[content warning for this chapter: surgery, thoughts of self-harm]

2. Sanctuary

"Don't cut! Don't cut, don't cut. Please… Mother, please!"

The young woman grit her teeth and ignored her patient's screams, doing instead as she was told by the healers, holding down the body of the young man whose gangrened leg was to be amputated. His cries were of no use, for there was no choice but to take the leg in an effort save his body. Minas Tirith had long run out of milk of the poppy and belladonna to dull the pain, and the need for them far eclipsed each effort to procure and produce more, and there was nothing to be done but ply patients with spirits and shove a leather strap in their mouth for them to bite down on as flesh and bone was sawed away.

She had long ago run out of the energy necessary to be squeamish or tentative. This carnage was merely a part of life now, as commonplace as breathing. Had there ever been a time when she had risen long after the sun, rolling out of silk sheets, broke her fast on whatever she wished, clothed herself in more pale silk and strolled along a sandy shore, spending her days largely at her own leisure? Or had that all been a dream, she wondered as she bore down her weight on the body of the poor boy whose body they mangled. It seemed now that she had known nothing before this.

Much later, when her shift ended, she walked out along the ruins of Minas Tirith. All was eerily quiet, although the tortured cries of her patient for his mother still hung in her ears like a horrible melody her mind could not shake.

Her patient had lived only a few more hours, despite the torture they had put him through in effort to save him. The infection had already spread beyond the leg to his blood. The small bit of mercy was that once the fever raged it had claimed him quickly.

She bowed her head, intending to spend a moment in remembrance of that poor boy, but prayers did not come.

She allowed herself a small moment of grace and remembered instead pale golden hair drifting about her face and warm breath upon her skin, the heat of a chiseled body moving tirelessly against her own.

No.

He was likely dead and gone. So too were her father and brothers. She would never see any of them again.

Why bother? she thought sometimes as she went about her work, which seemed mostly to augment suffering, not relieve it. Mankind was doomed to fall. Would it not be better to end life quickly than to draw it out?

Caught up in her dismal reverie, she walked to a place where the wall was completely blown away, destroyed by the catapults of Mordor. She stood there on the dizzying edge, gazing downwards. It would be quite far to fall, should she take a step further. Death would come swiftly.

It would be so easy, and yet… coming hastily to her senses with a sharp intake of breath, she took a violent step backwards. She would not do it. She might imagine it, and even entertain the idea of teetering on the edge, but she would not end her life this way. She raised her hopeless, defeated eyes to the horizon, towards Mordor's smoldering, blackened and fiery skies. It was a sight she was determined to face but there -

Light.

A shaky breath escaped her and she blinked twice to make sure she was not seeing things.

Where black, stormy clouds had covered the eastern mountains for as long as she had been alive, stars now shone in a deep midnight sky. They were faint, as if veiled by a thin layer of cloud that lingered yet. But still they were visible.

Hope leapt in her chest in spite of her heart's resolve to set aside all memory of it, for the meaning of these stars was clear. She knew it now, instinctively.

Goodness had prevailed.

Life would endure.

Sauron was defeated.

The young woman opened her door to the frantic knocking that woke her and gasped in astonishment as a big bear of a warrior swept her off her feet into his arms. "We won," gasped the man she realized (almost too late) was Éomer. He told her more between kisses that were somehow both rough and coaxing. "The war is over. The halfling, the…" he laughed wildly, as if he still could not believe it, "He managed to destroy the One Ring." He set her back upon her feet, grasping her face in his hands and searching her eyes, his own gaze aflame with relief, desire, hope and fatigue all at once. "Sauron is gone."

She laughed and threw her arms around him as he kissed her once more, utterly surprised at his presence. Her senses were utterly overwhelmed and her chest breathless, but reason had not entirely left her. Wanting to look at him, she pushed him away as gently as possible, although it required considerable force to combat his eagerness.

"Are you injured?" she asked with a furrowed brow, searching him with urgency for visible wounds. He bore cuts and bruises on his hands and face, and his neck was covered in blood and grime that she imagined went beneath his armor, which he still wore.

"No, I am not injured," he said, laughing wildly and picking her up again, spinning her around.

"Stop, my lord," she managed to say between sobs and giggles, "Put me down and let me look at you."

Grudgingly, he complied, holding out his hands as if to say he was at her disposal.

