[Firefoot]

The day was warm, the sky blue – one of the first nice days of spring. Menelcar had found for himself a comfortable spot high on the wall of the fourth circle of Minas Tirith, and, as usual, was writing in his little book. He could think of no place he would rather be at the moment, with all the fields surrounding the city spread out beneath him, and there, farther away, the mighty Anduin hastening on towards the sea.

He heard voices coming closer – one unmistakably familiar rising above the rest: his brother’s. Menelcar considered moving to a new spot, then decided against it. He had been there first, after all; why should they make him move? Perhaps they would not bother him this time.

No such luck. The voices stopped directly beneath him, and snatches of their hushed tones were borne up on the wind to be heard by him. What’s he… alone? Thinks… better than us. Never… normal people. Menelcar shut out the rest of the conversation and pretended that he had not noticed them, pretended that the words did not burn like cold iron. After a few moments, his brother called up to him, “Hey, Menelcar! We’re going out to practice some archery. Want to come?”

He considered ignoring them, but called down, “I’ll pass.” They didn’t really want him along, anyway. Menelcar was pretty sure that their father had talked to his brother about including him on things like this, and if so, he was not interested. He did not accept pity.

He was a better shot than any of them anyway. They’d probably talk about him being a show-off, then.

Dreaming – dreaming… But he couldn’t wake up. And in the strange way that dreams have, his twisted. For some reason, his dream-self craned around to watch the boys walk off, laughing and talking and already forgetting him. But one of them turned around, and it wasn’t one of the boys at all, but Hereric. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Menelcar knew what this brother’s friend-Hereric person was thinking. You try to come off like you don’t need us, like you’re better than us, but you know you’re not, know you’re actually jealous.

And Menelcar, as he had so many times, turned away from the other boys, trying to hide the hurt and confusion that etched in his face…

Then he seemed to be swimming upward through blackness, shedding off the skin of his youth. He was the advisor to the king again. He was better, more powerful than any of them. No, they didn’t matter any more. The stabbing pain in his shoulder returned to him full force, and he recalled dimly the events of the battle. How long since he had passed out? There seemed to have been very little elapsed time. And where was he now? He opened his eyes slowly. He had been moved into the cabin he shared with Telumehtar – did that mean the battle was over? And without him, where would the king turn? Surely not to Hereric. He wouldn’t. Menelcar took stock of his freshly bandaged shoulder – it hurt like the dickens, and he knew that he had lost a lot of blood, but otherwise he felt all right. Yes, he would go to the king now. He was no weakling to be held abed. He moved to raise himself from his reclined position and felt as if his arm were ripping off. A grunt of pain escaped his lips.

“Awake now? You’re not to leave that hammock,” came a stern voice. Menelcar saw now that there was a doctor in the room with him. “You’re not in any shape to go anywhere with that wound, and the king himself has given me orders that I am to attend to your health.” Prior to this last statement, Menelcar had been considering trying to override the doctor. No chance of that now – he would have to wait till the man left.

“Tell me the news of the battle, then,” said Menelcar.

“I do not know how it goes; it may even be over, now, though I think some ships are still engaged,” he answered.

“Then what of the king? Where is he?”

“Last I saw him, he was alive and well and with the captain of this ship. I do not know where he is now.”

Menelcar wanted to strangle the man. Did he have no news at all? “You do not seem very busy. Are there no other wounded that you should be attending to?” By the Valar, it was difficult to sound commanding from such a position.

“Not as many as you might think, perhaps. But I have been commanded to see to you.” His tone was as mild as ever.

“And you have done so; I will be fine.” There was no gratitude in his terse tone. Suddenly Menelcar remembered the other ship’s log that he had saved, and pulled it from his clothing with his good arm. “And if you will not let me see the king, at least see to it that he gets this.” As the man came to take the book, Menelcar felt himself drifting back towards sleep, although he fought it. He could be doing so many more useful things right now! There were, perhaps, some disadvantages of his position. As an ordinary soldier, he might have been able to tend to his own wounds – or less specific care would have been placed on him. But he did not have the opportunity to see what the doctor did next as he faded out of consciousness.