Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters, races, and creatures, as well as our beloved Middle Earth, belongs to JRR Tolkien.

The night is cool, but not so cool that one would be chilled without a cape or shawl, and the darkness is not oppressive. There are millions of stars overhead, and with the moon, they light my path. The cool night air is in fact invigorating. That's just what I need, something to invigorate me more! Even still, I stop and take a deep breath. As expected, it doesn't help.

The path I march along is leading me to my favorite place in the city. Yes, I am stomping. Trudging in a very unladylike manner, I am sure. That matters not at all to me. I am not some fancy lady who sways her hips suggestively as the tramps servicing the men of the city do. Nor do I prance about, as do the highborn ladies of the seventh circle. I am a woman of Rohan, and as such, I have no use for such pretentiousness.

I am a woman of Rohan, no doubt. However, I was raised by a father who insisted that I at least be civil, which made stomping away in anger unacceptable. So, therefore, I must be marching.

I am the Warden of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. My staff seems to thrive on making my life here pointless and dreary. Why am I here, you ask? This is a question I have asked myself on so many occasions that I have lost count. The old adage, "be careful what you wish for, you just may get it," comes to mind.

I am here at the request of my sovereign in Rohan, Theodan King. An urgent message was received from the Steward of Gondor, Lord Denethor. In this message, he asked for assistance in replacing the now deceased Warden of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. I was asked to come to their aid. So, being a dutiful servant to my liege, I packed my bags without question.

Who am I fooling? I had been wishing for just such an opportunity. I jumped at the chance to be named Warden of any House of Healing. I was doomed, or so I thought, to always be the assistant to the Chief of Staff, never the one in charge. I am a woman and that explains it all. That I should even be a healer as skilled as I am is a miracle in itself. A miracle I owe to the benevolence of Lord Keodwen, the Warden of the Houses of Healing in Edoras.

He had many reasons to refuse me when I begged for his assistance— his own reputation not the least of them. I insisted that I wanted to be a healer and nothing else. My gender was the most obvious stumbling block for him to ignore. For whatever reason, he chose to ignore it. He took me under his wing and taught me everything I know. I kept a low profile, hoping to ensure that I would cause him no embarrassment. I would never have pushed the issue had I thought to bring him harm in any way.

He tried very hard to dissuade me, calling upon me whenever there was a particularly gruesome injury to treat or perhaps a putrid boil to lance. Whenever there was a death he wanted to investigate, he insisted that I attend him, observing as he incised the dearly departed from stern to stem, as he always referred to it. All his tactics had been in vain. I still could not be discouraged from my dream of being a healer. He trained me thoroughly, seeming to overlook the fact that I was female.

My demeanor may have helped my cause somewhat—I tried hard to push my feminine side away. I was perhaps more successful in that than was good for me. On first meetings, people tend to think I am cold and unapproachable. If they took the time to know me better, they would find that the opposite is true.

When the Steward of Gondor's request was made to the King, Lord Keodwen tried to convince him, and his advisor Grima, that I was the one who should be sent to Gondor. Theodan had become increasingly frail over a short period of time, and he leant more and more heavily on Grima, to consider matters of state. So the matter of one female healer could not have been atop the list of the most important of the court's details.

Nevertheless, Lord Keodwen negotiated long and hard to convince King Theoden and his advisor, that it should be I, Maeren, daughter of Maedren of Rohan, who should be sent to fill the position. After all, I was highly qualified—an accomplished healer, fully trained. That I was female was beside the point. If Minas Tirith was in as great a need as they claimed, they would certainly accept me. The King sent the messenger back to Gondor with the tidings that he was sacrificing one of his best for Gondor's desperate hour. My gender he did not disclose.

So here I am in Gondor—Minas Tirith to be exact. I must get to my destination, before I commit murder of the most heinous type. I swear one of these days, I am going to murder someone, and when all done, when all the feathers and fur have settled, it will not be a pretty sight!