Satisfied that he bore no major injuries, she looked at him in the face. "You are still in your armor, my lord."

"Yes," he said, looking down at himself.

"Why on earth did you barge in here, to me, and not seek respite and — a bath?" she asked, her hands on her hips.

"I —" he laughed, and shook his head, as if he did not quite know. "I am sorry! I could not think — as soon as I set foot in the city my footsteps led me to you! All I wanted was to see your face."

She flushed bright red and tried to hide it badly, looking around. "Would you - shall I help you, my lord?" she asked shyly.

"Do you know how?" he asked her, looking surprised. She nodded. "Ah, yes, your father and brothers."

She flushed at the mention of them, going to him and beginning the task of unfastening his armor. It was a different sort of armor from that of the Swan Knights, and yet she found she knew the steps well enough. "Yes - my father - " she started to ask, but then thought better of it. She could not think of that now. If her father and brothers had been spared, she would sing and rejoice - but if they had fallen, then she would weep, and she wished not to weep in front of him. Nor could she reveal herself to him, and asking after her family would require the truth of who she was, and that seemed altogether too complicated. How could she ever face him again. Not yet. No, not yet.

When she had completed the task, and stowed his armor carefully in the corner, she shoved him gently towards the little chair - a chair that was almost too little for him. "Sit and let me, at least, wash the battle from you." He looked as if he might protest and she cut him off with a look acquired from the intimidating matron of the Healing Houses. "Please."

He nodded, suddenly appearing rather weary, a stark contrast from his wild raucous entrance, and removed his shirt, watching her the whole time. She bit back a smile and busied herself with preparing the little washbasin in the corner of her room. Oh, how could she ever quell the sudden, untamable joy in her heart that threatened to bring her to her knees, having him there before her? And surely if her father and brothers had fallen, someone would have sent word straight away —

No. She pushed doubt out of her mind, unwilling to entertain the thought. Here was her warrior, safely returned to her. Her warrior. She closed her eyes briefly and reprimanded herself for that treacherous thought.

Careful.

Not her warrior. Just a man who had sought comfort in her bed, and she in his arms, when all hope had seemed lost and life about to end. And yet, there he was before her, come back to her, even in a moment of joy where he could have gone anywhere. He had come to her, his blood hot from battle and his body taught with a tension that was almost fury, and now she had tamed him with a mere look.

She turned back to him, determined not to let him see her heart, or know how she trembled. She knelt beside him carefully and began to clean his face, his hands, his arms and chest with the soapy water. The basin immediately turned red with blood when she returned the cloth to the water and she paused, her insides growing cold as she imagined unbidden that it was his.

She knelt there frozen, unable to move, and after a moment, two fingers found her chin, gently raising her gaze to his. Éomer looked down at her with concerned brown eyes that turned to understanding ones as he searched her face and discovered the tears that brimmed at her own lashes and threatened to fall.

"Lass," he murmured throatily, and pulled her up from her knees and into his lap, claiming her mouth determinedly with his own. Desire immediately sparked between them as their bodies remembered the first and last time they found themselves so close together. She straddled him, heedless of the remaining blood and grime, pressing hungrily against him as her hands tangled in the thick, matted braids of his hair. His own hands furiously unlaced the ties at the shoulders and waist of her overdress and practically tore it from her body. He loosened the drawstring at the neck of her shift and pushed the top of it down so that her breasts were exposed to the ravaging touch of his calloused palms. As he trailed rough kisses down her neck, she yanked her skirts and shift out of the way and unlaced his britches clumsily, and the next thing she knew he was inside her.

It was as if their need was insatiable, the way they melded together, and soon they found their way to the bed, hungrily grasping at one another as if each could not draw the other close enough. As he moved within her, though, something changed. His body began to shake, his breathing growing more and more ragged, until he let out a muffled haunting sound that chilled her with fear until she realized what it was. He was sobbing even as he had his release, letting out a deep keening wail, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She wrapped her arms and legs tightly about him and let him weep as long as he needed, murmuring nonsensical words of comfort and stroking his hair tenderly. What else could she do but be a cradle for him in this moment, bearing him like the sea would hold the ship of his sorrow?

The horrors he would have seen.

The grief.

The fear.

All of it was beyond her grasp of comprehension, although she had her own burdens to bear from her work those past few weeks, and horrors that she knew instinctively would never leave her mind as long as she lived. Nor would this.

