Work Text:
In the gatherings held in the marshal’s tent after battles, Waerblith would stand quietly behind the seat of her husband the general. She was there to deliver her reports on the casualties and her plans for the displacement of those who needed continued attention, but once she had done so, she would observe the countenances of all the officers present, watching their expressions in the hope of catching a glimpse of their thoughts. She would take good note of her insights, to later advise her husband on further decisions and appointments. Sometimes she would also nudge the youngest wives as to the best way to restore strength and spirits, when an officer seemed to stagger in silence under the weight of responsibilities and weariness; indeed, sharing the wisdom conferred by nearly forty years of marriage and a long experience of military camps was the task she had dutifully appointed to herself.
But that day, it was young captain Théodred who caught her attention. He was clasping his hands over his stomach, never a good sign, and he looked pale, much too pale for the circumstances. He had been congratulated as one of the heroes of the day; it had been a victory that left the other officers joking, stomping their feet and rubbing their hands with pride and satisfaction. The damage in their ranks had been much less than expected, with the enemies pushed way back over the borders and not expected to renew the hostilities anytime soon.
Théodred did not yet have a wife whom she could advise on his care, or instruct to bring her reports on his wellbeing. He did not have a mother, either, and his aunt was busy with small babes and a fiery marshal husband of her own; Waerblith would have to sort out this matter herself. As the meeting ended, she quietly shuffled around the gesticulating, laughing officers to catch up with Théodred and put a hand around his elbow. He startled first, but he soon smiled.
‘Son,’ she said, interrupting his greeting, ‘if there’s something wrong with your stomach, putting on a brave face and toughing it out won’t do you any good. I should like to have a look at that immediately.’
‘There is nothing wrong with my stomach!’ He lifted his arms, exposing his intact breastplate with playful pride. ‘See? I wasn’t hit today, Mama!’
Many of the riders who had trained as squires under Waerblith’s husband still called her ‘Mama’ long after they had climbed up the ranks, in fond memories of warm meals after tiring days, and of many grazes and cuts she had nursed. She had known Théodred since he was a boy, and she already a grandmother; she knew how to read the sweat that shone on his brow and the tense line of his jaw. His lightheartedness was feigned; cunning might prove necessary.
‘If nothing is wrong, then surely you will agree to come keep me company as I pack up the supplies?’
He swayed with an hesitant smile.
‘I believe that I have some apple cakes left…’
At that, he obediently followed her outside, which at least ruled out what she first thought to be a problem of digestive nature. She would have to investigate some more. The sun was setting, and many men were talking animatedly in the alleys of the camp, stripping themselves of their fighting attire, grooming horses and showing off their dented arms.
‘I would hate to be in your way, Mama,’ said Théodred, ever so considerate, ‘you must be busy still, so soon after the battle.’
‘Don’t fret, dear, they’re all gotten rid of arrows and sewn back together. Me hovering over them won’t make them heal any faster. In any case, once patched up, they always seem in a better disposition for healing when it’s the pretty apprentices who care for them. The smiles of young women do wonders for our wounded warriors! That is long out of the power of grumpy old Mama.’
‘Oh, don’t say that… You always put me in a good mood.’
‘Me, or my apple cakes?’
He chuckled, but she saw how he walked with a slight hunch that was unusual to him. She was impatient to find out how she could relieve him; such a young man should walk straight and proud, and she would gladly keep for herself, as a self-respecting matriarch, the privilege of a perpetually arched back.
She led him into her tent and had him sit on a cot, behind a small worktable where piles of gauze, clean bandages and bottles of ointments were neatly lined up. He settled down, still cradling his arms close to him, and looked with curiosity at the bunches of dried herbs and various healer’s contraptions suspended to the poles and lashings of the canvas roof. But before he could speak and steer her away from her purpose with questions and pleasantries, she planted herself in front of him.
‘Excellent. Now that I have you here, you will take off your breastplate for me.’
‘Mama, I assure you, there is nothing. I am entirely fine under there.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard that often, with varying outcomes! Then ease my mind and show me how fine you are.’
He sighed, and complied, but she could see him struggle with the buckles on his shoulders, and he was visibly nervous.
‘Perhaps if you started with taking off your gauntlets?’
He stiffened and turned yet another shade paler.
‘What is it, now?’
‘Well, a bruised finger is certainly not worth your time. And I’m no use here.’ He started to get up.
‘No, no no no, this is getting interesting. Sit back down, young rabbit.’
He obeyed slowly and pulled off his right glove. He had uncommonly beautiful hands, for a warrior at least. The skin was smooth and soft, and his fingers were slender, with delicate knuckles and well-tended fingernails.
‘Come on, let’s see the other one? You know, in all my years, I’ve seen all sorts of ugly wounds, I’d be surprised if there was anything to put me off in that gauntlet. Unless some of the fingers stay in as you pull your hand out.’
