Title: Open My Eyes

Rating: T

Pairings: Éomer/Lothíriel

Genre: Romance/Drama

Summary: A young, unusual lady teaches the King of Rohan that some of the most important things you can't see with your eyes.

Disclaimer: The Lord of The Rings is the property of J. R. R. Tolkien and his estate. This is a work of fanfiction, written for the enjoyment of myself and others. No financial profit is made by writing this.

Author's Note: Here comes a new story! I admit I am rather excited to finally publish this. It has been in the works for a while now, and I'm glad to finally be able to share it with you!

I hope you enjoy, and please tell me what you think!

Chapter 1

July 3020, South Gondor

The first thing Éomer son of Éomund knew upon waking was that he was in pain. Too bewildered and disoriented with this sensation, he couldn't at first locate the source of his current predicament; it seemed to him his entire body was hurting from head to toe. But at least he supposed it meant he was alive, because surely agonies of the world would be left behind in death?

He groaned and attempted to move, trying to discern how badly he was wounded and whether any of his limbs was broken or missing. But he didn't have a chance to find out anything, because there was a hand on the skin of his chest, and then a familiar voice: "Hold still, my friend. You have been injured."

"Aragorn", he rasped and blinked in an attempt to see his friend. But it was pitch black and his head was dizzy. At the very least, he was in the company of his closest friend, which meant there was no immediate danger. "Where are we?"

"I brought you to the base camp with the other wounded. It's all right, brother. You have been unconscious for many hours, but your injuries are not fatal", said the calm, soothing voice of the King of Arnor and Gondor. It had him relaxing somewhat, because Aragorn was one of the very few people in he'd take for their word without any questions. The hand which had been holding him down moved to carefully lift his head, and Aragorn spoke again, "Here, have a drink. You must be thirsty."

Éomer could not deny that, and he emptied the cup of water two times before he was satisfied. Refreshed by the drink, he was now able to pay more attention to his surroundings. Apparently he was lying in a cot, with sheets and blankets covering his battered body. Among other hurts smaller and greater his lip throbbed painfully, making him wonder if he had hit it somewhere; at least he didn't seem to be missing any teeth. Bits and pieces of memories were also starting to return, and he recalled there had been a battle... the southern sun had scorched him hotly under his heavy gear, as he had observed Aragorn's troops spreading to the desolate plain below and engaging the tribesmen in battle, and then the moment he had lead his Riders into the fray...

"Why is it so dark? Is it night?" he asked his friend, searching or the other man's face in the blackness. Why weren't his eyes adjusting to the lack of light?

"No, it's not dark. The sun rose an hour ago", said the older of the two kings, sounding rather disturbed by Éomer's question. And the Rohir was equally disturbed by the answer, because it brought him to a very disconcerting realisation.

"Aragorn, I can't see. I can't see", he choked and moved restlessly as he attempted the get up, but again his friend pressed him down.

"Be calm, brother", said the King of Arnor and Gondor, and his voice betrayed no alarm. How could the man still remain so collected? But even as Éomer's mind was starting to fill with panic, Aragorn continued, "You must focus now. What do you remember of the battle?"

The younger man took a deep breath and closed his eyes, though the latter action was rather pointless when he could see nothing to begin with and no visual disturbance was interfering with his trying to make sense of the muddle of his thoughts. He wanted nothing as much as to demand if his friend knew some remedy, but he still had enough reason to know he had to trust Aragorn and remain calm.

"We had made plans to surround the hostile tribes on the plain near Harnen... I was waiting for your signal, and then we rode to join you. I... I think everything was going just as we had hoped, but then I..." he muttered, struggling to remember. It all seemed so hazy, and he had hard time figuring out which action had preceded which. But behind all that, there was a clearer memory of a campaign they had planned: Aragorn sending an ask for help to Edoras, and his messenger talking about a threat of Harardrim tribes in South Gondor – the wild no-man's land beyond Southern Ithilien, which had often been contested for by Southrons and Gondorians since times immemorial. In rapid flow, Éomer's mind filled with images of mustering éoreds, preparations for war campaign, and then riding to aid his friend to cleanse the southern borders of invaders...

"Then what? What happened, Éomer?" Aragorn coaxed gently.