Why cannot people follow simple directions? I have tried patience; I have tried kindness and friendliness; I have tried anger and threats. Nothing seems to work with these people! All I get for my aggravation and frustration is more aggravation and frustration—and petty and cruel names they think I don't hear when they whisper them behind my back. Yes, names like Witch of the Wards and Surgeon of Sauron. "Step lively, ladies, the Hag of the Houses approaches!" If it weren't so ridiculous, I'd be offended.

I just had another incident with one of the aides. She was in tears by the time I was finished having my say. And all over how she was folding the bandages. I really do feel badly about my behavior with this aide. I completely overreacted to the situation. What the aide in question didn't know was that I had just had a heated discussion with Ioreth, the chief aide in the Houses, regarding this same topic. I need the bandaging to be rolled, not folded at all. It is much easier to handle that way. Ioreth disagreed—and argued. Ioreth is nothing if not long-winded. "It's how Lord So-And-So", as I had come to think of him, "wanted it done!" I had heard of how Lord So-And-So did things just one time too many. I demanded she follow my instructions to the letter, or there would be bloodshed—and it would be her blood that was shed. I'd gone to check on some of the sick and wounded who had been brought into the Houses earlier in the day, and when I returned to the supply room, there was the unfortunate aide, folding the bandaging. She was not rolling it. I had had enough and I stormed all over her.

Now I have need of some solace. I arrive at my secret place, which is surrounded by a wall of stone, and enter what is a small maze. It twists right and then left and finally opens out into a small garden. I come here, to my favorite spot in all of Minas Tirith, and let all the rubbish clogging my mind flow out of me. The tree and the grass beneath it seem to take in what my mind spews out into the air, all the hurt and anger and frustration that is my life. I found this secret little garden during my first week here in Minas Tirith. It seems so long ago, but only six months has passed since then.

Calling it a garden is really a misnomer, for it is just a scraggly tree, its type I do not even know, with a patch of grass beneath it. I do what I can to see that neither dies, but truthfully, there isn't much I can do for them. As often as I am able, I bring wash water used for cleaning of linens and I water them. Occasionally I loosen the hard earth around the roots of the tree with a rusty trowel I found against a wall outside of the Wards.

So here I am, sitting in the grass, silently pouring my heart out to the tree I have come to think of as my Wishing Tree. I am wishing that things were different. Wishing that the aides making up my staff would work with me and not against me. Wishing that I were home, doing my regular tasks of helping Lord Keodwen in the familiar Houses of Healing in Edoras. Wishing that my Dustin and Tristin, my husband and son, were not dead, but were here with me now. I am frustrated, alone, missing my family—and wondering if I was cut out for heading up the Houses of Healing at all. Wondering if I was even suited to the healing profession.

I know in my heart that I am a good healer. I can quickly find the problems of the sick and injured, and fix them swiftly and accurately, if they are fixable. The bedridden look up at me with thankful eyes, relieved that there is someone knowledgeable to care for them. I know I am good with my patients. They smile and laugh as they heal, bloom in front of my eyes, and quite frequently come back to visit with me and show me how well they are doing.

Those ignorant people who are supposed to help me, not hinder me, are the thorns in my side. I don't ask them to do anything I wouldn't be willing to do myself—things that I haven't done a thousand times. Yet, they fight me all the way and I don't understand why.

Why do they fight me so? I have been in their shoes doing the dirty work of the bedpans and soiled linen; mopping the blood and vomit and filth from the floor; assisting the healer as he tries to make some sense of limbs or intestines that have been rearranged by some blade or lance; watching young men die of wounds they have received in some senseless battle. I have done exactly what I am asking them to do.

How did I get to this point with them? They treat me as if I am some sort of tyrant, demanding they serve me at my every whim. Things started out right enough, I thought. But as I think back on it, they were reluctant from the outset. Stiff and rigid they were, not acknowledging any sort of kindliness on my part. I do admit, being Rohirric—and a woman Warden— I am apt to be very direct in my speech.