She chortled heartily, but his eyes widened and he shuddered. With a grave face, he carefully peeled off his left glove. At last he rested his hand on the table, looking away. His middle and ring fingers were badly swollen, a sorry blend of red, pink and purple. He started shaking violently..
‘Aaah there we go, I knew that something was bothering you! Mama still has a sharp eye!’
She fished a chunk of ice from a wet box on the ground and wrapped it in cloth. She was almost giddy with relief.
‘Well then! That’s nothing. Oh, you scared me. I thought you were badly damaged, with how pale you were. We’ll need to get something inside of you before you get out of here, too! Bring some colours back to that pretty face of yours! I promised you some cake, didn’t I. You need to remind me, or I’ll forget. But first, I’ll take care of that.’
As she moved closer and bent over his hand for a closer look, he tensed and sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.
‘Théo! I’m only looking. I will tell you before I touch, I promise! Don’t you trust your Mama?’
He nodded, his eyes shut tight.
‘Can you move them for me, dear?’
He winced. While his other fingers bent and unbent at his will, the two swollen ones barely quivered.
‘Aaah, yes, that might be broken, indeed. Indeed.’
He gasped, and two big tears fell from his eyelashes. He looked up at her in shock.
‘Hey, it’s nothing to fret about, dear! Here, lay your hand on something cold. In a few weeks, you won’t feel a thing. And it’s not as if it had been your nose. A couple crooked fingers won’t make you any less dashing!’
His chest rose painfully with fast, heaving breaths; tears streamed down his cheeks.
‘Oh, barely crooked, merely a little stiff!’
He broke down in miserable, gasping wails.
‘Come on, that’s hardly a life-changing injury. Many of the seasoned men here have broken more fingers than they can count, and it doesn’t make them any lesser riders!’ He didn’t respond, choking in his sobs.
‘Granted, most of them can’t count very far,’ she muttered to herself.
She could tell that he was too far gone in his dismay to listen to any more of her wisdom. For a moment she wondered what could be wrong with him, the very boy whom she had seen more than once endure much worse with barely a sigh and a groan.
But she soon shrugged it off: for some, the pain of an injury would awaken wounds of another nature, that belonged outside the realm of her skill. Strong, healthy young men like him bounced back from such moments of weakness in no time, with a meal, an ale, a good night’s sleep, a hug from Mama, a ride in the fresh air, and of course, the smiles of a fair apprentice.
What a shame that all her girls were busy in the convalescents’ tent! They were nearly his age, and surely they would be delighted to dote on him: he was endearing indeed, with sweet sad eyes, the beginning of a golden beard and soft youthful skin. And a prince, too! Surely, he would soon be happily in love, a good girl would care for him, and all this would pass.
But for the time being, his sobs had not diminished. She got up and threw a blanket around his shoulders.
‘Alright, alright, you’re putting yourself in quite a state, dear. Take your time while I make us some tea. There’s no hurry tonight. Mama will take care of you.’
She called an errand-boy for hot water and busied herself around the tent, humming and cackling to herself.
Théodred sobbed and shook, pulling the blanket tight around himself and pressing his injured hand against his chest. At first he couldn’t form a thought, outside of how vulnerable he felt with bones shattered and screaming inside of him, how embarrassed he was to be such a mess, and how precious it felt to be cared for by his warm Mama again.
Why had he wanted to hide his hand from her? Because he knew that he could never had withstood showing that injury to anyone without losing his composure. But assuredly, her help would stack the odds in his favour for a complete recovery; if he had kept it away from her, there was no way to tell how it could have healed. I had not thought straight; he could not have. All was perhaps for the best.
But she did not get it; she could not have. She loved him and cared for him, but she did not see him. But who would have? Perhaps his own Mama, his Mama he never got to meet, would she have seen him, understood him, and cared for his true gentle soul? Perhaps only she would have.
Why could he not live true to himself? Why was he so skilled at arms, so admired for this thing he hated most, battle? Why go through so much hardship and bitterness to earn a few moments of harmony now and then, only to lose them in an instant, to the crack of metal on bone?
He almost wished that his heart had not been made so tender, so delicate, if his sole prospects in life had to be violence and war. What good was it, to have an ear for birdsong and rhyme and sweet chords, if it was to feel more crudely the hideous scrape of arms and the cruelty of battle cries? Why have a touch for perfection, an eye for subtlety, if it was to forever struggle to forget the harshness of the horrors seared into his mind and body? He felt so odd, so misplaced, so inadequate.
Captain. Crown prince. Heir of Éorl. He would have given up all his titles and glory, his ornate armour and magnificent horses, the halls and the gold, the feasts and the men cheering his name, all the sources of his father’s pride, for a peaceful life far from tumult and attention.