"I saw Prince Erchirion on the ground. His horse had fallen on him, and one of the enemies was trying to kill him. I took the villain down with my spear and dismounted to see if Erchirion was all right. I was trying to release him when he cried in alarm, and something stabbed me in the neck... thanks to Erchirion, I was moving and trying to dodge the attack, and so the blade didn't cut me deep. I got up and there was this tribesman with a dagger in his hand..." he answered slowly. The more he thought, the clearer the images became. "Suddenly, there were more of them. I fought them, but then my eyes started to grow dim and I could scarcely lift my arm to use my sword. I felt someone stabbing me. Then I fell and everything went dark."

"That's when Éothain got to you with several of your Riders. They were able to prevent those tribesmen from causing you further harm", Aragorn replied solemnly and rested his hand on the Rohir's shoulder. "Your captain and men rescued you and Prince Erchirion from the field, and when the battle was over, I transported you here myself. You needn't worry about Erchirion; he wasn't badly wounded. But I do believe you saved his life."

"As for your own injuries, you took several wounds that needed sewing, though I did not guess then that there might be other damage as well", Aragorn quickly continued, "I know what you must be feeling right now, but you should not give into despair yet. You said your neck was cut – I believe you were poisoned, my friend, for Southrons often lace their arrows and blades with concoctions to disarm or kill their opponents. It helps them to take down the more heavily armoured knights, and I think you were stabbed with such a weapon. I have heard of warriors losing their eyesight in battle before. This particular poison blinds you in small amounts, but a bigger dose will strip you of your senses – even induce a death-like paralysis."

"Is it permanent?" Éomer asked, trying to keep his voice from growling. How disconcerting it was, to not be able to see anything! But he felt the mattress under his back and his friend's hand on his arm. From outside, he could hear the noises of a camp in the middle of morning chores. At least he was not completely oblivious to the world.

"No, it shouldn't be. Depending on how much you got in your blood, the effects can last from one day to a week, maybe even longer. It's difficult to say, as there's no telling how fresh the poison was and how strong it was made", answered the older king.

The Rohir groaned again, though it was mostly in frustration now. Yes, he was still hurting but he could reason well enough despite the pain, so it couldn't be fatal.

"How soon do you think I'll be able to return to the battlefield?" he asked his friend.

"Your wounds need to heal first and the poison must wear off. Until then, you have no business returning to the fighting. Don't worry, my friend – Elfhelm has already assumed the command in your absence, and he'll take care of everything while you recover", Aragorn stated, just as Éomer had feared. But as much as he would have liked to argue, he knew his friend was right. What use would he be commanding the Rohirrim if he couldn't even see?

"I hate this", he eventually stated, though the complaint did not make him feel any better. Indeed, no amount of whining would make him heal faster, or return his eyesight to him.

"I know, brother. But thanks to you, Erchirion lives. Imrahil will not forget it", Aragorn said and patted his shoulder, albeit very carefully. "I'm just glad you are alive. For a moment I already thought..."

The older man didn't finish the sentence, but Éomer heard the memory of horror in his voice. He knew all too well how it felt like to see the face of someone you cared about among the slain and think they were dead too. It also softened his mood as he imagined what Aragorn must have gone through when the lifeless body of his friend was carried from the battlefield.

"What about the battle?" Éomer asked then, wondering what had been the outcome of it. Had they won? At any rate, they had had the upper hand while he had still been awake, but it was possible that him going down had dismayed the Rohirrim...

"Our forces were victorious. But don't concern yourself with it overmuch now. Éothain will fill you in with the details once you have rested. He will be glad to hear you were awake", Aragorn answered and the younger man could feel him shifting. "I will have to return the frontlines soon to make sure our triumph will not go to waste. The men should also be informed that you are not in immediate danger anymore. I hope you will not worry over the campaign, but concentrate on getting well again."

"So you expect I will be content to remain oblivious while you lead the war?" Éomer asked, though he was aware his words would have come out much more impressively hadn't it been delivered by a temporarily blind man from his sickbed.

"I will send messengers to keep you up to date, if that will make you happy – and prevent you from trying to get back to the frontlines", Aragorn answered and in his voice there was the first hint of gentle humour Éomer had heard so far.

Then his friend placed his hand against his shoulder, and continued to speak, "You must get some rest. If you are in pain, I can give you something to help you sleep."

