Disclaimer: Majority of these characters, places, and events belong to JRR Tolkien. I am just borrowing them, and fabricating some new ones, for my own amusement.

A/N: This work is: a) my first attempt at fan fiction b) a highly entertaining form of procrastination, and in no way a serious endeavour and c) probably riddled with inaccuracies; apologies in advance should anyone actually ever read it.

A young woman was kneeling by the Lord Faramir's bedside. She was not a healer, that Éomer could tell by her garb; for instead of the dark grey tunic and burgundy apron of those of the Houses of Healing, she was wearing a dress of a soft hue, the colour indistinguishable in the light of the candles and the predawn. The simplicity of her dress, the close fitting, long sleeved bodice and the full skirt, revealed that it was costly; for it was too well cut and too elegant in its lines to be the handiwork of any seamstress. Her darks tresses were hanging loose down her back, falling in waves to her waist, their lustre apparent even in the soft light.

Her gaze was fixed so intently upon the face of the sleeping man, her small white hands folded over his large, brown calloused ones, that it took more than a moment for her to realise she was no longer alone.

She rose quickly, and Éomer caught a glimpse of a heart shaped face and large eyes that were full of anxiety before the head bowed, uttering a soft 'My lords.'

'Lothí?'

The rasped question saw the woman turn immediately back to the invalid, and she was kneeling once more at his bedside. His eyes were still closed, and his brow was furrowed with pain and confusion.

'Yes cousin, it is I. I am here now, Faramir,'

'Where...?'

'The Houses of Healing. You were wounded…badly wounded. For a moment there we thought you may have gone to the other side. But thank the Valar, you are still here,' explained the young woman softly, her voice thick with unshed tears.

'My father, Lothí...'

Éomer felt Aragorn shift beside him. First thinking it because of the grievous news still to be imparted, but then Éomer became aware of the figure standing in the doorway.

Imrahil moved to stand at Éomer's other side, and watched the young woman raise her hand to smooth Faramir's brow.

'Lord Denethor, you father...he has gone Faramir,' she whispered. 'He is finally at peace... he has gone to meet cousin Boromir in the next world.'

The pain on Faramir's face sharpened, and it was clear that he was trying to open his eyes but the effort was too great. The fair hand did not cease in its caresses, gently sweeping across Faramir's brow as if to smooth away the lines of pain and newly realised grief. After brushing away the damp locks of hair that clung to his face, the woman wove her hands around Faramir's and held their clasped fingers to her lips, pressing a small kiss against them.

'But we are here now, Faramir; Father and Elphir, Erchirion, Amroth and I. We are here, we who love you and for whom you must stay. We cannot part with you, not yet, my cousin. So you have no choice but to become well again.'

Faramir opened his mouth as if to speak once more but was stopped as his chest heaved with a foul cough.

'Lothíriel speaks the truth, Faramir, your kin is here,' said Imrahil tenderly. His voice told Éomer all he needed to know about the regard Imrahil had for his nephew.

Managing to take a sip or two of water from the cup held to his lips by the woman called Lothíriel, Faramir was able to speak once more.

'Osgiliath...fallen. Minas Tirith will-'

'Live to see another day, my lord steward,' finished Aragorn.

'For our King has finally come, nephew, and he has saved your life and many others with his healing hands. But that is for later, for now you must rest. Sleep, Faramir, and all shall be explained when you wake.'

Imrahil's words seemed to have the desired effect, for Faramir quickly lost consciousness.

Healer Halldor entered the room, and after a graceful bow to Aragorn, Imrahil and Éomer, he made his way to the bedside and rested a hand against Faramir's neck.

'His heartbeat has slowed; it now keeps a normal pace. His fever too, appears to be diminishing. You can rest easy, my lady,' he said with a smile at Lothíriel, 'for he should now sleep through the night.'

'Come, Lothíriel, there is no more you can do at present,' said Imrahil, placing his hands on her shoulders, 'and I should like to speak to you about the course of tomorrow.' She rose and bowed her head one more; Imrahil slipped an arm around her waist and quietly guided her from the room.

Leaving the Gondorian warrior to his rest, Éomer and Aragorn both moved through the open arch to the adjoining chamber where Éowyn lay. Éomer felt his heart still momentarily for she looked so cold and so serene; it was as if she were lying on her funeral pyre. A flicker of a grimace and the slightest movement of her head allowed him to draw a full breath once more, and he knelt down to gather both her hands in his.

