A Lieutenant\'s Illness

The warm noon has faded away, the sun growing pale, strength failing as night threatens to fall. The forum is far emptier than it was, may retreating to home or one of Pelargir\'s many inns for dinner. Nothing as trivial as dinner enters into the Navy\'s consideration, however, and the stream of uniformed men in and out of Admiralty House continues unabated. One of those leaving it is Cairion Cirdain in full-dress uniform. His lanky figure pauses upon the steps, fiddling with a folder of papers in one hand, before he descends with the swift, easy gait of a sailor.

Green-grey eyes survey the forum, lighting on a passing man, well dressed in civillian clothes. \"Dairen!\" This Cairion calls in a full, sea-going voice, bringing the civillian to a halt long enough for the Lieutenant to catch him up. Drawing near, he continues, \"I wonder if you might help me, knowing the city as you do. Where might I find the Lady Tathar Nimothan?\" At the mention of the Lady, Cairion\'s naturally open, friendly countenance takes on the appearance of what may be anger.

Dinner hour. And that very lady might be spied coming into the forum from the north, heading towards the King and Captains Inn, where she has been staying. She is wearing a dark green dress an ivory shawl is pulled up over her shoulders and at her side, a tall burly man in a uniform of Nimothan blue walks. \"He\'s doing well, m\'lady,\" the man rumbles in a deep voice. \"I\'m with him anytime he might be alone. Don\'t you worry. We won\'t let that fellow in the mask get at him again.\" How much of this might be heard across the square is doubtful. Tathar nods, and smiles, though a slight frown makes a crease between her eyebrows.

Dairen goes from alarmed to annoyed to full-on busybody mode, pointing a fat pink finger in the direction of the King and Captains, \"Which I hear she\'s staying yonder. Aye, and well guarded, too.\" In fact, Cairion only stayed so long as to follow the pointing finger which (by mere chance) was aimed almost directly at Tathar herself. Dairen continues to speak, carrying on well after Cairion has made a bee-line for Tathar.

The Lieutenant negotiates the crowd with mounting annoyance, though by the time he reaches the lady herself his countenance is pale, eyes glittering unnaturally. \"What happened? What in the name of the Valar happened?\" His voice is caught somewhere between worry and accusation.

\"I do hope...\" Tathar is saying to Heledir, when she stops, startled and stares at the man who suddenly appears in front of her. Then she recognizes him, and smiles. \"Oh! Captain Cairion. I haven\'t seen you since ... \" She stops to think. \"Well, since we sailed down here. Er - is it \'captain\'? I\'m afraid I don\'t remember.\" Her own face darkens with anger at his question. \"They attacked Turlach!\" she says. \"Someone in a mask almost cut him in two!\"

Something Tathar says has a strange effect on Cairion. His cheeks flush (or blush?), his head dips slightly, eyes dropping to Tathar\'s feet, taking refuge. \"I...forgive me...it is Lieutenant. Lieutenant Cairion.\" He speaks hesitantly, half-ashamed.

For an instant his gaze moves up again, \"He is alright, your nephew? I do hope he is alright.\"

\"Lieutenant!\" Tathar says triumphantly. \"I knew....\" She stops and looks at him worriedly and more gently says, \"There is nothing to forgive - rather, I should apologize to you for forgetting. I am sorry. I wasn\'t sure if it was the same for you. I mean, there is the Lieutenant Aearon, who is in command of the Hosts here and I didn\'t know if sailing on a ship gave you a different title...\" Her voice trails off - now it is she who is looking somewhat flustered. And she greets the other subject with relief and a larger smile. \"Yes, thank you. He is doing well. In fact, he very nearly won the eating contest today.\" Her voice is torn between pride and incomprehension (and a little disgust) - \"Why /do/ men enjoy doing such bizarre and uncomfortable things?\"

Cairion shakes his head emphatically at Tathar\'s explanations, \"Not at all, at all,\" he murmurs. Any further apologies on his part are swept away by the happy change of subject.

Tathar\'s smile earns an answering from Cairion, more shy than usual but enough to restore his usual candour. His eyes flit up to the sky in search of an answer, but in the end he only laughs and shakes his head. \"I\'ve not the slightest idea. For myself, I find the thought rather distasteful. Yes,\" he bows to some imaginary figure on Tathar\'s right, \"You have gorged yourself with enough to fill a horse and are now incapable of motion. Congratulations. And whilst you are so doing, I shall be over here, fighting Gondor\'s enemies...\" He shakes his head, grinning still, and offers an arm to Tathar. \"Speaking of food, would you do me the pleasure of indulging with me? In moderate quantity, of course.\"

Tathar laughs. \"That is exactly what I have always thought,\" she says. \"And eating too much /hurts/! Why would you do that to yourself, on purpose, just to say you did more of it than someone else?\" She doesn\'t mention that it often makes you sick as well.

