Admission by SurgicalSteel

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Nemir shook his head, realizing that the numbers on the page still weren’t shaped properly, and began again.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

He was startled out of his concentration by a voice speaking from the doorway, and he bit back a curse at the blot he’d created on the page.

“Baranir told me I’d find you here.”

Nemir closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head. “Abârî Zamîn. To what do I owe the honor?” he said. While waiting for her to speak, he went back to shaping the numbers one more time.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

“I… I owe you my thanks for bringing my son home to me,” Zamîn said, her voice almost too quiet to be heard.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

“No matter his condition?” Nemir asked, recognizing even as he spoke that he really hadn’t managed to conceal the bitterness in his voice.

“I assumed you had done all you could for him,” she said, and then fell silent for several moments.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

They had been at sea together; Nemir had been her ship’s surgeon back when she pretended more of an interest in trade than in politics. Or perhaps it hadn’t been pretense? Perhaps her interests had simply shifted when Númenor fell and those damned newcomers had founded what they had the audacity to call kingdoms-in-exile. Certainly it must have been a jolt to realize that Mordor was no longer the only danger on her northern border… Still, he knew her well enough from the long nights at sea arguing philosophy or playing cards that without even turning his head he could picture her position. She’d almost certainly hunched her shoulders slightly forward and begun tapping her pursed lips thoughtfully with one finger.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

“Ironically enough, I’m told that he fell attempting to defend his grandfather,” Nemir said.

He didn’t even have to ask why her son had been in Mordor at all, far less serving in Elendil’s forces – Zamîn volunteered the answer, her voice weary. “He volunteered to go. He – he promised he would not say who his parents were, but he wished… he wished to at least meet his father and his grandfather, and he thought it important that we fight the Zigûr. He volunteered.”

“Damn good thing he looked more like you than like Isildur,” Nemir snapped.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

“You did not – you were not involved with his…” Zamîn began.

Nemir set his quill down and turned in his chair to face her as she leaned against one of the bookcases in his grandson’s office here in Umbar. She’d only changed a little in the years since he’d last seen her – the few strands of grey at one temple had turned into a white streak through her dark hair, and she now had the delicate lines of crow’s feet around her eyes, but she was still slim and her back was still straight.

“I was otherwise occupied on the day things ended,” Nemir said.

Her eyebrows moved closer together, and then her eyes widened as she finally saw. Hesitation evident in every step, she moved closer to him. When she made it to the desk, she saw what he’d been writing – trying to write – and delicately moved those sheets of parchment aside, seating herself on the desk. One of her hands, callused from the years she’d spent at sea, reached out to touch his right shoulder gently. “How…?” she said, stopping and swallowing.

“Variags,” Nemir said, and then elaborated. “I learned just enough Khandri during the war to understand ‘die, evil stone-men.’ They overran my camp.”

Zamîn swallowed again as if uncertain what to say, and her fingers twitched against his shoulder as if not certain whether to move them or not.

“Do you know, I think they knew we were healers?” Nemir said. “I think they intended to make it harder… Elendil warned me more than once about having our camps so close to the front lines of the siege. He wanted us a few miles farther back.” He stopped and shook his head. “Wish he were alive to say ‘I told you so.’ He annoyed me more often than not, but I liked him. So, they came into our camp. I brought my hand up to defend myself,” he said, moving the stump of his right arm upward.

Zamîn’s hand flew up to her mouth, and from behind her fingers, she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

“A ridiculous thing to say,” Nemir said with a snort. “You’re not even a Variag, far less the one who took my hand off.”

Zamîn’s hand dropped and she laughed. “So speaks the man of logic,” she said.

“The men of logic are attempting to determine the best way to demolish what remains of Barad-dûr,” Nemir replied, shaking his head. “So speaks the man who needs a new profession,” he added, dropping his stump back down to his side and standing, walking over to the bookshelves.

“Surely the Healers’ Guild would…” Zamîn began, stopping as Nemir snorted again.

“Zamîn, I haven’t paid guild fees since I joined the army,” Nemir said, leaning forward to rest his head against a bookshelf. “Seven years, eight? Too damned long, in any case. That’s why Baranir works with his auntie. I didn’t have the funds to pay my own guild fees, far less his. Fortunately for me, one of the things they trade is medicinal herbs and dear cousin Avareth is willing to hire me as supercargo. She thinks I’ll make certain that they don’t get cheated…”

He heard footsteps behind him and felt Zamîn’s hand on his stump. “But those years in the army… I have a cousin – a distant cousin, a son of Kirinki House – who is a member of the Healers’ Guild, and he has said that they are woefully lacking in texts on combat surgery…”

Nemir whipped around to face her and felt his eyes narrowing as he said, “Are you honestly suggesting that I should write a text?”