'Éowyn,' he said in a voice low and hoarse, 'don't you dare slip away. Do you hear me? As your brother I forbid it. You are not to join our forefathers yet.'

He couldn't help but smile when his rough words seemed to soothe her, the small frown smoothing away and her face becoming an image of tranquility once more. He brought one hand up to gently run his thumb over the apple of her cheek, before moving to stand beside Aragorn once more.

'She is such a Rohirrim,' said Éomer, in a voice that seemed more as if he was talking to himself than speaking aloud to a friend. 'Indeed, she has always reminded me of a Rohirric filly. Beautiful, high spirited, stubborn…but delicate; needing firm but gentle handling. In the hands of the wrong master, she would be broken beyond repair…but with the best of masters, she would be almost peerless.'

'Only a Rohirrim would be able to compare his sister to his horse in a way that was flattering rather than insulting,' said Aragorn in wry amusement, though his eyes were serious as he watched the sleeping woman.

'True,' replied Éomer with an almost grin. 'Moreover, I do not believe she would resent the comparison to a horse, but only to a filly. War-mare would be more to her taste.'

Éomer turned as Healer Halldor entered through the archway, this time his arms laden with woven blankets, fresh linens and posies of clean smelling herbs which he laid on the table against the wall.

'We will ensure she has the best possible care, my lord, while you are afield,' said Healer Halldor, his voice distracted as he focused on resting his fingers against Éowyn's pulse this time and counted the beats.

'I trust that you will, Master Healer,' said Éomer, voice rough with emotion, gazing at the pale face of his sister once more.

'Come, Éomer…we must meet with the council shortly. You will have time to return before…'

'Yes, my friend. We must make our way to the meeting. Let us find Imrahil, so he can lead us back via the straightest path. Trust Gondorians to build their city like a circular labyrinth,' grumbled Éomer.

'This coming from a man whose people pride themselves on the maze of caverns that lie beneath Helms Deep,' muttered Aragorn, and Éomer found his mouth quivering with a smile once more.

With a final glance towards his sister, Éomer and Aragorn passed Faramir once more to exit into the main antechamber, which connected to the cloister at the heart of the Houses of Healing, There they found Imrahil speaking rapidly with the young woman named Lothíriel, who Éomer was assuming - given their similarity in features - was his daughter.

Upon their entering the chamber, Imrahil ceased to speak and turned to his friends with a face warmer and softer than Éomer had ever seen before.

'My friends, may I properly present to you my only daughter and princess of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel,' began Imrahil. The two men bowed their heads, and Lothíriel curtseyed.

'Lothíriel, this is Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir of Isildur, and Éomer Eomundsson, King of Rohan.'

After bowing her head and uttering a soft greeting to Aragorn, Lothíriel turned to Éomer, and he found himself looking into a pair of the most startlingly blue eyes. By now the sun had nearly risen and Éomer was able to make out more of her features. Large, almost uncanny, eyes were framed by thick lashes, and very fair skin were amongst his first impressions; he could now distinguish that her hair was not actually black, rather a brown so dark it almost looked it. Éomer could also see that even though her clothing was superbly sewn, it was a sensible linen in dove grey, and stained with dirt, grime and what looked to be blood. Her hands were clean, bur her arms and neck also bore traces of grime, and her hair was secured off her face by a band of braids.

'It is an honour to meet you, my lords. Despite there having been only days since the battle of Pelennor came to an end, I have heard many tales of your deeds.'

'It is an honour to meet you, Princess Lothíriel; an honour to meet any of Prince Imrahil's kin. Your father and brothers are valiant warriors, and I am privileged to count them as comrades,' said Aragorn.

'I share Aragorn's feelings on your kin, Princess Lothíriel, and am also honoured to make your acquaintance,' said Éomer.

The princess smiled; Éomer was struck by how similar and yet dissimilar her features were from her father and brothers. Her eyes shared their shape with her brothers, and she had the high cheekbones of her father; but there was a fullness to her that brothers lacked, evident in how the apples of her cheeks rounded as she smiled. And when she spoke, her voice was low and husky in a way Éomer had not expected from one with such a face.

She reminds me of the porcelain dolls that Éowyn coveted as a child, thought Éomer.

'Aragorn, Éomer, I know the council meeting will commence very shortly and I will lead us to it in just a moment. But first, Aragorn, I would have you know that I have found one who will act as Steward in my name so that I may freely ride with our companies to the Black Gates.'

