3. Infection

After what must have been only a few hours of sleep, Lothíriel woke in the early morning with Éomer's arm tossed over her and her body pressed up against him in a sticky tangle of limbs. When reason returned to her and she remembered how she had gotten there, she crept out from under his arm with some regret at having to leave the sweet sanctuary of his frame and dressed hastily in the pale dawn light. Then she tiptoed to the door, and, after a long last look at him, left him there, still fast asleep. She expected that he would sleep for some time yet, perhaps all day, or even longer. His body and his spirit needed deep and restorative rest.

His men would probably be looking for their king.

Their king. She swallowed as the weight of that title sunk in to her being. Éomer was a king, and he would have to have a queen. And she, a princess by her own right, could be considered a good match for him, if he would have her. But he did not know who she was. Likely he thought her some lesser noble lady, if he remembered that she had told him how she came to be in Minas Tirith. A lady would have been able to ride to the battle encampment with her lord - a commoner would likely not have that privilege.

Or perhaps he had not even registered the logical implications that pointed toward her station and thought her a commoner, if he thought of any of that at all. She imagined that he had not even paused to consider who she was. She was but a woman to him, a woman whose body he had partaken of, that she had gladly given. And perhaps that was all she wished to be to him. How could she face anything more?

These thoughts nagging at her heart, she stopped by the little kitchen that served food to those who labored in the healing houses, and bread and cheese and an apple were shoved into her palm. She sat on a bench and ate dutifully without really tasting the nourishment, her mind restless.

She had no real idea of what kind of man Éomer was. When he discovered the truth of who she was - and he must eventually find out - would he want her? Would he consider wedding the woman he bedded — would that be a worthy match for him - or was she a woman of loose morals? Would he consider her his possession, to do with as he pleased, and assume that she would wed him? Or worse, would he consider it his duty to save her honor? Would he tell her father, and force her to marry him out of feelings of obligation?

She scowled and rubbed her forehead, which ached. She did not know what she she should even expect to want of him. Nor could she fathom any sort of future at all. All she knew now was her work in the Healing Houses was what grounded her, as hard and exhausting as it could be. It was also rewarding, when pain could be lessened or taken away, and she had quickly grown capable and efficient during her time there. Her heart hungered to learn as much as she could.

The past few weeks had been some sort of enduring and terrible and evil nightmare, with Éomer a kind of sweeter dream that had interrupted the strange horror of the nightmare for a brief moment, but nothing more. She had never had time or reason to consider that there would be life after the war. Now the dream had faded, but life had continued, and she must face the repercussions, one way or another.

"My lady," a voice said, interrupting her thoughts, and she raised her eyes to a young lad in the livery of Minas Tirith. He held out a message for her, rolled tightly and bound with blue ribbon.

She took it quickly and opened it with trembling fingers, her eyes scanning the parchment quickly.

Dearest sister,

We have all been delivered and have returned alive and mostly whole, but our father is injured. It is not a grave wound, and he has been tended to, but he requests your presence in the Healing Houses as soon as possible.

Elphir

Her heart pounding, she stood quickly, folding the parchment and stuffing it in her pocket. "Take me to him," she said to the messenger boy, and nearly ran after the boy.

Her father was sitting in a chair at a small table, upon which a breakfast of fruit and bread had been laid out. His arm was bandaged and contained in a sling, but he looked well, albeit tired. His sapphire eyes smiled when he saw her and he held out his uninjured arm, beckoning her to him.

"Father," she cried, and rushed to him, kissing his brow. "You have been reckless."

"It is not grave," said her father, wincing as she examined his bandages. "But I shall be inconvenienced for some time as it heals."

"You must take great care," she said. She looked up at him and smiled, tears in her eyes. "Father. You are safe."

"Yes," he said, smiling with tired but happy eyes. "And you, my daughter. You have been very useful, I hear." He looked her up and down. "And you are still at work here? You are in uniform."

"There is much to be done," she said, "The war is over, but it has not ended for many. I intend to stay as long as I am able to be of use."

