"Awake! White Lady of Rohan, the Shadow has passed!"
The commanding words washed over her as a reprieve from a violent storm; and how violent her inner visions had been. Or had they been much more than the shades of past and the cruel night, the piercing chill of some dark reality?
The great beast had been there... along with the Lord of the Nazgul mocking her and her kin with death. And strangely she had defied it, owning her identity for the first time in all her life, choosing life, throwing her male disguise asunder. Eowyn was not weak in her femininity; she had used it to her power. "I am Eowyn, daughter of kings, a Shieldmaiden of Rohan!" The words had crashed through her mind as she felled the beast; and then at last through the haze of her great pain she slew the Nazgul king with a final surge of strength flowing through her screaming veins. She remembered her death grip on the hilt of her bloodied sword, the way her hand had melded around it, raw, burning, alive with something beyond herself. Eowyn had been one with the steel. She had fallen, but so had her monsterous tormenter.
That had been no dream. Was she dead now or alive? What or who was calling her through the grey shadowy mist?
Understanding swept through her, clarifying the voice. Aragorn...
Pain and wild joy crowded her thoughts. "Then we are not lost yet; there is indeed hope. But is there still any hope... for me?" With that Eowyn opened her eyes to the golden light. Faces swam before her vision.
The cool air bathed her face as her eyes met her brother's. She was aware of figures moving in and out of the room, but for the moment all she saw was Eomer, his familiar hand gripping hers as if it would slip away. "Eowyn," he whispered, all the fear and solace betrayed with her name uttered aloud.
"Eomer! You are alive!" her voice came out rasping, and edged with disbelief.
"Yes, my sister. Barely. We both have Aragorn to thank for our hides," he paused then as if he was afraid he had said the wrong thing.
"Do not worry, for I know it was he that healed me." Her skin seemed to tremble, barely perceptible in the soft lighting.
"And what of our uncle, the King of the Mark, where does he lie?" Seeing the glimmer of repressed tears in Eomers eyes, Eowyn remembered. "Wait... Eomer, don't speak, I know he is gone despite all my efforts to save him. This... above all is my most tormenting wound." She squeezed Eomer's hand even as it brought forth feelings of physical pain.
"He is lying in honor in this city's Citadel, awaiting the appropriate time to travel home. Oh Eowyn- we have won a great battle but the War is still not over," Eomer said with a cutting, difficult honesty.
"I know that too. If I may recover from my injuries and help in some way... then perhaps the shadow will not hold sway." That fighting light that Eomer knew well bloomed in her determined features.
"For now you must rest," he told her, trying to be stern and failing in some way.
"What of Meriadoc, the Halfling? Is he alright? He was valiant beyond belief upon the field!" Eowyn exclaimed, her eyes finally falling on the wizard Gandalf Mithrandir in the shaded corner.
"He is also recovering in this Great House, and I now must go to him. Please allow yourself to heal my Lady, you have fulfilled much that was needed," The wizard told her wisely, gazing perceptively at the siblings before retiring from the room with a courteous bow and thrumming footsteps.
"He is quite right, you know," said Eomer with a small smile.
"They are right... my Lady, at the import of healing at this time." From the shadows a woman stepped closer to the bed where Eowyn lay, a compassionate, gentle expression in her sculpted face; one high of cheekbones, slender-lipped, with eyes of deep-set hazel. Chestnut hair fell from beneath her pinned veil. She looked to be about the siblings age. Eowyn guessed she was a high-ranking healer. Her garments were simple but of a high quality.
"I am Lothiriel," The woman said, introducing herself, "I am a healer here in the Houses of Healing of Minas Tirith. But I am also Lord Faramir's cousin, the daughter of Imrahil of Dol Amroth. You may call me just Lothiriel, there is no pretension, as healing is my only true calling in this world. You are indeed a valiant woman . . . Eowyn, Lady of Rohan. You most relax however difficult that may be, in order to heal what remains damaged in both body and soul. I am going to encourage your brother, Lord Eomer, to come visit you often as it will be very good for both of you. I will leave you now, but I will return, as I have been chosen to oversee your healing during your stay with us here. Ask anything of us, we Gondorians owe you much. Soon you must sleep my Lady; so talk of things gentle and mild if you can." With a delicate, beaming smile, Lothiriel curtsied deeply and retired from the chamber.
Eowyn noticed her brother surreptitiously watching Lothiriel's departure. "She is quite interesting... a noblewoman-healer!" said Eowyn in drowsy wonderment. Her eyelids gently flickered, resisting the deep sleepiness that softened her usual fire.
"Yes, she is," Eomer spoke quietly, turning back to his returned sister. The evening shadows began to deepen over the room, bringing all manner of thoughts, anxieties, and hopes that whispered throughout the city and into the far outer reaching lands.