A Huntress Among Fools by Isilme_among_the_stars  

Yet not my will, but his...

Aredhel was sent to the healing houses, a place she detested. And why? To provide sorely needed assistance to the healers and lighten their load? Well, yes, but anyone could do that. No, Fingolfin’s true motivation was for her to encourage those recovering there with her mere presence, thus magically speeding their recovery. Biting the inside of her cheek had been the only way to keep her eyes from rolling.

“Send Fingon if you want to raise morale, he’s far better at that than I,” Aredhel retorted when father explained her new duty.

“Fingon is engaged in other important work already,” he explained, his patience thin.

“Scouting out the land around us, you mean. Exactly what I would be best at!”

Fingolfin ignored her and went on, “Your caring hands are what is needed. I rather think that the injured and sick will prefer you to Fingon. You will see. You can do much good.”

Aredhel’s teeth lacerated the other cheek to stop the ironic laugh bubbling up her throat from escaping.

Like hell it’s about my caring hands! We both know I’m a terrible nurse. I’m better to gawp at than Fingon is what you really mean, she thought. The White Lady of the Noldor, still fair and beautiful, even after the harsh winds of the Helcaraxë. Soft on the eye for the wounded to gaze upon. Would you be asking if the cold had robbed me of my porcelain skin? If the icy winds had blackened the tip of my nose or an ice bear had taken an ear, would you let me go forth into Hithlum instead?

Aredhel held her anger as one would a spitting, scratching cat: firmly, and at arm’s length. Winning the battle against it for the time being, she took a steading breath and answered.

“I will do it because you ask, father, but with little willingness. I hope you will remember how useful I was during the crossing and think better of keeping me shut inside the camp. I am equal to Hithlum’s challenges and would do far more good out there than stuck here.”

“Your objection is noted.” Fingolfin’s tone left no question that the conversation was over.

Aredhel hated tending the infirm. It was the smell. It made her want to wretch and run as far away as possible, not stopping until her legs shook, just to get it out of her nose. Blood and gore she could have wallowed in without even blinking. She was a huntress after all. Dressing her own kills and dealing with the aftermath was second nature, but tending the injured was different. Aredhel found it difficult to explain, but if pressed, she would say that butchering was cleaner. There was no festering, no stale, sour miasma of sick, unwashed bodies. The hot, iron tang of the animals’ blood was pure, and their sacrifice life-giving. Inside the healing tents there was corruption and death.

In defiance, Aredhel spent little time with the sick, instead throwing her energies into practical tasks: preparing and organizing medicines and rolling bandages. The overwrought healers were quite grateful for this, it must be said. Whether it was because there was now less work for them to do or that she kept her foul temper away from the patients, she could not say. By the week’s end there was a veritable mountain of bandage rolls in the storage room and the entire stock of medicines had been re-organised and re-labelled. Very few useful tasks remained with which to continue her quest to avoid the horror of interacting with actual patients. Aredhel did not return the next morning.