But the choice was not his: he was as he was, and nevertheless he would fulfill his duty and be brave. He had resolved it, he would fight to the very last stand for his people and for all he loved. Because he loved so ardently: he loved things in all their angles, in all their cracks, in all their shapes and details and sounds and smells; he loved quietly, with the brush of his lips and the edge of his ears and the tip of his fingers.
From the hour he took his appointment he had been ready to give his life to protect those who could not fight. When the time shall came, he would: it was his place. But then he would never see the end of the toil. For himself, it would never truly be worth it: he felt it, in his sore heart, and in his broken bones that would only mend tougher, coarser, duller, number.
Waerblith put a slice of cake and a steaming cup smelling of spices and honeybush before him. A last quivering sob shook his spaulders. This burst of his lasting sorrow was running dry; he felt ready to collect himself and take up his burden again with a brave front.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I… I’m being quite ridiculous.’
‘Don’t fret, dear, Mama won’t tell anyone.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry. Acting like a little boy for such a slight injury.’
‘Let me tell you, son, you were tougher than that as a little boy.’
He laughed as he wiped his tears with the handkerchief she had waved at him. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. It doesn’t even hurt that much. I mean, it hurts, but only if I move them. And I trust you to make it all better, of course.’ He took a few nibbles of the cake, warm, tender and sweet.
‘It’s all good. It’s not the first time a good man loses his grip, even after a good battle. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to make sense.’
He was assaulted by a new gust of sobs, from the uncanny relief of being allowed to be absurdly genuine for a time.
‘And wasn’t this your first battle as a captain?’ Théodred nodded. ‘It’s understandable, that’s a big step! You should celebrate that, as soon as I’m done with you! Go drink and brawl with the boys until sunrise!’
Théodred nodded again and swallowed hard. There was nothing he wanted less at the moment than to meddle in chaos, drink and noise.
‘But first, let me see. I’ll have to take a look.’
She handed him a stick, or rather a thick branch, that seemed to bear marks of teeth. He hesitated.
‘Isn’t that what you give for… amputations?’
‘Well, I’ve had no interesting operations today, so I have bite sticks to spare. I won’t lie, I’d be kicking you out of my tent if I had any more serious injuries to tend to. Tonight is a the right moment to hold me back with a little breaking down of your nerves, while I can take time to make you comfortable.’
‘Thank you, Mama.’
‘Look, the skin is not broken, the bones have stayed in line. I’ll have to palpate a little. Take a good breath and bite.’
He braced his heart and bore the pain bravely as her fingers dug into his swollen flesh. But it was soon over, and the sting was nowhere near as bad as he had expected when he thought of the shattered bone shards grinding together.
‘Yes, to me it looks like two clean breaks, both on the second phalanx. Well, the solution for that is quite simple.’
She turned around to gather more pieces of wood and a panoply of iron tools with teeth and hinges and sharp edges that he did not understand. He spat out the piece of wood.
‘What… What are you…’
She held up a small saw. ‘This?’
Théodred felt his heart thump in his throat. All courage had deserted him. This was the worst he could have imagined: the most distressing of his nightmares was playing out before his eyes. That was why his gut had screamed at him not to let any healer see his injury. For an instant he wished that he had fallen on the field.
But Waerblith patted his arm. ‘Oh, easy, you silly boy. I’m only making a nice little splint for you.’
Théodred felt silly indeed. As he strove to recover from his scare, she picked sticks and strips of wood, and worked at them, measuring them against his fingers, shortening them, smoothing them, bending them, with good-humoured absorption, her tongue between her teeth.
‘So, tell me, how did it happen?’
‘Hm, the butt of a spear… One of our guys yanked his out of… something, and he hit me as I was passing behind.’
‘Ooh. And you rode to the end of the battle, with your bridle hand in that state! You’re a brave boy.’
‘Thank Silverswift for that! He’s become good at guessing where we’re going.’
‘Of course, that’s a good boy, old Sibby. A very good boy.’
She padded his fingers with layers upon layers of gauze, and expertly wrapped the sticks into a sturdy and snug brace.
‘There! Keep this on for ten days or so, and then try to avoid getting your hand in the direct trajectory of blows and arrows and spear butts for a couple more weeks. You should be good enough soon enough.’
‘Good enough?’ he repeated as he examined the splint and tested how much movement it permitted. He had tried not to sound so defeated.
‘Good enough is good enough! Why are you so upset?’
If she hadn't guessed, by then, she never would. And if he told her, she wouldn't understand either. But again, was there anyone in the Riddermark who would understand, at all? No, there was no one. He felt loneliness crush his heart, and resolved to lie.
‘Well… I wish there was a way to keep my dexterity. You know, for riding, and uh, young horses, they need precise rein aids. I mean, before they can read my mind like Sibby. And uh, I’ve been taking up archery, if my fingers are not right I will shoot all wrong and I’ll have to forget that.’
