NOTE TO THE DISCLAIMER: I do not own Tolkien so therefore every thing in this story belongs to him, with the exception of Athera, Kamros, and Faelsayne…

There was a woman in the gardens today. She was weeping over the dead body of a young boy. I could see some of my fellow healers trying to get the woman to leave. But she would not. I had things to do inside. I had come out merely to catch my breath, but something drew me too her. I felt I had something to learn. "Athera, I can talk to her. Please return to what ever you were doing…"

Athera nodded, stood and took her leave. I watched her climb the steps and disappear into the houses of healing before I addressed the woman. She had dark numenorean hair; it fell freely across her shoulders. Moving with her shoulders as they heaved. "I am sorry…" I murmured. She looked up at me, she had chestnut eyes, they were puffy and tears rolled from them.

I kneeled to her height, regarding the boy whom she stroked so lovingly. "He tried to protect me you know…" she choked. I placed my hand on hers. "What is his name?" She stopped sobbing and looked at me with deepest desperation in her eyes. "His name was Kamros…" her voice cracking. "He must have been a very brave boy…" I added softly. The woman seemed to smile a bit. "Just like his father…" she trailed off again.

More than anything I wanted to ask where ever was his father, but I already knew the answer. The battle of Pelennor Fields had a terrible death count. It reached higher with each passing second. "What did he do?" I asked a question again. The woman shifted, I could now see the boy clearly. He had wavy brown hair, lighter than his mothers though. But he had his mother's chestnut eyes. They stared at them both motionlessly.

"He threw himself in the way of an attacking orc. He took a blow for me…" she had returned to sobbing now. Gently, I pried her fingers off his stomach and looked at the wound. It was deep. It would have done a lot on impact. One of his legs was horribly mangled. It was clear that he was dead. I reached up his head and pulled his eyelids over his eyes respectively. His mother watched, she shook hard.

"I am sorry we could not do enough… but you have to leave him…" I whispered, holding her hand. She jerked her hand away and stopped crying. There was no longer depression but a burning anger. "Nothing! You did nothing! There was no one available! For your nobles, and captains there is always a healer, always a healer readily available! Why could you not spare one moment for my child. Now he is dead. Dead like his father and sister, they are all gone…" She was wailing now. But I understood.

She must have made it up here, but there had been no one to spare. They were all sent for the soldiers. It was true; no one had made an effort for the civilians. It painted a terrible picture in my head. I had no children, nor a husband. I could not relate to what she was going through, but I could feel her pain. It radiated off her, like heat does to a searing bread oven, or to the pits of Mount Doom.

"What is your name?" I asked desperately trying to calm her. "Faelsayne…" she murmured. "Faelsayne, you are not the only one in this situation. Have you any relatives you can go see in neighboring cities?" I asked. I was a healer in the Houses of Healing, it was my job to see to it, that who ever needs help gets it. We had made errors, grave errors. Errors that cost the life of an innocent child.

"Yes, I have a mother and a Brother in Lebennin…" she said softly, not quite meeting my gaze. I looked her over, "There is nothing left for you in Minas Tirith. I suggest you go to Lebennin. There are supply carts and messengers making for it tomorrow. We can provide you with food and bed for the night, and then you can be off with them tomorrow. That is, if it is what you would want?" The woman looked at me then to her son. I could understand her uncertainty.

"The boy would come with you. He would need a funeral. But you would not see him until he is safely placed away in Lebennin. I have a healer who can do that for you. The graves in Minas Tirith will be too many soon. I want him to have a proper funeral. I cannot begin to understand your loss but I would be of any assistance I can be. I can tell when we have made a mistake…"

She looked up at me and smiled. "Yes I would like that very much…" I smiled back and called for another healer to take her away. She let herself be led away, trusting that her son was in safe hands. I had gotten him to be made ready for his journey. As she backed away she paused and looked back at me.

"Excuse me, But I never caught your name, I do not know who to thank for bringing me out of that darkness!" she exclaimed. I smiled at her and looked her way, "You may call me Lothíriel!" She smiled and turned around. I never saw that woman again. The messenger's told me that she was reunited with her family, and I was glad. That was the last I heard of her.

I broke into a brisk walk and climbed the steps that led from the gardens, back into the Houses, and I thought of Kamros and his dedication, the way he would risk his own life for that of his mother. He looked but twelve, thirteen perhaps. Such utter devotion, the human brain was something I would never figure out, it was a working miracle, the way some people lived, and others died…

Thank-you for reading this! I know that it is a lot to ask but perhaps you could spare the time to review this, thank-you. Please don't flame me, I have all ready pointed out in a previous story that I have super comeback power so…

I have forgotten what I was going to say… Wonderful… I'll just leave it as is then… Oh right, if you catch any spelling errors, feel free to point them out. I will probably not get around to editing them, but if being all grammar-like makes you feel better, go for it!

Mara Mesta!