His eyes assessed her for a moment, and he nodded thoughtfully at her words, although he did not look convinced. "Soon we shall return to Dol Amroth, I am certain, as soon as I am well enough to travel and arrangements can be made. There is much to be done. I am eager for us to return home."

Home.

Lothíriel felt a knot begin to form in her stomach and a sudden feeling of aversion when she thought of returning home. How could she return to that old life, now? A life of silk dresses in the summer and gowns of the finest wool in winter, of leisurely picnics on the beaches, of balls and feasts and idle hands? Who was that girl, that noble maiden, who had loved to read old poetry and gallop on horses and sketch landscapes, who had been happiest with a book in her hand and the sand beneath her feet? Where had she gone to? All Lothíriel knew was that, suddenly, her path was quite clearly laid out before her. She could not return to that old life, however her father might wish it. The girl she had been was gone.

Her father was watching her curiously. "Lothíriel?"

She cleared her throat, her reverie fading, and met her father's eyes. "Father, I — with your permission, I would like to stay here in Minas Tirith and learn from the healers. I can be of such use. I know that I am not ready to return home, not while there is work I can do."

"You are a princess of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel. You have duties there, and I am not prepared to spare you," her father said. "You have done admirably, but your place is not here."

"I do not know quite where my place is," she said after a moment, lowering her gaze. She steeled herself with resolve, so that when she raised her eyes to him, her voice would not waver. "But I am certain it is not to return to a life of insignificance in Dol Amroth. I love you, Adar, but I cannot go back to the life I knew before."

"Lothíriel," her father said, his voice turning to a warning. "It is not your place to question me, nor for you to choose. If I say you shall return, you will return."

She took a sharp breath in frustration, then calmed herself, searching for the words that would make him understand. "Father, I — I am asking you to try to understand. I have been fully occupied in my work here, fully occupied for the first time in my life. I cannot say that I have been happy, exactly, but I have been useful, and I have learned so much. I have seen horrors I never dreamed of, and survived them. I have helped save lives and ease suffering, suffering I never knew could exist. They say that I have a natural capacity for healing and caring for patients, and the Valar and you willing, I would like to learn." She sighed, and took his hand. "Please do not take from me the chance to forge my own way in the world. I have done everything you have ever asked of me, until now. You owe me at least the consideration. "

Imrahil regarded her for a moment, a muscle in his jaw working. "We shall not discuss it any more at this time. I will think on it, Lothíriel. That is all I can do."

She let out a breath, not fully satisfied, but not disheartened either. Surely he would see reason. "Thank you, Father."

"You look a bit like your mother," he said after a moment, regarding her. "When she would tend the sick. She dressed not unlike you are now, her hair braided and veiled thus."

As quickly as he said it, he looked away and cleared his throat, a muscle working in his jaw. He seldom spoke of her mother, who had died after contracting a fever from a poor family whom she tended. Lothíriel could only remember her now in bits and pieces, for she had been quite young. What she did recall was that her mother had been tall and striking in her peculiar sort of beauty, intelligent and forbidding but gentle in her way, always busy helping others, and Lothíriel had both feared and idolized her, always seeking her approval and basking in the glow of it when it did fall upon her. Her mother had not always seemed happy, she recalled now, and had often seemed discontent when it came to the duties that fell upon the Lady of Dol Amroth. But how she had loved her father, and her children. Of that much Lothíriel was certain.

"Father." Lothíriel covered his hand with her own. "I think she would approve of me and the work I am doing. I think now that… perhaps it is a life she would have wanted, were she able to choose. But of course, she had us."

He cleared his throat again, as if he hadn't heard her. "Tonight, there shall be a modest banquet to honor those who fallen, and to celebrate our victory. You shall be expected to appear."

"I have my patients," replied Lothíriel quickly, "I am expected to work. I cannot abandon those who need me."

"You are expected to appear with your family as befits your station," he retorted with firmness. "I insist."

"I will have nothing suitable to wear," she protested, in a desperate effort to dissuade him, "My riding habit I rode to Minas Tirith in, soiled irreparably from the first days of service, or my uniform as I am wearing now."