All she could do was hold him and tell him without so many words that he was safe, that there in her arms was a place without judgment or shame, that her body and her heart were his for the taking at that moment, that whatever he needed from her she would give gladly, for he was also her sanctuary.

How could it be, she wondered, that a mere stranger had awoken all this turmoil and passion and tenderness within her?

She had never thought to hold him again. She had not hoped - or wished - or allowed herself to think beyond that singular night together. And now — now, he was in her arms, alive, whole - well, not whole. Not quite. But alive.

At last, his sobs subsided and he collapsed heavily against her, his breathing going quiet. She pressed a kiss against his head and groaned softly, for he was heavy and his weight not so easy to bear, although she knew instinctively that she would bear it as long as he needed her to.

He seemed, however, to come to his senses enough to realize he was crushing her and withdrew, rolling away from her and throwing an arm up to hide his face. Sorely feeling the lack of him, she tore her eyes away, sensing that he required privacy, and wiped her own face with her hand. It came away wet with her own tears and his, and with sweat and what else she did not like to think. She looked down at the torn and soiled shift that still hung on her body and chuckled a bit in quiet chagrin. Much of her clothing was likely beyond repair. Fortunately she had another clean set of clothing to wear for her labors, and would not have to face the shame of requesting another set right away.

Slowly, with a tired sigh, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, removing the ruined garments and tossing them aside. Fingertips brushed her back and she turned her head over her shoulder to see her warrior looking at her.

"I am sorry for this," he murmured, gesturing to the clothing she has discarded. He could barely meet her eyes. "And for all of it. I'm sorry."

She shook her head with a soft but resolved smile. "Well, I am not."

He chuckled a bit and returned her smile somewhat. His eyes when they finally met hers were grateful. "Thank you."

She nodded, choking back the odd feeling of being thanked for something she had needed as much as he. There was a warmth in her heart brought on by his sincerity that threatened to undo her in her fragile and astonished state. She walked to the washbasin, staring down at the blood that pooled within it. She closed her eyes for a moment, then dipped a new cloth into the pitcher, for the water in it was still clean, and used it to wipe her body down - the sweat and grime of him, and his seed from where it had spilled out between her legs. She bit her lip, a thought of worry nagging at the back of her mind. Whereas before he had been careful not to spill his seed inside her, today that had been forgotten. She knew there were infusions and such made from herbs intended to prevent a child from rooting in her womb. She would have to do as best she could to ensure there was no child from this union. That would not do.

"Are you alright?" he asked from the bed, and she nodded and smiled back at him reassuringly, feeling shy when she realized his eyes had been watching her. There would be time enough to worry about such things.

"You must rest now," she said softly, "Sleep. Éomer, sleep."

The unfamiliar feeling of his name on her lips gave her pause. She still had not told him her name. He had not asked. "Sleep," she said again.

He nodded, and leaned his head back on the pillow. He too had removed his clothing and tossed it aside, and she smiled softly at the sight of him naked before her. "Will you stay?" he asked, a slight stammer in his voice that endeared her further.

She stared at him wordlessly for a time, unable to find her voice. It was not wise to stay, but then again, what sense could she make of what was wise and what was foolish after what had transpired between them and in the world beyond this little room? At last, she was able to answer, lying down beside him and pulling the covers over them. "I will stay as long as I am able," she assured him, and with that he turned away with a ragged sigh, settling into a deep and heavy rest as she cradled his body with her own and watched him thoughtfully until at last her eyelids grew heavy and sleep claimed her too.

[A/N:

I usually wait a few days between chapters but I couldn't wait to share more! Thank you to those of you who have reviewed - as some of you pointed out, this premise is not unique - and I hope no one is offended that they have encountered similar scenarios in the past. I believe my take on a potential and plausible meeting of these two is entirely my own. I am interested in the horror and chaos of war in how it brings unlikely people together out of necessity and shared trauma, and I am interested in how then do you go on when you have been irrevocably changed, and how do the consequences of the choices you made in wartime play out when life begins anew. How do you heal? How do you heal and form a bond that endures and evolves beyond what trauma you have gone through? And so on. Speaking of healing, I'm also interested in Lothíriel the healer. More to come.

Please review if you can! thank you ~ XO, GB]