Mindin's arrival into the world had been met with excitement mingled with pity, for though the birth of a baby was always a joyous occasion, the child had been born with severe deformities in his hands and feet. The more superstitious members of Esarhaddon's household regarded Mindin's condition with a sense of dismay, for they feared that perhaps his parents had incurred the wrath of the Master of the Fates of Arda. Suspicion fell upon Anúrnissa, for Esarhaddon was held high in the esteem of the Tower. The Second Wife hailed from Far Harad, and while her country was allied with Mordor, not all of the people who dwelt there worshipped Mairon the Most Excellent and Admirable. While Anúrnissa abided by the laws of Mordor and did nothing which would bring her husband shame, it was a well-known secret that she revered Lady Kimi, Queen of the Earth. Perhaps for her spirit of disloyalty and ingratitude, the Giver of Gifts had cursed her son with a terrible affliction.

Three days had passed since Anúrnissa had given birth to her first child. Mindin was doing remarkably well, relieving fears that the deformities in his hands and feet were indicators of some greater frailty. Still, Esarhaddon wanted Tushratta to examine his newborn son and evaluate his condition. Although the care of infants was usually the domain of midwives, Mindin was a special case. Perhaps the physician may have encountered patients with similar deformities, or read accounts of this particular condition in his studies. Tushratta was a very knowledgeable man; if he did not have the answers, he would embark upon a scholarly pursuit to find them.

For the treatment of minor injuries and ailments, Esarhaddon relied upon Mistress Me'arya, the healer at the School of Industry. It was quite convenient to have a dedicated healer who could tend to the members of his household, the farm laborers, and the students at the school. However, when it came to maladies of a more serious nature, he always sent a messenger to the hospital in Turkûrzgoi to call for Tushratta. While there was a healer in the village of Blûgund, Esarhaddon cared little for the man, considering him to be an arrogant buffoon who thought he was far more intelligent than he actually was.

When Tushratta arrived at the villa that morning, Esarhaddon immediately ushered him into Anúrnissa's chambers. Seeking a private consultation with the healer, the Second Wife dismissed her handmaidens and the trio of friends who had remained to tend to her after the ordeal of childbirth. Tushratta knelt beside Mindin's cradle and carefully assessed the child, feeling his pulse and observing his breathing, examining his limbs and checking his reflexes. Esarhaddon and Anúrnissa waited with trepidation and fearful hope to learn the physician's verdict.

After a few moments, Tushratta sat back on his heels and looked to the worried parents. Anúrnissa held her trembling hands clutched against her heart, while her husband looked stoically on.

"Despite the deformities in Mindin's hands and feet, he appears to be an otherwise healthy baby," Tushratta informed them. "His condition will cause him to experience many challenges, but with care and guidance, he should learn to adapt quite well."

Anúrnissa sighed with relief, her slender shoulders rising and falling.

"Are you familiar with this condition which afflicts my son?" Esarhaddon asked, his brows furrowed with concern.

"I have read about cases such as these in my studies," Tushratta replied. "This malady is very rare, however, and I must admit that this is the first time I have ever seen it with my own eyes. From what I understand, hand and foot deformities like the ones that Mindin possesses can run in families, or occur at random." He paused for a moment to look down at the baby, a thoughtful expression upon his face. "While naught can be done about his fingers and toes, it may be possible to correct the inward bend of his ankles. While walking will always be a sore challenge for Mindin, some of the difficulty could be eased if his ankles were encouraged to grow straight."

"We will do anything which would help our child," Anúrnissa proclaimed, looking to Esarhaddon, who nodded in agreement.

"I will return in the morrow with bindings to wrap around his ankles and legs," Tushratta told them. "Since Mindin's deformities are so rare, I would council you to bring him to the hospital in Turkûrzgoi in a few months when he is more resilient. Perhaps some of the other healers might have more expertise in cases such as these."

"It is my desire to see Mindin grow strong and hale," Esarhaddon stated, staunch resolve in his voice. Although he was disappointed that fate had seen fit to give him a disfigured child, Mindin was still his son, and he wanted the best for him.