"A gown can be borrowed," said Imrahil, "And I daresay it matters very little."

"If you insist that I attend, I shall," Lothíriel relented heavily, "Although I question the point of such celebrations when so many continue to suffer."

"It is a way to honor those who have sacrificed," Imrahil admonished, and she shook her head.

"The best way I have to honor them is to serve them, and my time would be better spent here."

"You also deserve to celebrate, and it is my wish that you attend. I shall see you at the feast, and I suggest that you think of your family, and what it means that we are all reunited."

She sighed and nodded, trying to calm her irritation. She knew that although her father's tone was gentle, it was an order and he would be obeyed. "Then I had better get to work," she said quickly, "I shall look in on you later." She kissed her father's forehead briskly and left him, both relieved that he was safe and very much dreading the banquet indeed.

Lothíriel and a male healer, Aerandir, tended to a wounded young man whose leg had been amputated above the knee. He had been feverish and complaining of pain.

"Infected," remarked Aerandir matter-of-factly as he beckoned Lothíriel away from the boy's bedside. "Common in these types of wounds, even when great care has been taken."

"What will you do?" asks Lothíriel, following him quickly. "The leg has already been removed. There is not much more to take."

"We will dose him with more infusions to fight the infection from within," said Aerandir. "And we will attempt to debride the stump of infected tissue. It is tedious work, and painful, but necessary.

"We are still in short supply of milk of the poppy," whispered Lothíriel, glancing back at their patient.

"We will give him wine dosed with mandragora and hemlock," was her teacher's response, "But it will not be easy. We must ration it still, so there will not be enough to put him to sleep."

They returned to the bedside of the boy and the healer looked at him with a grave expression. "We must carve away the infected tissue."

"Do not take more!" cried the boy, his eyes fearful and wild, his hands thrashing about. "Please. I beg you. Don't."

Lothíriel took his hand reassuringly. He looked much like her brother Amrothos did at that age, and she steeled herself against that wave of feeling. It was too dangerous to think of anything but what was at hand, and yet something about this boy was too familiar. "We are trying to save what is left of your leg, and your life. You must be brave."

"No," he whimpered, his lips quivering. He was beyond bravado and looked and sounded like a frightened child. "Please."

"Shhh," she said soothingly, and helped him to sit up. She held the wine infusion that the healer handed her to his lips. "Drink."

He did so with trembling hands that she steadied with her own. Then she helped him to lay back again, holding his hand, and gave him a leather strap to bite down on. "You will be brave," she said, stroking the black curls of his hair. His eyes had gone glassy, and his hand slackened in hers.

"It has taken effect quickly," Aerandir remarked. "We can begin. Hold him steady."

Lothiriel did so as the older man took a sharp, sterilized knife to the stump. The boy bucked and screamed as the first cut was made.

"Hold him!"

"Bite down," Lothíriel said, holding the boy's jaw to the strap to encourage him to do so. She pinned him to the bed and wished she could see more of what Aerandir was doing. She craned her neck to watch, trying to take her mind off the horrible noises the boy is making. Carefully Aerandir excised away the dying or dead tissue and removed it with a sort of tweezers.

"He has passed out from the pain," she remarked upon realizing their patient had gone completely limp beneath her hands.

"A blessing," Aerandir said, "Come and look."

Eagerly, she moved toward the end of the bed beside the senior healer, who explained what he was doing as he worked, "I slice away the tissue that is dead or dying and remove it with the forceps. You can try it. Go on."

Lothíriel's eyes widened. It was more than she had hoped for. Could he mean it? "Really?"

"Go on," said Aerandir with a slight smile at her eagerness.

—-

Later, the boy awoke, his stump freshly bandaged. He sat almost lifeless, staring into nothingness, a look that Lothíriel by now knew quite well. No blanket covered his legs, and the stark contrast of the leg that was missing next to the leg that was whole was jarring to see.

It was a bitter reality for a young man to face.

Still, he was alive.

