Thank you to everyone that pointed out my spelling and grammar mistakes. I have been a bit sleep deprived with my day job, and I am trying to write this fic as quickly as it comes to my mind, both so that I don't forget what I have imagined, and also so that you, dear reader, can have access to it.

Please excuse any mistakes as that of someone who is working 80 hour weeks. While I do proofread before I upload, I always appreciate others giving this a once over as well!

Chapter 12

The next day, at the Houses of Healing, Lothíriel worked closely with one of the new apprentices to suture a young glassblower's arm. The man had cut it after accidentally slipping and falling into a large stain glass window. She had spent nearly an hour picking out glass shards from the man's right forearm.

The patient had been heavily drugged with opium to help with the pain, as the apprentice began to sew the longest gash with catgut. He was quite good for a beginner, and his stitches were neat and quick. However, his bandaging was sloppy, and she quickly adjusted it when he had left the room.

When she was done with her duties to this patient, she followed the apprentice to the next ward and struck up conversation, pretending to be more interested than she actually was. "That was very good stitching," she said as she walked the white stone hallway. The entirety of the Houses of Healing was made of stone and the walls and floors were marble to create a clean, sterile appearance. Their footsteps echoed. "You must have been very good to become an apprentice."

The boy, for that was what he was, blushed. He could not have been more than eighteen, with mousy brown hair and a bare face. He had wide blue eyes with too long lashes and a straight nose. "Thank you sister," he said.

He was very young.

Not very talkative either.

"I hear very few that apply become apprentices," Lothíriel pressed.

The boy nodded as they began to ascend the stairs. "Yes, I hear every year, the Houses only take ten, and this last year, near a hundred applied."

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow. She had heard that it was difficult to become an apprentice, but did not realize the chances were so low. She hesitated for a moment. "Then I must congratulate you on becoming an apprentice," she said, still trying to press the conversation. "How did you train for such a position?"

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Train?" He hesitated for a moment. "We receive all our training here. I merely come from a good background, sister, and the Head Healer said that from my excellent recommendation and my essay that I was learned and would be easy to train."

A good background, an excellent recommendation, and an essay, Lothíriel thought. Was that really all that was needed?

She almost laughed out loud. How were the Head Healers possibly to know who was to be a good healer just from those elements? But if those were the things they wished, she certainly had a good background, and she could get them one of the best recommendation letters they had ever seen.

He rounded a corner, and Lothíriel continued to follow.

"How did you become interested?" she persisted.

The young man glanced at her suspiciously, but did not seem to think there was much harm in answering her questions. "I would help my father at times with our livestock, and he said I was good a helping birth the foals. It seemed like an interesting trade, and so when my uncle came to Minas Tirith, I had him take me an application."

Lothíriel continued to follow him, more intent now on their conversation. "So then anyone can simply take an application?"

The boy nodded. "Oh yes, they are open to anyone who would wish for one. After all, the Houses wish to attract the most talented Healers. You simply ask the registrar at the front office of the apprentice dorms, and they shall hand you one. Or, if they are gone, there are forms on display.

He rounded another corner, and Lothíriel did not follow him. Instead, she turned and almost ran to the front office near the apprentice dorms.

She stayed up that night, furiously writing her application. The Houses of Healing called for an essay, at least twelve inches, on why she wished to become an apprentice and what her qualifications were. She also needed a letter of recommendation and a page with her name, rank, and current positions.

"Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," she wrote, and hesitated

What in Middle-Earth did she write for the other two inquiries? Princess of Dol Amroth was true, but it did not argue for why she was fit to become a healer.

After chewing the top of her quill for a few more moments, she penned, "Nobility," for rank and "Sister of Healing" for current position. Of course, anyone who was paying attention would see from her name and age who she actually was.

She stared for another moment at the sealed letter of recommendation from Arwen at her desk and turned back to her essay. But really, what qualified her to be a healer?

She thought back to the last few days at the Houses and grimaced. It was necessary to clean linens and latrines and bring medications to the patients, of course, but it was not why she wanted to be a healer.

She wanted to understand the secrets of the human body, to understand how to knit broken bones back together. She wanted to mix her own potions and diagnose others with their ailments. She wanted to deliver an expecting woman, to bring new life into the world.

But most of all, she wanted to bring hope to the dying, to somehow snatch those from the jaws of death. It was an unrealistic desire, of course, to save everyone, but if she could even stop one death, prevent one heart from stopping…

She looked away from the page, realizing that the parchment was wet from a tear.

She had not known how to save her mother. She was too young and stupid to save her from drowning, but if only she had known the healing arts then, she may have saved her.

Suddenly, she knew what to write.

"My mother was the most selfless person I knew…"

The essay was done at daybreak.

Lothíriel hurriedly rolled the parchments together and sealed them with wax. She did not use her seal, but left the small red smear of wax blank.

Then, with as much speed as she could, for she was afraid that if she waited, she would lose the momentum she had all night and give into exhaustion, she pulled on her slippers and raced out the door.

Only to slam into the tall body of Éomer, who was coming around the corner.

She gave a small scream as the two rolls of parchment flew from her hands and scattered over the floor. Éomer was so solid that she was flung back from the force of hitting him and nearly lost her footing.