After concluding his affairs at the villa, Tushratta bade farewell to Esarhaddon and Anúrnissa and made his way to the outer courtyard of the manor house, where he waited for a groom to fetch his horse from the stables. As a gentle breeze stirred the balmy autumn air, his attention was drawn to a balcony on the upper floor of the manor house. Goldwyn stood there looking down at him, clad in a gown the color of freshly spilt blood. A shock went through him like a bolt of lightning when he saw her, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Then she turned and disappeared through the ornate wooden doors which led into the shadowy recesses of the house.

Goldwyn.

How was the lady faring in the home of her most hated enemy?

In the months that she was Tushratta's patient, she had been quite adamant in her disdain for Esarhaddon uHuzziya. Of course, she hated everyone who hailed from lands which were allied with Mordor. Tushratta suspected that the lady's prejudice might be so great that she would distrust anyone not from Rohan; possibly she was even suspicious of her own countrymen who hailed from a different village than hers. This sort of ignorance was common in those who had seen little of the world, he mused to himself. To them, only the familiar was safe; everything else was strange and alien, and not to be trusted.

Tushratta could not blame Goldwyn for her hatred of Esarhaddon, however. From the moment that the slave trader had first laid eyes upon her, he had desired her, caring naught for how she felt about the matter. Perhaps if Esarhaddon had been more delicate in his approach, he could have won her over… in time. However, he demanded more from her than she was willing to give, and refused to take no as an answer. Tushratta wondered what sentiments Esarhaddon harbored towards Goldwyn deep within the murky recesses of his heart. Surely not love; that was too pure and gentle of an emotion to inspire his all-consuming need to possess her. Most likely he saw her as an exotic prize to add to his collection, spoils of war from an enemy land. He could claim her as his victor's reward, and imagine that he had been the warrior who captured her. If he could make her love him, then his victory would be complete.

Tushratta wondered if Goldwyn could love Esarhaddon. Had her hatred for him lessened over the weeks she had resided at his villa, or was that animosity as strong as ever? Although he was filled with loathing at the thought of Goldwyn finding comfort in the arms of Esarhaddon, Tushratta considered that this might be the best possible resolution to the whole unfortunate affair. For her sake, he hoped that Esarhaddon had been able to woo her and win her heart. Otherwise, she was doomed to spend the rest of her days in slow, grinding misery, trapped with a man whom she despised. Being the concubine of a wealthy merchant such as Esarhaddon was hardly a terrible fate, Tushratta reasoned, especially when one considered the brothels or the mines. However, for a headstrong woman such as Goldwyn, it would be the greatest form of torture if she could not bring herself to love him.

At last the groom arrived with his horse, and Tushratta was away. He looked back over his shoulder as he passed through the gates, but the balcony above the courtyard remained empty.

When Tushratta returned to the villa the next day, he presented Anúrnissa with the bandages and leather strips which he had brought with him from the hospital, instructing her on how to wrap her son's legs with supportive bindings. After he had concluded his business with the Second Wife, he requested an audience with Goldwyn. "The lady suffered long after her ordeal in the Gondorian crypts," he had explained to Esarhaddon. "The miasmas of that dank place caused her to languish for months, experiencing bouts of extreme fatigue and intermittent delirium. I would visit her if I may and ascertain the current state of her health."

"She seems to be faring well now that she has had some time to recover from the journey," Esarhaddon remarked, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "I suspect that being surrounded by green fields and gardens will be far better for her constitution than the blighted fields of Gondor and the barren wastes of Gorgoroth. However, you may examine her and determine for yourself if she thrives or languishes."

Tushratta found Goldwyn in the expansive garden which lay between the manor house and the School of Industry. She was sitting upon a bench beneath the shade of the Rose Kiosk, the soft light of morning which streamed through the supporting columns turning her hair to gleaming gold. There was a book in her lap, the page turned to a map of Mordor. When she saw the physician's approach, she hastily closed the volume and put it aside.

"Good morning, my lady," Tushratta greeted her. His eyes went to the book. "How are your studies coming?"

