you put your will into the blade. Most mortal weapons cannot hurt us overmuch, but the magic of your people is another matter. The wounds given me by the elvenfolk on the way to the havens took a long time to heal." Herumor shrugged then winced as the movement pulled at the cut. "It does not matter. I've had worse."

"You should not walk about with unattended wounds. You could die."

Herumor laughed as if Glorfindel had just spoken a jest. "Yes. And that would be bad in what way?"

Glorfindel scowled. "It would be wrong for me to leave you wounded and in pain when you are under my care. While we travel you are my responsibility."

"You know how to close up injuries of your own making?" Herumor was no longer laughing.

The elf looked slightly offended. "While there has been little call for me to repair wounds that I deliver, I do have some skill as a healer." From the grass by his side he lifted the small pack he carried and began to sort through the contents. "Go and care for Moro. By the time you are done, I will be ready to attend to you."

"Very well." His voice reflecting his doubt, Herumor rose and went to corral Moro, who had been capering about the meadow in blissful nudity. She was now dry and while grass blades and tiny flowers were stuck in her hair she was still relatively clean. He dressed her in fresh clothing and went to check on the laundry he had lain flat to dry in the sun. He shook the damp clothes out and turned them.

"Come now," called Glorfindel. He patted the grass in front of him as Herumor approached. "Sit here." Obediently the Nazgûl settled himself on the ground by the elf, crossing his legs to give himself a firm base of support. Curiously he looked at the array of items Glorfindel had assembled. Laid out neatly on a linen cloth were a fine-bladed knife, a small bowl of silver filled with greenish liquid, and a curved needle threaded with gold. Glorfindel opened Herumor's shirt to expose the wound.

Taking up a twist of linen, Glorfindel dipped it in the liquid and began to swab out the cut with quick firm strokes. "This should have been closed up immediately. I regret I did not think of it sooner."

"Yes, well, you were somewhat distracted by other things," said Herumor mildly, snorting a little as the liquid stung him.

"It makes this later work more difficult." Glorfindel put aside the liquid and lifted the small knife. "I am going to trim away the old edges of the cut so I can stitch clean flesh to clean. The wound should heal swiftly then."

Herumor eyed the knife, raised his head and pointedly looked at some spot in the distance over Glorfindel's shoulder. "Do what you need. I will not move."

Working as swiftly as he could, the elf carefully cut away the edges of the wound, causing it to bleed afresh. The Nazgûl's clear blood was chill on his fingers, but not deadly cold, an improvement that he did not have time to think about. The minor surgery completed, Glorfindel swapped knife for needle and thread, drawing the wound closed and stitching it shut. Once finished with the last knot he clipped the remaining bit of thread and nodded in satisfaction. "I am done. That should do nicely." When Herumor did not respond, Glorfindel turned his eyes from the wound to look at the man's face. The Nazgûl's eyes were tightly closed and his expression was one of fortitude and pain kept under strict control. "Herumor!"

Herumor gasped and started as if suddenly awakened from a nightmare. He blinked at Glorfindel and cracked a small smile. "Well, that was not nearly as bad as my sessions with Sauron."

"Sauron? Why would he hurt one of his own?"

Herumor shrugged carefully. "Why not? We were his playthings and suffered if he felt thwarted or angry. And sometimes we reminded him that we did not want to be 'his own' and that made him exceedingly wrathful. He would not kill us, but he certainly tried to make us long for death."

Glorfindel stared at Herumor as if he had never seen him before. Reaching out, he pulled Herumor's shirt from his shoulders and removed it entirely, inspecting the Nazgûl's chest and back minutely. "All these other old scars were from Sauron?" he asked finally.

"Yes. Very few are from true combat."

"There are layers and layers of them."

"Over two Ages' worth. At some point we – my ring-brothers and I – ceased counting."

"Why aren't you mad or dead?" Glorfindel waved at hand at the man. "To endure such abuse would have long since caused one of my people to flee their body."

The pale eyes of the Nazgûl glinted in sudden bleak humor. "I never said I was sane, my Lord. To endure the unendurable meant to cast sanity aside. There was no other way." Looking down at his chest Herumor raised a hand to delicately touch the row of tiny golden stitches. "Gold thread? It feels warm."

"I had nothing that would have been strong or fine enough to serve, so I used a strand of my hair," the elf replied, watching his face keenly. "Does it pain you?"

"No." Herumor sounded surprised. "I feel it, but it does not hurt."

"Do not scratch it. Wait." Quickly Glorfindel pulled off his outer tunic and the shirt layered beneath, to remove his under shirt. This he handed to Herumor, who held it gingerly as if unsure what to do. "Put that on for now. It has no seams to catch the stitches and the fabric is very soft. Your shirt is caked with old blood and will abrade the scabs as you walk. I will rinse it out in the river and you can wear it again after the wound has closed."

Herumor sat motionless, clutching the shirt in his hands as if he had suddenly lost the ability to move. At last Glorfindel took the shirt and after some coaxing managed to pull it on over Herumor's head and get his arms through the sleeves, feeling as he did so that Moro would have been more cooperative. With his help, Herumor was again clad in his layers of grey. The Nazgûl sat quietly, the stunned look still on his face.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired. As if I had run all day and night." Herumor made as if to get up. "I have done too little work today to be so weary."

Laying a hand on his shoulder, Glorfindel kept Herumor from rising. "Lie down and sleep. I do not sense any pursuit at this time, so there is no need for hurry. Rest and I will look after Moro."

"How is she?" Herumor sank back into the grass and stretched out with a deep sigh.

The elf cast a hasty glance at the meadow. Moro was busily gathering yellow flowers, a bright green garter snake looped around her small arm like an exotic bracelet. "She is playing nearby."

"You'll wake me if anything happens?"

"Yes, of course. Rest. Tomorrow you will be stronger for it."

Herumor answered with a voice already blurry with sleep. "Right. T'morrow." He closed his eyes and was asleep in an instant, his body relaxing onto the earth.

The elven prince watched his charge for some time. In sleep Herumor did not breathe at regular intervals. A human observer would have called him dead, and yet Glorfindel could feel his life-energy, banked low but still present, glowing with soft cool light. "You are full of surprises, Herumor of Anadunë. Sleep well."

Authors notes: This story takes place after the events in Dark Waters and about two weeks after the events in Just an Old Friend. It has been about one year after the destruction of the ring and the downfall of Sauron.

Many thank-yous to Judi, Khazar, and Ozma for beta-reading, feedback and encouragement! Props to The Encyclopedia of Arda for reference material.