"My lady Lothíriel!"

As quick as a cat, the man had caught her around the waist, preventing her from falling. For a moment, she was face-to-face with Éomer's startled blue eyes, her nose nearly touching his.

His body was warm around hers, his arms holding her tightly against his body. For a moment, she felt completely safe, and the worries of the world seemed to fall away.

It was only for a moment, for in that instant, they both realized what a compromising position they were in, and Éomer let her go. Thankfully, her feet touched the ground.

"My lord Éomer, I apologize," she quickly said, averting her eyes. She was afraid she would do something very dangerous indeed if she continued to look into those blue orbs. She could not help but notice how well he looked in his gray tunic, with his golden hair strewn about his shoulders. "I was in a hurry and did not see you."

She raked a hand through her hair to smooth it, and realized suddenly what a mess she must look. She had been up all night, staring at parchment in dim candlelight, and she was still wearing the same wrinkled dress from yesterday. And, by the Valar, when was the last time she had bathed?

Éomer, however, did not seem to notice any of these things as he smiled broadly at her. "You must be careful, my lady. I am beginning to think you get around by running into things. Here, allow me to help you."

He bent down to pick up the parchments, and too late did she realize that she had not given the wax enough time to dry. Her application had sprung open, and her name and intent clearly on display.

"Oh, no, that is quite alright—" she tried to snatch the piece of parchment from the man's grasp, but only succeeded in slapping his hand.

"Oh, Valar, I apologize," she gasped, pulling her hand back. It was only from her training as a princess that she did not immediately put her head in her hands. Somehow, before it was even time for breakfast, she had slammed into the king of Rohan and slapped him.

It was only moments later after her faux pas that she realized that Éomer had picked up the pieces of parchment, which were now open, and was looking down at them.

She felt the air around her go very still.

Time seemed to slow as she watched the man's eyes dart over the page.

For a few moments, he said nothing.

It was then she realized that her heart was at her throat, and she desperately wished that she could rip the parchment away from him. But decorum and frank fear held her back.

"You are applying to be a healer's apprentice?"

Éomer's words finally broke the silence.

She said the only thing she could say. "Yes."

There was a pause, and Éomer seemed to study her for a moment. "I thought you already worked in the Houses of Healing."

She swallowed. "Yes, but only as an assistant."

Slowly, the man handed the parchments back to her, and Lothíriel had to hold herself back from snatching them away from him. "And how long is an apprenticeship?"

She took in a deep breath before answering. "Five years."

There was another pause then. Éomer cleared his throat. "So you will be staying in Minas Tirith for the duration?" There was something strange in his voice, something that she could not quite catch.

Lothíriel began to roll up the parchment once more. "Well, if I am accepted, then yes." For some reason, she could not bring herself to look back up at the man.

She took another breath and finished rolling up the parchment.

"On the first day that we met, I made it seem that I knew the ways and customs of Gondor," Éomer said, and Lothíriel forced herself to face the man once more. His blue eyes were piercing, but unreadable. "But I must admit, there are still many things I must learn about Gondor and Dol Amroth. Is it…" he paused as if searching for the right words. "Is it customary for the princesses of Gondor to complete an apprenticeship?"

Lothíriel's heart felt as if it had sunk into the very pit of her stomach.

What could she say?

Of course it was not customary. Apprenticeships, after all, were for the working class. Noble men and women need not complete an apprenticeship, unless it was to be a squire to a Swan Knight.

If she was not mistaken, it was the same way in Rohan, and that was why Éomer was looking at her as if she had three heads.

"No," she answered curtly.

There was no way to lie to Éomer's honest face, and even if she could lie to him, she knew that sooner or later, it would get back to her father what she was doing. And if her father found out…

… and what if her father found out?

Suddenly, the words came tumbling out of her. Perhaps it was because she had not had any sleep. Perhaps it was because it had been something she had pent up for such a long time. Or perhaps it was because she never seemed to be able to hold anything back when she was with this man.

"It is not customary," she said firmly. "But it is something that I want. It is something that I find worthy to dedicate my life to. And for once in my life, I would like for something to be controlled by me, and not by my father or my brothers."

Éomer stood rooted to the spot, his gaze unwavering.

"I dread so many aspects of my life," she continued. "I dread having to do what I am told. I dread being forced to parade myself in front of suitors chosen by my father, and I especially dread being made to be someone's wife when I have no say in the matter."

She realized that she was raising her voice, and she forced herself to stop, knowing that she was probably scaring the poor man, who had never asked to be there in the first place. She sighed then, realizing that she was both tired and hungry, and that she was taking her frustrations out on the king of Rohan.

"Éomer, I am sorry—" She reached out to touch the man's arm in order to comfort him, but he moved out of her grasp.

"No, I am sorry to be so odious to my lady," the man said. His back was stiff and his jaw was clenched. "I had had a rather different impression about what you thought of me, but now that you have told me the truth, I will make myself scarce."

With that, he turned and strode quickly around the corner.

Lothíriel was too shocked to realize what was happening.

Her addled brain from lack of sleep only understood after a few moments what she had said and what Éomer was doing.

"Éomer, wait!" she cried, but it was too late.

The man was out of earshot.