Author's Note:

Thanks to BrightPath2, Certh, Just A Reviewer, SmileyXs Ice Cream Sprinkles, bella13446, catherine10, Sophia the Scribe, i luv milarion 1201 for their reviews!


Ioreth

Death.

It was glorified in ballads and songs. The theatre showed heroes collapsing backwards like otherworldly beings. They called them brave, fierce and bold for facing death.

But the healers know better.

She saw many a soldier leave their bodies behind. She saw the sheer terror wedged deep in their eyes as their last breath left them. She saw pain line their faces as the death throes grabbed them in a chokehold.

They made horrific sounds as they died. It was the sound of something heavy rattling in an empty container. The Warden said it was their soul, seeking for an exit to leave the body behind. That's why the dying always gave a final sigh before they died.

She remembered treating a young Rohirric boy, with crushed arms and legs who bawled for his dead mother in the haze of agony and fear. She remembered the man with a slit throat, the cut that went from ear to ear. He was still alive, miraculously. But the wind whistled through the cut and he gurgled helplessly, blood welling from his lips and staining his yellowed, dirty teeth red. She remembered treating an old man who went to war, his open wound stuck with grime and small stones. They couldn't remove the stones. All of them died.

Countless others passed by her fingers. Some survived. Others passed away. All the deceased were nameless, but she remembered each face, young or old, no matter how mutilated or unrecognizable.

She saw enough death to last her a lifetime.

But then she saw the king walked among them and smelled the scent of freshly crushed athelas.

"Come back, Faramir…"