Work Text:
Every day began with pain.
It came with every breath, every movement – though he could not move much, being wrapped in a cast from head to toe.
He was still the King of Rohan, but only in name. The reigns had otherwise been passed to Éomer, who by all accounts was doing well, and tried not to trouble his uncle for advice.
Rest. Heal. That was everyone’s directive.
But Théoden King was unused to resting, and there was nothing but pain to occupy his mind.
The pain was deep and undefinable, and it howled and tore at him like a wounded beast. Sometimes, all he could do was close his eyes and imagine it as a large, heated sphere that shrank with every outbreath.
It did not always work, but it gave him something to think about.
The only saving grace were the morning potions.
They dulled the pain and everything else, and they came on a silver tray in blue, translucent bottles. A healer named Tawarien brought them in, and she was just Éowyn’s age and a great deal like her: tall, well-grown, and with hair like golden wheat. But she was much more reticent than Éowyn. She kept her gray, doe-like eyes fixed on her hands, and looked at him only to examine him. She barely spoke, except to ask the necessary questions about his pain, his sleep and his appetite. Her hands were patient, and when he took his potions off a spoon, she praised him softly.
He liked that she did not speak much. It meant there was no need to pretend. And he hated noise, in any case. Beyond the walls, there was always something rattling, someone crying out, and talk of some kind. By evening, his head felt like it was being sawed in two.
One day, however, Tawarien did not come. Nor did she come the next day, or the next.
Instead, another women attended him: the older one with high, well-shaped cheekbones, who spoke entirely too much.
“Well, Your Majesty,” she said, bustling in one morning soon after the sun was up, “how is Your Majesty this morning? There was a hard, pelting rain last night, I felt it in my bones when I woke up, for I’m no spring chicken, and I can feel every movement of the heavens. They say I am better than any seer for predicting the weather, imagine that! So I woke up early, I did – dark and early, as I like to say, with the sky still overcast, and it took me a fair bit of time to get out of bed with my joints feeling so stiff. But then I said to myself, ‘I wonder how His Majesty is faring? You had better get up, Ioreth, if you know what’s good for you, for a few creaking joints are hardly any grand thing, when there are the likes of him in the world’…”
She chattered on, pulling aside the blinds.
Théoden winced and squinted, which brought a fresh volley of pain.
The woman noticed, and pulled the blinds closer together.
“Ah, too cutting for the eyes?” She smiled, her strong black eyebrows like the wings of a bird. “Ah, well, I am sorry, Your Majesty, truly… They say the sun is a fine thing for the spirit, a fortifying tonic for every ailment. But one must not have too much, now must they? Here, let’s get you sat up higher, so you can swallow these potions, if you please…”
She shuffled over to the bed, and Théoden noticed, only because he needed to focus on something, that her hips were ample under her robes.
“Here, Majesty…”
She continued a running commentary – first on the position of her hands as she lifted him up, then on the way he winced and froze from one moment to the next, then on the texture of the pillow.
The ordeal done, Théoden sat propped up on two pillows. But still, the woman did not cease talking.
“Here, let’s start with the poppy,” she intoned. “The pain is most important, after all… Just a tiny teaspoon… Yes, poppy, here we are. Always need to verify…”
She raised the bottle to the light, pouring the potion deftly.
“Yes, poppy, yes… Poppy is for sleep besides, which I’m sure you know by now, which is why we must not have too much…”
Her voice ran on and on, and by now, Théoden had no strength to keep from scowling.
The saw against his skull came earlier than usual.
The woman gave him poppy off a spoon, and he barely parted his lips to take it.
She turned around, and began to pour the next one.
After the poppy came the comfrey, and then the fewerfew, and then a string of others he could not recall.
With every herb, she expounded on their qualities, just as she had done the prior days. She even said “as you know” several times, which meant that she remembered doing it.
And yet, Théoden kept his peace until the very end.
The last potion was called carlong, and apparently, it strengthened the bones.
The words “no more snap, crackle, and fractures for you, Your Majesty” were the final straw.
Théoden swallowed the bitter concoction, and snapped as hard as any bone.
“Béma, woman,” he cried, “will you please, please, please stop talking?!”
Ioreth paused with empty spoon in hand, and clapped her eyes like a frightened bird.
“Where is Tawarien?” Théoden demanded. “She never talks…”
The healer lowered the bottle, and for the first time since they met she seemed lost for words.
She fumbled with the edge of her apron.
“Er, well,” she said slowly, “Tawarien is off for a few days, Your Majesty.” She paused, drawing a halting breath. “She is getting married, you see… To one of your Riders, in fact… Heruwine, do you remember him?” A faint smile resurfaced on her lips. “Heruwine, the tall, dark-haired, handsome one. The one always reciting poetry. I think he was here one time – well, he’s going to be my nephew-in-law now, and a fine young man he is, cares very much about tradition…”
Gradually, the clip of her voice returned, but before she could raise it past a whisper, Théoden exploded again.
“Béma, woman, why can’t you just keep quiet?!” he all but roared. “I do not care who is getting married to whom! I care that Tawarien did her work quietly and did not rattle like an empty wagon, Saruman’s beard!”
Ioreth lowered her gaze, and with another clutch of her apron, she turned and spoke no more.
She gathered up the bottles, glass clinking, and placed them back on her tray.
She then curtsied and said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
She looked straight ahead and her voice was soft and tinny.
Théoden watched her ample form moving under her robe, and suddenly felt like the worst sort of scoundrel.
“Wait…”
The woman paused and glanced over her shoulder.
Théoden winced, but already the poppy was doing its work.
It was pleasant to feel nothing.
“Wait,” he said, and finally took a breath that was not through gritted teeth. “I – madam – I am sorry…”
Relief… more relief.
Like a blanket it wrapped around him.
The woman turned to face him, but her eyes were flat.
“I – I am sorry,” Théoden repeated. “I did… I did not mean it. I do… I do care… Maybe…” He sighed, avoiding her eyes. “Maybe… tell me a bit about Tawarien’s wedding? And I wish… I wish every blessing to the couple on this day.”