'Really, Imrahil, you have "found" one who will act in your name? No finding of any kind was done, my lord - your proxy arrived unasked for, but not unwelcomed.'

Aragorn and Éomer turned to greet the new speaker. An elderly woman entered the room, her light footfalls echoing on the stone. Despite being of a small stature she possessed a commanding voice, and her imperious tone of voice was at odds with her twinkling eyes. Her face was wrinkled with many lines; lines that spoke of years of grief, loss and war. Her bone structure was unmistakably aristocratic. Pure white hair was pulled back into an elegant knot at the base of her neck, and her whole demeanor spoke of refinement and authority.

'My lords, may I introduce my sister Lady Ivriniel,' explained Imrahil, his tone exasperated but his expression affectionate, 'and the one who is wiling to act in my name as the Steward of Gondor.'

'You needn't fear for Minas Tirith or those who are to remain here, my lord,' said Ivriniel, looking straight at Aragorn, 'for I was a companion to our sister Finduilas, wife of the late Denethor, for many years. I know this city and its supply stores as well as I know those of Dol Amroth. We will maintain order for as long as is needed.'

Ivriniel moved to stand beside Lothíriel, patting her arm her affectionately.

'I have brought my niece, Lothíriel to act as an aide to myself and Lady Gwéndolynne, wife of Prince Elphir, who is currently presiding over the running of Dol Amroth.'

'An aide?' inquired Éomer, and he could see Aragorn was also at a loss as to how the princess would be able to assist two ladies, in two different cities, at once.

'Aunt Ivriniel and I sailed with several of our swiftest merchant ships,' explained Lothíriel. 'They came loaded with clothing, linen and food as well as medicines and weaponry. When we are able, I will set sail for Dol Amroth with many of the wounded, so that we may care for them in Dol Amroth and relieve the burden of the healers of Minas Tirith.'

'Trained as Lothíriel is in the ways of healing and having lived half her life at sea, she is the most suitable for supervising the moving of so many wounded men,' said Ivriniel.

'So you see my lords, the women have everything under control – as usual – and you can devote your minds entirely to the grave matter at hand. On that note, do you not have a council meeting that you are supposed to be attending?'

'Yes, my lady sister, we do. If we have the consent of our lord, we shall leave the running of things in your capable hands. I will see you both later in the day to discuss these matters further,' said Imrahil, nodding his head at the ladies before indicating for Aragorn and Éomer to follow. Éomer bowed his head to the women, as did Aragorn.

As he followed Imrahil into the cloister corridor Éomer overheard the Lady Ivriniel speak to the Lady Lothíriel.

'So…there go the new kings of Middle Earth, Lothí. Let us pray that they have kingdoms to return to, when all is said and done.'

'Indeed, Aunt. But first, let us pray that they return to us at all.'

The three men began to climb a set of stone stairs from the sixth level where the Houses of Healing were located, to the gate at seventh wall that lead to the Citadel.

'If you trust Lady Ivriniel with the running of Minas Tirith, until the time when Lord Faramir or yourself are able to return to the duty, I am sure all will be happy for you to leave it in her hands,' said Aragorn to Imrahil.

'Aye, I trust her whole-heartedly,' said Imrahil seriously. 'My brother's wife, Lady Rhea, is also aiding Lady Gwéndolynne while Adrahil maintains our forces along the coast. Between the four of them, I firmly believe those women could organise the running of a dozen kingdoms. So managing two in a state of war should be a stroll in the woods,' finished Imrahil with a quirk of his lips.

Éomer had never seen the Prince of Dol Amroth smile until that afternoon. Imrahil, much like himself, was rarely seen these days without a grim mouth and a furrowed brow. He knew the same oppressive cloud of uncertainty and fear shrouded Imrahil as it did on himself and Aragorn, and he was glad the Prince had reason to smile, even if for just a moment.

'Your elven heritage is evident in your daughter, Imrahil,' said Aragorn musingly. 'I had forgotten for a moment that it ran through your veins; but she is one who carries the light of the Elentarí.'

'She is indeed my star in this seemingly endless darkness,' said Imrahil quietly, his face distant. 'I fear not death, nor the enormity of the battle that lies ahead. But I fear what will become of her, should we fail…to know that she would be lost, one way or another, to horror and darkness; it fills me with a terror I cannot describe.'

Imrahil sighed deeply, before glancing and his companions and saying

'My apologies, my friends. I know there is no use in words of despair. Come, we have arrived.'

