First Meeting

Minas Tirith

Everything was black. Black as the foul clouds sent by Sauron, hiding the sun. Black as the fumes billowing from the lower levels of Minas Tirith up to the Houses of Healing. Black as the soot falling down on the city. Black as the despair in her heart.

Measure. Cut. Put in basket. Start again. For the past hours, she had worked at the Houses of Healing, frantically cutting bandages for the dozens, for the hundreds of wounded soldiers carried past her. Before Sauron's army launched its attack on the walls of Gondor's most beautiful city, she had spent days crushing plants, flowers and seeds to help the healers prepare and stock as many potions and salves as possible. It seemed like eons ago.

In a daze, she started cutting another piece of cloth when a loud noise resonated through the city, followed by a harsh, blood-curdling cry. Terrified, she froze, while around her screams of fear and pain resonated.

'What was that?' asked the cook of the Houses, pale and trembling. The cauldron where he was boiling surgical instruments lay aside, forgotten.

'The Nazguls', she whispered. 'They must be close'. Breathing deeply, she tried to stop her hands from trembling, when suddenly, she heard horns. Hundreds of them.

'The Rohirrim! The Rohirrim have come!' screamed an orderly running through the main corridor.

A wild hope arose in her heart. Maybe, just maybe, they might now survive the night. Gritting her teeth, she started cutting bandages again.

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Some time later, she heard shouts of dismay. Fearing the worst, she threw her scissors on the table and rushed towards the commotion. Guards of the Citadel were hurrying towards the healers triaging the wounded, carrying a Gondorian lord. With horror, she recognised her cousin, barely breathing.

'My Lady, please, move' said one of the healers, a woman with brown hair. 'Let us attend him'.

After grabbing her cousin's hand and urging him to get well before he was carted away to one of the treatment rooms, she turned towards the Guards.

'What happened?'

One of them, middle-aged and black haired, took immediately a step forward.

'My Lady', he said. 'I'm sorry to say that your uncle... lost his senses. As far as we understand, he thought the battle was lost and tried to set himself and my Lord Faramir on fire.'

Her throat was tight again. When would this horrific night end? Fighting for her composure, she asked:

'What is your name?'

'Beregond, my Lady.'

'What happened to my uncle, Beregond? And how did you manage to bring my cousin to the Houses?'

'The Halfling was a witness to your uncle's actions, my Lady. He came to me, searching for help'. Looking straight into her eyes, he added: 'I went to the Hallows and fought the Guards forbidding me access. Once inside, I was able to get to Lord Faramir in time and protect him until the arrival of Mithrandir. Unfortunately Lord Denethor died on the pyre he had erected.'

Her uncle, dead! Closing her eyes, she forcefully pushed back her grief, straightened her shoulders and focused on what needed to be done.

'Beregond, I cannot thank you enough for saving my cousin's life. However, as I'm sure you were aware when deciding to force your way in the Hallows, you will have to answer for spilling the blood of Guards of the Citadel. In light of my uncle's death and of my cousin's wounds, this decision belongs to my father, Lord Imrahil. Until then, I would ask you to stay with my cousin, and to let me know if there is any change to his condition.'