"I have only been in this place for a little over two weeks, so they are coming along quite slowly," she remarked, her tone sardonic.

Tushratta felt a pang of embarrassment, and his cheeks became slightly warm. "I am sure that you will progress quite rapidly once you master the basics."

"I must do something to amuse myself." She shrugged as though she did not really care one way or another.

"I wanted to see how you were faring here at the villa." He gestured to the bench, a silent request for permission. When she moved over slightly, he took a seat beside her.

Goldwyn drew in a deep breath and then released it slowly, as though deliberating upon what to say, how much to reveal. "I fare as well as could be expected."

Tushratta's brows knitted together with sympathy. "I know you would much rather be with your husband and children in Rohan in days of peace and happiness."

Goldwyn sighed, her shoulders falling beneath the heavy weight of despair. "I fear those days will never come again." She turned her head to the side, looking over her shoulder at some distant point which lay far beyond the garden.

"While I know that you mourn for the past, you should try not to let your grief destroy any chance for happiness in the present. The future has not yet come to pass; perhaps it shall bring unexpected wonder and joy." He thought about reaching out to squeeze her hand in an attempt to comfort her, but thought better of it. The lady was much like the roses which surrounded the kiosk: beautiful, yet prickly.

"The future is the only thing which gives me hope." Her voice was a whisper, almost as if she were talking more to herself than to him.

"Let us concentrate upon the present for the time." He gave her a gentle smile. "Although my main purpose for coming to the villa today was to deliver supplies for Lady Anúrnissa's son, I wanted to inquire about your health ere I left."

She regarded him suspiciously. "Did Esarhaddon send you here to bother me?"

"No… although I did receive his blessing. I take an interest in the health and happiness of all my patients; it is one of the duties of being a healer." He paused for a moment, allowing her to consider what he had said. "Is your condition continuing to improve?"

"It is better than it was," she admitted. "There are still days when weakness assails me, and it is all I can do to remain standing. Much of my strength has returned, however. I have even begun taking sword fighting lessons from Mistress Zora, the weapons instructor at the school."

"Oh?" Tushratta raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "It does not surprise me that you would celebrate your newfound vigor by picking up the sword." He chuckled good-naturedly.

A smile played over Goldwyn's lips at that remark, and her entire demeanor seemed to shift from rigid composure to a sense of cordial ease. "My land is renowned for its shieldmaidens. Though I was never counted among their ranks, perhaps it is not too late for me to play at being one."

"As long as it is only play." The grin upon his face was one of amusement, although a warning flickered in his eyes. "Esarhaddon would not approve if you incited a revolt."

Goldwyn raised her chin and held her head up high, her eyes narrowed slightly in defiance. "Perish the thought that I should ever do something so outrageous."

"I am glad to see you in such fine fettle," Tushratta remarked, pleased to see that her icy demeanor was thawing somewhat. "You were sick for so long, and I was uncertain how to treat the malady which assailed you."

"You mean the evil spirit."

Dread seized Tushratta, its icy tendrils wrapping themselves around his heart like some sort of sea serpent from the frozen wastes of the Icebay of Forochel. To hear the terrible words spoken so plainly from the lady's lips, especially after all he had done to protect her from the horrific truth, was almost too great a shock to bear. It had been a monumental effort on his part to keep Goldwyn from knowing the full truth of her actions whilst under the spirit's thrall, for she was a proud woman and he feared that the humiliation would be her undoing. It had been an even greater challenge to convince Esarhaddon that his concubine's mysterious illness was caused by the dank vapors of the crypt, and it was only coincidental that she occasionally acted like one possessed by a demon.

"Do not stand there gaping like a fish cast up upon the shore!" Goldwyn rolled her eyes and shook her head with grim merriment, a chuckle rumbling from her throat. "I am no fool, Tushratta. Although my memory may have more holes in it than a sieve, I know what befell me in Osgiliath was no mere illness of the body, but rather something far darker. A voice called to me from the darkness of the crypt, and in my panic and desperation, I thought that the one calling my name was my husband. A grave error upon my part, and one which brought great suffering." She rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth as she spoke, her slippered feet padding over the ivory and gold floral tiles which covered the floor of the lavish kiosk. "After that, there were more shadows than light in my mind. I was aware of my existence, but yet I was not fully present in my body; it was as though I had wandered down a dark tunnel, and could not find my way back. Sometimes I still feel like that, although it no longer seems like the tunnel is quite so long, and I can still see the dim haze of light around me."