‘Archery, eh? But you’re right handed. It could have been worse!’
‘Yeah, uh, Wylfric said that I have, how did he call it, cross… Cross-dominance? In any case, he advised me to draw with the left hand.’
‘Well, if it’s that important to you, you should go see, oh my, what’s her name… Wynna! You should consult with Wynna when you’re back in Edoras. She’s nothing like our school on the battlefield and to save lives, but perfecting recoveries over months and years is her thing. Dexterity, ease of motion, getting rid of lingering pains, that’s her strong suit.’
Théodred took note of the name. These were encouraging news, or at least the thought loosened his throat enough to let him swallow what was left of his cake.
‘She even knows tricks to make injured bits look as good as new again! If that is what you are concerned about. Or if you’re concerned that a special little lady might be…’ She reached to pat his cheek teasingly, but he turned away rolling his eyes.
After sipping the last of his tea, he huffed. ‘Well, I think you’re right, the fighting in the past few days truly wore me down. I’m exhausted. Sorry again for my… teary moment.’
‘Bah, don’t apologize. I’ve seen more hardened men than you break down worse, and for much less, in this very tent. As long as you don’t linger in that state, it’s nothing to fret about, dear.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ He took a deep breath and got up, letting the blanket slide off his shoulders. ‘But it’s getting late, I think go to bed just now.’
‘To bed, or to mead! There’s quite a feast going on out there! You won’t want to miss that, exhausted or not. Oh, wait!’ She reached in a chest and held up a small bottle. ‘There, take this for the pain. Two drops every two hours, no more, no less. It should take the edge off.’
‘Thank you, Mama. Goodnight.’
She got up to block his way to the entrance of the tent with her small frame, but it was only to open her arms and wrap them around his waist. This was the closest he would ever get to the embrace of a loving mother. He closed his eyes, and smelled her hair, and felt the warmth of her fragile and soft body through the layers of felt and leather and metal. He felt how she wanted him safe, she wanted him happy and warm and fed, she wanted his pain gone, at least the pain she could see. None of the pretty apprentices could ever make him feel that way.
Théodred emerged from Waerblith’s tent into the commotion of eight éoreds’ worth of men clustered around bright bonfires to make merry and drink to their victory.
His mentors had often insisted on the importance of meddling with riders of all ranks even as he got promoted, especially as he got promoted; for them to trust him through the fear and anxiety of the battlefield, when he led them into danger, he must share their sorrows and joys alike once trouble had passed. On most days, he found it in himself to overcome his reserved nature to comfort and support them, to take part in their boisterous revelries and fill the rank and role that was appointed to him, by birth and position. But tonight, his sobs had left him febrile, and the taste of salty tears still clung to the back of his throat.
He hoped to slide unnoticed through the crowd, but the cover of darkness and the blur of drunken eyes were not enough to conceal the crown prince himself from friendly comrades. He was called, pointed at, clapped on the back and embraced roughly from all sides.
‘Théooo! Come have a pint!
‘Or five!’
‘Good fight! You showed them, didn’t you, Captain!’
‘You didn’t lose your stirrups today, Wermund owes you a thrymsa! Did you see? He lost his HELMET!’
Théodred nodded and laughed with them. A pint, or more likely a gallon, was pushed into his hands, narrowly avoiding a crash with his bandaged fingers.
‘Hey, careful, he’s hurt!’
‘Oh sorry brother, what happened?’
‘Well, won’t you believe it,’ Théodred forced himself to quip, ‘I partook in battle today!’
Raucous laughter and cheers fused.
‘But it’s barely a knock, it’s risible, really, it will be soon forgotten, I’m sure…’ he trailed off as the erratic attention of his companions drifted away from him.
Walking away, he located an empty-handed fellow who still seemed solid enough on his two feet to withstand the gift of the heavy, barely sipped-at pint. Théodred then slipped into the darkness and searched for his way to the officer’s quarters.
As the flap of his tent fell back behind him, muffling a little the garish songs and imbibed bellows outside, he sighed with relief. His promotion as a captain came with the advantage that he now had a private place to rest and be alone in his own belongings after an eventful day. The moon filtered through the canvas; he stood a moment breathing and feeling how snug his hand felt in the splint and bandages.
But the crash of battle still rang in his ears. He shivered. Slowly, with his good hand, he took off his boots and what was left of his armour, and he changed into a clean shirt. At last, he knelt on the rug and opened the chest at the foot of his bedroll.
‘I’m sorry, dear, I’m so sorry. It was bound to happen one day. But she said that perhaps it won’t be forever. I would never be myself again without you. It will be just a few weeks of silence, I hope. And then we’ll be as before. Oh, come here.’
Carefully lifting it from its case, he caressed its fragrant wood, its strings, its frets, and its beautifully sculpted horse head; and as he laid down to sleep, he cradled the quietly humming lute against his heart.