As Éomer took his seat, he thought on Imrahil's words. He knew precisely the feeling that Imrahil described, the terror that was beyond words. To fail would seal the fate of those loved ones who remained behind, would seal them a fate worse than death. The agony of believing his sister slain by Witch King was still fresh in his mind, and he could only imagine the torturous images that plagued Imrahil when he imagined his daughter at the hands of their enemies.

We must not fail, thought Éomer darkly. There is no alternative.

Seeing the grim determination of the other figures present, he knew that tomorrow would be the beginning of the end and, if the heavens favoured them…it would also be the beginning of a new age.

'Blade! Fetch me a toothed blade, and quickly!'

It had been a long meeting of the council and an even longer night that followed. After a few restless hours of tossing and turning, Éomer had given up on sleep. Having washed himself as best he could with the wash stand in his makeshift chamber, and found some bread to break his fast, he made his way to the Houses of Healing to see Éowyn one last time. He found Éothain at the entrance of the houses, conversing with Erkenbrand.

After greeting each with a clap of the shoulder, Éomer and Éothain moved into the courtyard of the Houses, Erkenbrand returning to the base of the citadel to command the éoreds to make ready for departure.

The sun was not yet fully risen, and yet the courtyard was in a chaotic state. There were wounded persons half propped against the walls, and healers flitting to and fro with needles, threads, linen bandages and skins of water.

The two men began to wend their way to the main archway that led to the healing rooms, when Éomer noticed a dark haired woman kneeled beside a young man laid out on a stretcher. The wounded man's face contorted with pain, and at a glance it looked as if half his body had been crushed. A young boy came hurrying towards the woman, carrying a torch and a blade.

'Hold the torch, there's a good lad, and hand me the knife, if you please,' said the woman in a voice Éomer immediately recognised.

'Are you going to cut it? Here?' asked the boy, his voice catching slightly.

'Yes,' replied Lothíriel grimly. 'All of the chambers are full, and we cannot wait to move him up to the higher levels to the temporary infirmaries.'

'Sharif! I need you!' called Lothíriel without turning her head, her eyes never leaving the wounded solider in front of her. She slipped the wineskin that had been crossed over her body over her head, and pulled the stopper out with her teeth, serrated blade still in hand.

Éomer stepped closer, finding himself unable to look away.

'Here, drink,' he heard her say gently to the wounded man, bringing the opening to his lips. He managed to gulp down a few mouthfuls before spluttering, and she then handed the skin to the young lad who had brought the knife.

Lothíriel leaned down to examine the mangled arm more closely. Frowning slightly, she put down the sharp, serrated blade and reached a hand into her boot. She withdrew a slim flat knife with a wide blade, and then reached an arm up to put the blade through the flames of the torch held by the youth for a long moment. As she turned back to her patient, a dark-skinned warrior came striding towards Lothíriel, and knelt down beside the stretcher.

He was dressed in armour unlike any Éomer had ever seen before. He wore a long dark linen skirt underneath a split black leather skirt, and a black leather breastplate over a long sleeved dark shirt. Several belts of engraved metal and black leather were wound around his waist, and in them was tucked a curved dagger. He wore a black cloak, and Éomer could just make out leather pauldrons protecting his shoulders and leather forearm guards. It was an outfit that marked the man as a swordsman, but a bold one at that, for his armour left many parts of his body exposed.

Éomer saw that Éothain was regarding the stranger with just as much interest.

'I need you to hold him still, sadiqi,' said Lothíriel. 'He will struggle from the pain, but I need him to be as still as possible.'

'I understand, emira,' replied the man, using his arms and upper body to restrain the right arm and leg of the wounded solider.

'His left side has been crushed,' said Éothain quietly to Éomer in Rohirric.

'Aye, and that right arm looks beyond saving. Which is why I believe she is about to cut it off,' replied Éomer.

'Béma, I hope she doesn't try and do the cutting herself. She doesn't look strong enough to swing a sword, let alone saw through a bone.'

'True. But then again neither does Éowyn…and we all know too well just what she is capable of.'

The two men watched the solider grimace as Lothíriel lifted the shattered arm and angled it away from his body. She then used the heated dagger to carefully cut into the flesh just below the join of his shoulder, and the soldier bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. She carefully and neatly cut into the layers of torn flesh, her hands quickly becoming crimson.

'I can see the bone is still intact here,' said Lothíriel to the man she had called Sharif. 'It can be severed cleanly.'