"Has… has the spirit returned to torment you?" Tushratta inquired, his throat dry. "I must confess that I had never performed an… exorcism before. When I studied at the Great School of Healing in Khand, I trained to be a healer of the body, not a healer of the spirit. I can set bones, perform surgery, stitch wounds, make compresses, and compound potions and nostrums, but demonic afflictions and injuries of a magical nature are beyond my ken. In my land, there are two types of healers: physicians, such as myself, and shamans who can search the soul for sickness and invoke the power of their patron deity to heal those wounded in heart and mind. I had considered pursuing the path of the shaman, but my father was the Master Physician at the school, and I felt obligated to train under him instead." He knew that he was going into far too much detail about his medical career than was necessary, but he had a habit of engaging in long-winded lectures – sometimes to be pedantic out of spite, other times because he was nervous and reflecting upon familiar subjects gave him a sense of comfort and control.

"No, the spirit has not plagued me since you drove it away, although the scars it left run deep." Goldwyn paused in her pacing. "For one not trained in banishing wicked shades, it would seem that you do an adequate job."

Tushratta felt his cheeks grow warm, but he maintained his usual calm, detached manner. "I invoked the name of the Goddess of Healing from my land, and when no divine aid was forthcoming, I began calling upon every deity and power that I had ever read about or heard about in my studies or travels. In my desperation, I chanced to name Estë, the Healer of Hurts as she is known in the West, and the spirit recoiled from the sound." He felt a shudder of fear and revulsion come over him as he remembered his encounter with the wicked shade, and how the entire tent had filled with shadows and reeked of brimstone when the evil presence departed.

"It must have been terrifying to wrestle with a fell spirit armed with naught but your wits and a desperate hope." Sympathy infusing her features, Goldwyn returned to the bench and sat down beside him. Tushratta noticed that she sat closer to him than before.

"Apparently Lady Estë took mercy upon my plight." A pensive expression came over Tushratta's face, and he tilted his head to the side in contemplation. "Perhaps someday I will leave the land of Mordor and return to Khand, where I will embark upon the path of the shaman at the School of Healing. Then I would have the proper training to treat maladies of both body and spirit."

"An admirable goal, and one you should pursue." Goldwyn's eyes were a blue flame as she gazed into his. "This realm of darkness and evil is no place for a man of integrity."

"Perhaps that is why I stay." A wry smile flickered over his thin lips. "Not because I have no integrity, but because there are so few who do."

Goldwyn shared in his dour humor with a grim imitation of a laugh, and then her body seemed to collapse upon itself as she released a melancholy sigh. "I never got a chance to thank you."

"For what?" His brow knitted in confusion, and he leaned forward slightly.

"For protecting me from him." Her voice was almost a whisper as she averted her eyes and stared down at her lap. She clenched and unclenched her hands, as though trying to find her resolve, or perhaps to keep them from trembling.

Tushratta felt his chest ache with sympathy at Goldwyn's rare display of vulnerability. "I could tell that Esarhaddon greatly underestimated the severity of your condition. Although he is an intelligent man, he maintains a willful ignorance when it comes to the realm of the mystical, and I endeavored to explain your malady without mentioning evil spirits or demonic possession. I implied that your illness was caused by inhalation of the toxic molds and miasmas which festered in the crypt, and that you suffered from reoccurring bouts of delirium and fatigue. Perhaps I overstepped my bounds and crossed boundaries that I had no place crossing, but I could tell that you were in no state to endure his… affections. You needed time to heal."

"I may have recovered for the most part, but now I have no one to protect me." Her words were a hushed quaver.