"... aye. I'd appreciate that", Éomer muttered and settled back. Truth be told, he wished for the numbing medicines rather to keep from succumbing to panicky thoughts of never regaining his eyesight than because the pain of his injuries was too much to bear.

Perhaps Aragorn somehow knew what was on his mind, because the touch of his hand became comforting.

"Don't despair, my friend. You are strong and hardy, and I fully believe you will see again. Just be patient", said the King of Arnor and Gondor, but his words brought less consolation to Éomer than he'd have liked. Be that as it may, only thing he could do now was wait and hope.

Aragorn left his side for a moment to talk to someone close by – a guard posted at the doorway of the tent, Éomer guessed – and it was not long that another person entered the tent. The conversation was carried in soft Sindarin but he assumed his friend had merely called for medicines and someone, a healer maybe, had come to aid him.

Then the older man held a cup to his patient's mouth and the Rohir drank the cool, tasteless liquid offered to him. With it, sweet numbness began to spread and his thoughts became fuzzy, and then he knew no more.

There were unfamiliar hands on him when he woke up again. Alarm came to him instinctively and the first thing he thought was the unknown person touching him meant him harm. But even as he was trying to get up and his body was protesting to such motion, the hands quickly shifted to his shoulders and he was pushed down.

"Hold still, my lord. You shouldn't be moving yet", said a soft, female voice. He couldn't say he recognised it, and lacking visuals he couldn't dig his memory for faces, either. As the facts of his situation returned to his mind, Éomer felt dismayed. Perhaps it had been wrong to hope that by some grace of the Powers, he'd see when he woke up again.

"Who are you?" he roughly asked, still contemplating trying to get up no matter what she said.

"I am your healer, my lord. Now stay put. You're only going to hurt yourself if you're not careful", she answered patiently. Though her voice was soft and melodious, it also implied she was used giving commands. This was not a woman who was easily intimidated or ordered around.

Grudgingly he complied and settled back again in the cot. His mind was full of questions, but he decided to start with the simplest one.

"Is Aragorn still here?" he asked her.

"No, my lord. He left hours ago after you went to sleep. But he asked me to take care of you while he's away and make sure you are healed", said the woman, and listening to her speak was as though the sound of cool, clear waters running over stones. It was a gentle, comforting sound, and he wondered if it was a natural trait of hers or a skill acquired in her healer's trade.

She continued to talk, "I was just checking your injuries and changing the dressings. They seem good for the most part, but the wound on your shoulder worries me. These were sown in haste and the field healers may have missed something..."

Éomer grunted. How she made it sound like he was a patched quilt! Well, with his collection of scars, it wasn't that far from the truth.

"My lord, are you in very serious pain? King Elessar told me to give you poppy if you need it", she said then, and he felt her hand on his forearm. She had light, soft fingers – very different from Aragorn's swordsman's fists.

"Everything just hurts", he muttered in discomfort; he couldn't deny a dreamless sleep would be a welcome escape from this situation.

"Sleep may be the best medicine for you right now. But we need to get some food and drink inside of you before you can rest, my lord", she said and her hand left his skin, leaving him with the sensation of being lost. How this darkness appalled him! And how helpless it made him, along with these damned wounds!

The healer spoke softly to someone nearby, and again he guessed it was his guards. He would have liked to talk with Éothain, but right now he wasn't sure he could hold up a conversation for long. He still needed sleep.

There was the gentle rustling of clothes and he felt her presence next to him again.

"I have sent for food, my lord", she said in those soothing tones. The woman's voice was almost like a song.

"Thank you", Éomer said quietly. His eyes were wide open but all he saw was darkness, and hadn't his body felt so raw and beaten, he would have been wondering if he should ever see again.

"Don't be disheartened. Your body is strong. It will heal, but you must give it time", said the healer, and he wanted to believe her. For how could he be king if he was but a man in a broken body?

The young king had rather overestimated his current recuperation: he scarcely had strength to lift himself into a half sitting position and drink the gruel she had ordered. When he tried to lift his left arm, it felt like a blade stabbed through his shoulder. He was only able to finish the food with her help, which was rather humiliating. But he figured he wouldn't be able to retain his dignity before her anyway, if she had been assigned to stay with him until he was healed. And judging by the cleverness of her fingers and her determined attitude, she was very much used to all kinds of human conditions. She had probably seen much worse things in her time. For her, he was merely another patient she'd nurse back to health before moving on to the next wounded thing.