Éomer watched, horrified and yet mesmerised, as Lothíriel rose to her feet, picking up the sharp-toothed blade. She moved quickly to thrust it into the fire burning in the grated pit in the centre of the courtyard, only to then plunge it into a barrel of water that stood near the fire pit.

Éomer was not the only man watching the princess; he noticed several of the injured warriors leaning against the walls following her with their eyes.

A young male healer who had entered the courtyard only moments before moved forward, and without being told took over securing the soldier's feet and legs. Sharif produced what looked like a large wooden peg, and had the solider take it between his teeth, commanding him to bite. He then tightened his hold on the remaining good arm and placed his weight on the man's torso once more.

'Béma, she is going to do it,' murmured Éothain.

'It doesn't seem right,' said Éomer, frowning. 'Why not one of the male healers?'

'Lady Lothíriel is well trained in the ways of healing, my lords, and unlike most of our healers, she has also received training in the art of wielding blades, from dagger to a sword. She is actually more adept at performing amputations than many of the other healers present.'

Éomer turned to the voice that spoke to them from behind. Healer Halldor smiled upon seeing the scepticism on Éomer and Éothain's faces, and noting their surprise and his speaking in Rohirric.

'Though I am fairly certain that this was not Prince Imrahil had in mind, when he had his daughter learn the basics of how to swing a blade. I believe he meant it to be an education in self-defence, not necessarily training as a surgeon.'

'She's a princess?' said Éothain in amazement. 'This is Prince Imrahil's daughter?"

Lothíriel steadily commanded Sharif and the male healer to hold the wounded man firmly. Using both hands, she began to saw through the bone. The young solider screamed around the wooden peg in his mouth, limbs trying to jerk free; but the men held firm. Within only a few moments the bone was cut; Éomer, despite being a seasoned warrior, felt ill at the sight of the severed limb and the steady flow blood.

'Dauid, torch,' commanded Lothíriel. She had picked up the small flat blade once more, and the young lad moved the torch so that the middle of the blade was in the flame. After a few moments, Lothíriel pressed the heated blade flat against the now neat wound just below the man's shoulder. Held down as he was, the soldier was unable to thrash about, but his pained cries spoke of his agony.

Forcing herself to keep the blade firm against the wound, Éomer watched Lothíriel close her eyes for a moment. Withdrawing the blade and calling for the torch, she repeated the process twice more before asking for fresh cloth and water.

'You can release him now,' said Lothíriel. 'It is done.'

Dauid rushed back to Lothíriel, having exchanged the dagger and the torch for linen and a water skin. Lothíriel dampened the cloth, and pressed it to the burned flesh. Her movements were gentle as she began to wipe away the blood, and Éomer saw the soldier shudder.

'I am amazed he is still conscious,' said Éothain.

Éomer made a noise of agreement, and the crowing of a rooster broke his attention from the princess tending to the wounded man.

'Come, my friend, we must pay our last visits,' said Éomer. 'We will have to leave shortly.'

Lothíriel happened to look up just as Éomer walked by, her blue eyes meeting his own dark ones.

He nodded his head in greeting, which she returned. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were wide. If Éomer had to guess, he thought she was wondering precisely when he entered the courtyard…for he also guessed that Prince Imrahil was unaware of the exactly what kinds of tasks she was performing to aid to the healers.

He had come to understand that Imrahil had raised his daughter in an unusual manner. He and Éothain had overheard stories about the ruling family of Belfalas over the past couple of days; it appeared to be a favourite topic of discussion amongst the soldiers of Dol Amroth. Imrahil and his children were clearly beloved by their people, but also bemused them.

They had names for their first family: Imrahil was the Incorruptible, a beacon of honesty and honour. Elphir was the Eagle, with keen eyes that missed nothing, his instincts lethal on the battlefield as well as in the council room. Erchirion was known as Stormborn, a peerless captain who could sail his vessel and crew through any storm untouched. Amrothos was called the Arrow, best archer in all Dol Amroth and one whose words were said to always be as straight and true as his aim. And Lothíriel was known as the Swallow; but curiously Éomer had not yet heard why the princess was likened to the bird.

And whilst Éomer would not be pleased if he discovered that Éowyn was going around severing limbs when there others present who were capable of performing the unpleasant task, he knew would keep this scene to himself.

Imrahil is about to ride to what could be the end of his life, the end of our world – he does not need any more worries to plague him, thought Éomer, bowing his head once more to the princess, before turning towards the corridor and onwards to find his sister, and bid her what he desperately hoped was not a final goodbye.