Zamîn said nothing, but she set her jaw and quirked her eyebrows upward in a way that seemed to say ‘why not?’

“I can barely write my own fucking name with my left hand, far less a text,” he snarled, and Zamîn took an involuntary step back at his uncharacteristic display of anger. He took a deep breath and let it out, and then another, willing the rage to go away.

The last piece of my penance, he reminded himself, reaching across his body to massage the end of his stump. “The surgeon who treated me – we shared case notes. I think he and Gil-galad’s herald were going to write a text. I’ll…” he stopped and sighed. “I was about to say I’ll write him, but he used to complain about my handwriting before. I’m sure I can get word to him, get a copy of whatever he produces for the Healers’ Guild’s library. I’ll have Baranir write the letter. Tidiest handwriting I’ve ever seen, has my grandson – a sure sign he was likely never meant to be a healer.”

And I likely should have given up the profession years ago, he thought.

“What in the name of mercy were you doing in Elendil’s army in the first place?” Zamîn said, shaking her head. “You should never have been in harm’s way to begin with – for how long have you had a standing invitation from the Healers’ Guild to be a permanent instructor?”

Nemir shook his head, his mouth twisting up to one side in what was likely a bitter appearing smile. “I knew why they wanted me as an anatomist,” he said. She raised her eyebrows, wordlessly inviting him to continue. “I studied in Arminaleth at one time,” he said.

“Many people studied in Arminaleth,” Zamîn said.

“I studied in the Temple,” Nemir said, and at her shrug, he added, “on still-living people.”

Zamîn’s eyebrows moved fractionally together, and then she shrugged again and said, “I think you are not the only one. The practice is sanctioned by our Healers’ Guild so long as it is condemned criminals used for the studies.”

“They were innocent of any…”

“They plotted against their king,” Zamîn said, interrupting him.

“Not all of them,” Nemir replied.

“It is not for the executioner to judge,” Zamîn said, exasperation beginning to enter her voice as she began pacing the room.

“And not for the healer to perform executions,” Nemir said quietly, leaning back against the bookshelves again.

“They would have died regardless, and their deaths would have been a wasted opportunity,” Zamîn said. “Are you not the one who is fond of saying that a healer never truly learns anatomy until it bleeds?”

“Which is how I justified my actions,” Nemir said. “But. I took enough lives that were likely innocent in pursuit of my craft.”

“And you used the knowledge gained to save how many?” Zamîn said, one of her hands waving to emphasize the point.

Nemir closed his eyes, taking in another deep breath. “I will never hold a scalpel again, Zamîn,” he said.

He could hear her sigh, and without opening his eyes he knew she was shaking her head at him. “Well enough, then, you choose to abandon a lifetime’s study. Had I your injury, I might do the same. And what of our neighbor to the north?” she asked.

“The Zigûr was defeated,” Nemir said, his eyes opening – and at her fractional headshake, he said, “Gondor? I’m not certain. Elendil is dead, Anárion is dead. Isildur…” he paused for a moment. “His youngest son is still somewhere in the north along with…” Nemir stopped, not quite certain of the proper words to describe Isildur’s other family to Zamîn.

“With the boy’s mother, yes,” Zamîn said, her nostrils flaring slightly.

“I suppose Anárion’s son will assume the throne of Gondor and Isildur will return to Arnor,” Nemir said, shrugging. Honestly, as long as they all left him and his family alone, he didn’t much care any longer.

“This is another reason I wished to speak with you – I need to speak with your cousin,” Zamîn said. “I need her to arrange – Belfalas is neutral ground, do you see? If Isildur claims High Kingship – my son is dead already. My daughter, and her children…”

Nemir’s eyebrows rose as he realized what she was saying. Much as he – and most of Gondor and Arnor – thought of her children as bastards, by Umbar’s laws, she and Isildur were as good as married, and the mother of Isildur’s surviving sons was little better than a concubine.

“I need your cousin to arrange a meeting, if she can,” Zamîn said.

“She’s due in Umbar next week,” Nemir said. “I’ll speak with her.”

Zamîn sighed, and nodded, and before Nemir quite realized what was happening, she’d crossed the room again and thrown her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I have lost entirely too many people,” she said. “You will not be one of them.”

With that, she turned and left the room, and Nemir re-seated himself at the desk and picked his quill back up.

One. Two. Three…

A chill went down his spine as an odd certainty came over him that she was right.

Time enough to consider that later, he thought, going back to the laborious task of re-learning to write.