His proffered arm makes her hesitate the barest of seconds, almost unnoticeable, then she lays her hand on it gracefully. \"Thank you. I haven\'t had dinner yet.\" She looks over her shoulder to Heledir. \"Do you need to go find Turlach? I shall be fine with the Lieutenant.\"

\"He does not stay with you? Or is he relegated to the seat of ease...\" The words are out and Cairion begins choking, coughing, anything to try and cover them. His face is, once again, a fine shade of rouge.

\"Now you must truly forgive me. Sailors...\" He cants his head, searching for just the right description. Finding none, he grimaces, \"Well. We are all men. Our idea of humour is quite base, as I have just had the good taste to prove beyond all doubt.\"

Tathar stares at him, her eyes widening in alarm. \"He sleeps in the barracks,\" she says uncertainly. Is he ill? Then her face relaxes. \"Oh, it is all right. I have brothers, you know.\" She grins, and completely inaccurately, and entirely innocently, says, \"You cannot say anything I haven\'t heard.\"

\"I do not doubt it. You are a woman of the world, sure.\" Eyes turn supplicatingly to the heavens. \"What I mean to say is that you are not a young lady.\" A deep breath. \"What I mean to say is that you have not lived as a gentlewoman.\"

Cairion clears his throat and stares pathetically at the white pavers. \"You may not believe this, but I did not intend to insult you. I was, in very ungainly fashion, attempting to refer to your experience with manly.... Fighting. The sword. Manwe\'s breath!\" With this oath he turns away a second to regain his countenance. He does so, and turns back smiling and ready to bow, \"Shall I see myself off?\"

The lady listens, a crease of confusion deepening between her dark eyebrows. And as he talks himself deeper and deeper in to a pit, a glimmer of laughter sparks in her eyes. \"But you have promised me supper,\" she says demurely when he is finally finished. \"Surely you would not be so unkind as to let a Lady go hungry?\"

Now it is Cairion\'s brows to knot in confusion. \"Then...you do not wish to chase me off? Faith, lady, as merciful as you are lovely. Shall we?\" A few steps are quite enough to allow him to hold open the door to the inn, a truly bustling place at this time of day.

\"Why should I?\" Tathar asks. \"You cannot insult me by saying that I prefer swordwork to sewing. It is true. Unless you think it is beneath your dignity to associate with someone so unladylike as I.\" She goes through door he holds for her, and pauses, waiting for him to rejoin her. And watches him come in with a faint puzzled frown.

\"Not at all. If I were required to spend my days with a needle and thread I should take to poking myself in the eyeball to relieve the tedium. I willingly admit that it is gross unfairness to ask of a woman what a man would be loathe to do. And who, who thinks with both heart and head, would lay such scorn upon the attainment of a skill that could preserve life? Not all have the temperament of a healer. Or, should such a dreadful day ever be seen,\" His voice drops to a pitch so low that (hopefully) only Tathar can hear, \"If the men of the South were to reach into Gondor would they have their elegant ladies go after them with a thimble? No. They can call it unladylike all they will, and maybe it is, too. History does not remember such ladies, or my learning was sadly remiss. Man-hearted they called Emeldir, and yet she saved her kin and was worthy of renown. I hardly think such an epithet could be a shame to bear.\"

\"There were?\" Tathar asks, astonished. \"Truly? I did not know that - who was Emeldir?\"

She wrinkles her nose. \"I hate sewing,\" she says. \"And it was even worse to have to sit around and listen to my mother and her ladies talk of such stupid things...\" She smiles. \"At least, I thought they were stupid, when I was young. But I still hate to sew.\"

An expression of implacable resolution settles onto her face. \"I will /not/ be left helpless,\" she says in a low voice. \"Nor those within my care.\"

\"Emeldir? The mother of Beren. The wife of Bara...something. Led her women away from war and into safety, back before Numenore.\" The explanation is given with only half attention - mostly, he\'s staring in open admiration at Tathar.

\"My lady, if all the women of Gondor thought as you did, I should never fear.\"

\"Oh. I will have to see if there is anything in the library about her.\" Tathar shifts her weight a little uncomfortably, looking away from his constant stare. \"Shall we sit down?\" she asks. \"I see a table over there.\"

The table over there is about to be commandeered, or at the very least have one of its chairs stolen. Cairion wastes no time in bellowing at the offending party, \"Ahoy! Table\'s for the lady!\" Needless to say, a seaman bellowing in a voice calculated to reach the quarterdeck from the foretop in a strong gale does strange things to a room\'s atmosphere. Not that Cairion seems to notice. In fact, many of the patrons of the inn are sailors themselves, or once were, and they\'re back to their drinks and stews in a trice. And Tathar\'s chair is left untouched. \"Oh, a venison pasty. I shall have two.\" This, more or less at Tathar, and in a perfectly casual tone.

Tathar doesn\'t look at all discomposed by having her table bellowed for. She sits down, drawing her skirts close around her so they won\'t be stepped on or tripped over, and nods. \"I would like one also, please.\" There is the faintest of red lines on her neck, visible now in the light and slightly puckered - a newly-healed cut. \"So tell me, Lieutenant, have you been busy? I haven\'t seen you anywhere around since ....\" The conversation goes on, interrupted after a while by food and then by night.