Anger blazed up from deep within the secret chambers of Tushratta's heart as his imagination was tormented by visions of the proud Northern lady at the mercy of her lecherous lord. How she must suffer, imprisoned like a bird in a golden cage, forced to endure the unwanted affections of a man who was blind to her misery! Tushratta was not certain which terrible fantasy was the most horrific: a vision of Esarhaddon punishing Goldwyn for her defiance, or a vision of Goldwyn willingly giving herself over to him in the heat of passion.

And then the fires of Tushratta's anger sputtered out and died, drowned beneath a crashing wave of guilt. He might have saved Goldwyn's body from being purloined by a houseless spirit, but he had done little to save her soul from succumbing to despair. As he looked at her sitting there beside him – pale and ashen as bone, her cheeks hollow and gaunt, the shadows of sorrow etched deep beneath her eyes – he felt overcome by pity and moved by a desire to protect her, to save her from the horrible life which it seemed that fate had ordained for her.

"My lady, a good healer does all in his power to ensure the health and wellbeing of his patient," Tushratta began, his words cautious and measured. "If… if your illness should return, all you have to do is to ask Esarhaddon to send for me." His eyes met hers in a meaningful look, the expression conveying far more than his words ever could.

Goldwyn was silent for a few moments, and then gave a sharp, resolute nod of her head. "If the malaise should return, or my sleep be haunted by nightmares, I will request that Esarhaddon summon you posthaste."

"Very well then, my lady." Reluctantly he began to rise to his feet. "I will be taking my leave now, for I must return to the hospital in the city."

And so the suggestion had been made; the door had been left open, even if it was only a crack. Half of Tushratta's conscience – the part which demanded honesty and integrity above all things – revolted against the prospect of betraying Esarhaddon's trust, while the other half of his conscience – the wilder, more unpredictable part which desired to do good even when it was considered wrong – soared with the possibility of relieving the lady's suffering and restoring hope to her hopeless heart.

As Goldwyn watched Tushratta depart, she pressed a hand to her pounding chest and let loose a long, shaky breath. What had just happened? She had never meant to be so candid. She frantically tried to figure out how much her careless words could potentially hurt her, what dire consequences those few ill-conceived moments of truth might have. After the journey to Nurn came to an end, she had never expected to see the healer again, and his sudden appearance in the garden had taken her by surprise. She should have remained on guard and kept up the shield of ice which she used to protect herself in this cruel land, but seeing the familiar face of the man who had cared for her during her illness had caused her to succumb to an uncharacteristic vulnerability.

Suddenly feeling as though she were being suffocated within the airy confines of the kiosk, Goldwyn fled into the garden, walking at a brisk pace amongst the fountains and flowerbeds as though attempting to escape from her own thoughts. She cursed herself for her weakness, and vowed that if she ever crossed paths with Tushratta again, she would maintain her usual cold reserve. She had been a fool ever to reveal so much about herself.

But yet… through innuendo and implication, he had offered to help her. So it had been on the journey: even after she had recovered from the shadowy clutch of the fell spirit, Tushratta had led Esarhaddon to believe that her condition was far more precarious than it actually was. Though she and Tushratta had never discussed the matter, an unspoken agreement had formed between them: he would claim that she was gravely ill, and she would do naught to convince anyone otherwise. To allay any suspicion that she was malingering, she would occasionally act as though she were in the throes of a dreadful fit, biting her tongue and forcing herself to drool and froth at the mouth. It was not long before everyone in camp was speaking in hushed whispers about the madwoman in the healer's wain. This clever deception had allowed Goldwyn to travel in relative peace, unbothered by the demands of her abhorrent suitor.

While she resented being indebted to anyone, she considered that perhaps Tushratta could be an ally unlooked-for. The possibility that he might want to be rewarded for his benevolence concerned her, but she could worry about that possibility at a later time. The conversation in the garden had given her much to consider as she carefully formulated her plots and schemes. Perhaps Tushratta could become a third player in the dangerous game she was playing — or perhaps a pawn. But even as she conspired on how she might use the healer to her own ends, she could not help but recall the compassion in his gentle voice and the tenderness in his dark brown eyes.