When he had swallowed last of the gruel and drank some water, she gave him another dose of poppy. Then, as the medicine was pulling him under and into blessed sleep, the last thing he felt was her hand on his brow.

Rest did not improve his condition. In fact, the next time Éomer woke up it was to such cold and shivering as he could not remember ever experiencing. Meanwhile, his left shoulder felt like it was on fire and he was vaguely aware of his own ragged breathing.

"Éowyn", he rasped the name of his sister, though there seemed to be a thought at the back of his mind that she was in Ithilien, getting used to her new life with Faramir. She'd not get here in time.

"Shh, my lord. Hold still", another voice spoke, and then there were those hands on his chest... did he know these hands? She sounded familiar...

"Éowyn", he spoke more forcibly now.

"You have fever, my lord. The wound in your shoulder is infected – I must open and cleanse it", said the voice, but he didn't know what to make of this. The wound... where had he got it anyway? Where was he? Why couldn't he see?

"My lady, I beg of you. Can you save him?"

Now there was a voice he recognised. Éothain! Why did his friend sound so worried?

"I can try. Have faith, captain. Your king is a strong man and the wound isn't too far gone. If I open and treat it now, he has good chances", she answered. The healer... the woman with a voice like waterfalls...

"Just do it. Please help him", Éothain mumbled in a weak, strangled voice.

"I will need a moment to prepare. And I may need you, captain – he's weak but you should be here to hold him down just in case. Opening that wound will be very painful for him", came the answer, but though it seemed to promise some very agonising moments for him, Éomer couldn't find it in himself to care.

He felt a hand hold his good shoulder and there was a tightness in the grip that revealed great concern.

"Hold on, laddie. We need you to pull through this. I'm not done with you yet", a rough voice spoke quietly. Éomer only managed to groan as an answer.

People were moving about him, that much he could discern even in his current condition. Voices were talking quietly and he was growing more concerned with his burning shoulder to try to listen. But then he felt a pair of hands on his chest.

"Remember to be careful, captain. He must not take any more injury", the woman said.

"He's my king and the last of his line. Of course I'll be careful", Éothain growled. In any other situation it might have made Éomer smile. Sometimes his second in command was even grumpier than himself.

A hand touched his good shoulder again, but it was not Éothain this time. Then a voice spoke: "My lord, the wound is making you very sick. I will have to open it and it will be very painful for you, but if I do not do this, you will die. Do I have your permission to continue?"

"Do what you need to do", he rasped and breathed hard, wishing he would just pass out.

More rustling followed and there was a hard, calloused hand on his forearm. The presence of his friend was reassuring; they had seen worse times than this, and they would pull through like they had before.

"Can you wedge this between his teeth?" the healer asked.

"Aye, my lady", said the captain, and then the young king felt something like a piece of wood pushed in his mouth. The method was familiar to him, for he had endured painful wounds being sown before.

"Are you ready?" the healer asked, to which both men grunted in affirmative. Éomer took a deep breath through his nose and dug his nails into the mattress as he prepared for the slow torment he was in for.

Like expected, pain was bewildering. Before his shoulder had been on fire – now it felt like a white hot blade was being turned in it over and over again, and it was only Éothain's strong hands holding him down that kept him from thrashing about in agony. The healer spoke softly in Sindarin while she worked, her tone gentle and soothing. The young king didn't understand much of it but there seemed to be a promise that this would end soon. For both their sakes, he hoped it was true.

Then suddenly she let out a small cry, and something was pulled out of his shoulder.

"I knew it! One of their blades must have splintered when they were stabbing him", the healer said, her voice victorious. "Now I just need to clean the wound and sew him up again, and he'll be fine."

"You promise this to me, my lady?" Éothain asked gravely.

"I'm sure of it, captain. Don't be troubled – I will not let anything happen to him", she stated confidently.

Exhausted by his ordeal, Éomer could only lay down while she finished up. Compared to the pain before, the sting of whatever liquid she used to bathe the wound seemed perfectly nice. Then he could feel the stab of the needle when she stitched it close. She hummed quietly as she worked, and whether it was due to the fever he couldn't say, but her voice was almost hypnotic.

When she was done, she helped him to drink a little. Then her soft voice urged him to go to sleep, and the young king was happy to oblige.

To be continued.