Disclaimer: Tolkien owns all.
They left. From hardened soldiers like my brother and Lord Aragorn, to boys who had only seen their first battle with the defense of Minas Tirith. I never saw them go, but the healers tell me that they made quite the impression; bold warriors all. I never said goodbye, but they said that I would surely see my brother again. He was king now.
I waited. I waited, for it was all I had left to do. I had seen my battle, tasted the bittersweet flavor of victory, and somehow, I had survived. I was as yet unsure if it had been worth surviving. My arm still bothered me, but it was a welcome distraction, a reminder that my uncle had not died in vain. Because of him, the world would continue, for at least a little longer. I simply was not sure what was left in this world for me.
On my better days, I would walk along the gardens and the walls, watching for a break in the clouds. Only the fires burning in the distance interrupted the darkness. Beyond the quiet walls of the healer's complex, Gondor burned her dead, cleaned the rubble, and shored up her gates. There were too many bodies to bury them all. Even further in the distance, Barad-dur sent up bright fires of its own. For all the smoke rising around the city, I could not help but shiver in the cold.
He was there, sometimes, holding a silent vigil of his own. He did not quake at the sight of those fires, but when he thought I was not looking, he sometimes reached for his shoulder, touching some memnonic wound of his own. He and I were much alike, in some ways. We were two warriors sick of war, reduced to waiting for our kings.
We did not talk much, he and I. What was there to say? Pretty speeches could not bring back my uncle or his father, nor could they hasten Eomer's safe return. Words would not brighten the leaden sky or heal our scars. I chose to keep to silence, for I had become acclimated to it during my brother's exile. Perhaps it was a poor cloak against the cold, but silence was an armor of a sort. He, too, seemed to appreciate the brooding quiet of the garden wall. He might walk with me, but he did not try to penetrate my shield of silence with expressions of pity or false optimism.
Days turned into weeks, and still we waited. He told me that his mother's brother and cousins had ridden with Aragorn, as well. I did not tell him that my heart had gone with those two kings. I think he already knew.
I watched the fires in the distance until my eyes began to water from exhaustion. He would lean against his staff, looking over the walls, until his legs shook from the effort of holding himself up. Then he collapsed slowly against the wall, his head sinking unwillingly to his knees. A few times, we even fell asleep in the gardens, straining to make out anything that might resemble a being - friend or foe - against the watchfires. Neither of us was in much shape to deal with a potential enemy, but it did not hurt to keep on guard.
I did not like to think of how an enemy might come upon this city. The hordes Sauron had sent against us had been destroyed, and the soldiers of Gondor had been very thorough about their business. To have more coming upon us would mean that orcs could be spared from Mordor. There were not nearly as many men leaving Minas Tirith as had entered it, but we could afford no more. I was not sure that we could afford to send as many as the number that had left.
The gardens remained quiet, offering an empty sort of peace and safety. Beyond, there were the sounds of cleaning and construction, but even the city was subdued, left to wait. Minas Tirith seemed gray and ashen, as wounded as her remaining children.