"You are going to live," she said brightly and briskly as she came to fluff the pillows behind him. "There are many with your injury who have not been so lucky." She thought of the boy who had screamed and screamed for his mother when they took his leg, only to die later of a raging infection. His face and the noises he made, the sound of the saw used to carve away the bone - that would never leave her mind. This boy, at least, would not die.

"But what kind of a life will it be?" the boy asked her, turning blue eyes to hers. They were bitter, haunted, challenging eyes. He was angry, as he should be.

Indeed, what kind of life would it be? What work could he do? Who would love him? Who would lie with him and bear him children?

She softened, these questions burning her mind, and reached out to smooth his hair from his brow with all the tenderness she could muster. "I don't know," she responded as gently and firmly as she could, for he deserved honesty as much as he deserved to be comforted He lowered his eyes and nodded bravely, a muscle working in her jaw.

Poor brave boy, trying so hard to face his future like a man.

"What is your name?" she asked, wishing now to distract him.

"Muinor," he responded after a moment.

Dear one. Someone had bestowed that name who had cherished him. "How many years old are you, Muinor?"

"Sixteen," he answered, "How old are you?"

"I am twenty-one," she said, smiling, even as her heart broke for his tender age.

"What is your name?" Minor asked.

"Lothíriel," she replied.

"Will you stay and talk with me?"

She creased her brow, wanting to say yes, but also deeply tired, and all too aware that her father and brothers awaited her. She had been warned about investing too heavily in her patients.

"I can stay with you for a moment, at least," she relented, softening at the look in his eyes. He was just a boy, and he was alone, and hurt beyond repair. He might walk with a wooden leg, if his stump could bear weight, but he would never run, or sit a horse, or dance with someone he loved. His life, like his body, had been altered unfairly, so many chances stolen from him before he could even consider them. She could spare a few minutes more of her time, and after all it was a banquet that awaited her, not some grave important matter. Her decision made, she sat upon the bed and took his hand.

"You're pretty," he said, swallowing, "You look like a picture I once saw, of an elf maiden who gave her love to a man."

"Luthien," she replied, laughing at the reference, "They say she had dark hair and light eyes, but I am sure that the resemblance stops there. You must still be feeling the effects of the potion we gave you, recanting old legends and seeing elf maidens when there are only mere women."

An idea struck her that might bring him some distraction, at least, from the long, fear-filled days and nights. "Do you read, Muinor? For tomorrow I can bring you books, to pass the time."

"I read a little," he replied and for a moment there was an eagerness across his face, albeit one that was quiet and all too brief. She smiled, resolved.

"Alright then," she responded brightly,. "Until tomorrow, then, Muinor. Try to rest."

He nodded, and closed his eyes, and she squeezed his hand once more before turning to go. As she left, the tears she had steadfastly fought to withhold broke through her defenses, and she blinked them back, wiping her eyes furiously.

A hand reached out to stop her as she entered the corridor, and she started, nearly jumping away from the touch.

"I'm sorry," Éomer said quickly when she raised her startled eyes to him. "I did not mean to startle you."

"What is it, my lord?" she said, recovering, wiping her eyes furiously and folding her arms across her chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking in on my sister."

"And how do you find her?" she asked, almost impatient at this conversation. She found herself glancing past him, wanting to flee, for he was looking at her with such a soft yet hungry expression that it frightened her.

"I find her much changed," Éomer said, "There is a light in her eyes now that was not there before when first she awoke."

Lothíriel lowered her eyes. There was perhaps a reason for that, and not just that they had won, but having to do with her cousin Faramir, who was convalescing from his own near death. "That is well, my lord."

He reached out and lifted her chin so that she was compelled to look at him. "You are troubled, my lady," he said.

My lady. He had called her my lady, when before it had been lass. Did he know or suspect who she was? But of course he would have realized that she was not a commoner.

"It is difficult sometimes," she said, meeting his gaze, "To be strong in the face of suffering."

"You are good with them, your patients," was his response, "I did not have the mind to notice it before, but you have a way about you."

She flushed under his assessment, wishing he would stop looking at her thus, with so much warmth and tenderness. "My lord, I must go - my patients, they await me," she stammered.

"Of course," he said, releasing her quickly. "I will not keep you. Only," he said, catching her arm again as she started to go, "I wished to ask you - your name, lass."

She froze and looked up at him, unprepared to give that answer.

"You have one, I assume," he said, looking quite amused, "And I have been remiss to not have asked after it."

"It hardly seemed to matter, did it?" she said, withdrawing her arm, "My lord, I really must go."

His brow furrowed, he let her go, and she fled, kicking herself inwardly the entire way to the next ward. She ought to just have told him, and be done with it. On the other hand, he ought not to have snuck up on her and interrupted her the way he had, she rationalized, and made her way to finish her final tasks before that dreaded banquet.

A garment had been laid out for her and placed upon her bed, a borrowed gown from some Gondorian noblewoman or other. The fit was not too far off, although the sleeves were a few inches too short and the bodice a bit too big all over, but at least it was a high-waisted garment that cinched just below her bustline and the fact that it was too big was not obvious. She shrugged, caring not at all, and put it on. There were laces at the back of the gown that she cinched tightly as best she could, although it was difficult to do so herself. A simple coronet had been included with the gown, so at the tiny mirror on the wall, she released her hair from the tight plaits she had taken to wearing beneath the austere hair covering that she wore during her work, combing it through with her hands. It lay about her shoulders and down her back in neat waves from the plaiting, and she sighed, doing her best to arrange it in a way that would be serviceable. Alas, it had been so tightly braided that the waves were not pleasing, so, with a sigh she plaited them back up and, after placing the coronet on her brow, crossed the plaits around her head in a sort of crown, pinning them. It was a rather provincial style, reminding her of the peasant girls she would often see in her travels throughout Gondor, picking grapes in the vineyards or olives in the olive groves. If not for her gown, which was made of far too fine a fabric, richly dyed of burgundy and trimmed in gold brocade, and of course without the ornament at her brow, she herself would pass for one of them, perhaps - although they had been tanned and ruddy, barefoot in the dirt, and she was pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her hands, perhaps, were now as rough and callused and dry as a vineyard girl.

Lothíriel smiled to herself, rather amused. What better way to silently protest being summoned to this banquet than to appear like them? She debated putting her healing habit back on, but shook her head at her folly. She might contemplate silently such revolt, but would never do it.

Not so long ago she would have had a handmaiden to arrange it in the latest fashion, another handmaiden to dab small amounts of rouge on her cheeks and lips and to thicken and lengthen her lashes with kohl. No longer. And how silly it all seemed to her now.

Smoothing the last stray strands of hair away from her face and pinning the braids in place more firmly, Lothíriel gave herself a final assessment in the mirror. She scarcely had glanced at herself in the past few weeks, except to ensure she was presentable. The woman who stared back at her was thinner, that was certain. Her mouth was set in a thin line, her forehead drawn beneath the gold coronet. Who was this woman? She recognized her, and yet, somehow, not at all.

She frowned at herself in the mirror and shrugged, satisfied that she would at least not disappoint. It would have to do.

[A/N: Hello, all. It's been a while. I'm stuck at home, not going out except to work a few hours day (I am providing emergency childcare to healthcare workers' children, so it's necessary that I go, and then I come straight home). I imagine that many of you are in the same boat, or perhaps even worse off, in which case my heart goes out to you. I wanted to at least post some updates. I'm trying to use much of my time to pursue and develop my other art, but this is important too, and Éomer and Lothíriel had been left quite in limbo where I left them, and they still are (muahahah! They will be for quite a while, but at least very soon, they will have to confront things) … anyway, not a ton happened in this chapter, just character development, but more will come soon.

Thank you to all who have left a review, or followed the story, or added it to their favorites. It means so much to me. I hope you all are staying as safe and healthy as you can, that everyone has enough food to eat and supplies they need to get through this time. We will get through this, together. Keep writing, keep making art, do yoga, reach out, connect with people virtually, take the time for yourself too. Send me a DM about anything - anything you need to talk about, I'm here! And I mean anything.

All my love, xo

Girlbird]