Maybe I have hit on something here. Maybe politeness and civility are defined differently in Gondor than in the Riddermark. No, that is an inane thought. But then, I need to remember I am dealing with people of Gondor now.

I really do not believe that my manner is the problem. Most Wardens are men used to having their word taken as law, and every direction given performed without question. I know from personal experience that they speak plainly. Emergency demands terseness. It can't be my manner that is upsetting these people.

I am a woman Warden of the Houses of Healing. That is virtually unheard of. Is it possible they are jealous on some level?

I love this tree—

It seems to comfort and inspire me when I need it most. It is almost as if it desires to grant me all the wishes I ask of it. Thanks to the listening leaves of this wonderful tree, I think I have discovered the problem I face. The aides distrust my abilities, because I am a woman. And quite possibly, they are jealous of my good fortune.

But what is the solution to these problems? How can I help the fact that I am a woman? I cannot very well change my gender. What could I say or do, that would allow them to accept me, breasts and all?

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I am startled out of my reverie by a frantic voice calling my name from some distance down the way. I hurriedly exit my cozy nook, not wishing anyone to discover the secret garden I have nurtured, and which has nurtured me. It is Ioreth calling me. I emerge out of the darkness and startle her with my abrupt appearance.

"Where did you come from, Miss? You scared the livin' daylights outta me!" She took a deep breath, placing her hand over her racing heart and continued without missing a beat. "Well, no matter 'bout that, we have a real emergency in the Wards! Some soldiers brought in a lad and he's not breathing right. He doesn't have any blockage in his air passage—I checked that first off." And she knew that would be my first question to her—had she thought to check his air passage?

"We had best hurry, then," I said, and we started running. We ran the rest of the way to the Houses, which was not far. I asked Ioreth if there were others wounded, but she answered in the negative. "He was only just now found, poor lad. He'd been hidden from view beneath other more unfortunates, Valar rest them," she answered.

I burst in on the scene with Ioreth trailing me like a hound on the chase of a fox, not really wanting to be in charge of the treeing, but wanting in on the hunt nonetheless. Or should I say, I stumbled in—over a pile of dirty linen in the middle of the walkway. This was something I have been harping on from day one.

"Let me in—spread out, all of you!" The crowd around the choking youth parted, and I leaned over the boy. I checked his air passage again myself, not missing the exasperated sigh of Ioreth as I did so. It was clear—no blockage. I ran my fingers along his throat, noting the bruising just above his voice box. That was the problem. He had been hit hard in the throat with something, and the swelling was blocking the passage of air he needed to sustain his life.

I knew what to do. I had just never done it on my own before. I had seen Lord Keodwen do it once, but the patient died despite his efforts. Valar, do I try this, or not? He had absolutely no chance of survival if I did not attempt the procedure, and glancing at his other injuries—which were severe—a ghost of a chance if I did.

Closing my eyes to settle my fluttering heart, I asked for a scalpel. Ioreth looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. "What exactly do you intend to do to this boy, Miss? I can't see where cuttin' him is goin' to do him any good."

I looked at her with slitted eyes, silently daring her to question my words again. I repeated my command for a scalpel. She complied then, reluctantly. Luckily, it had been put in a cleansing solution, so was clean. I could thank whoever had carried out that order at least. I asked for bandaging; I would need it to mop the blood that would inevitably seep from the incision I intended to make. I bathed his throat with some of the purifying mixture and bent, placing the scalpel against his skin. A hand reached out and stayed my arm.

"I can't let ya cut this lad, Miss," Ioreth said, alarmed. "It's never been done. What on earth would possess you to do such a thing?"

"Ioreth," I said with quiet malice, "remove your hand from me or I will use this scalpel on you!" I was shooting arrows at her with my gaze and she grudgingly released me. I promptly resumed my work, cutting into the soft tissue of the boy's throat. I mopped up the blood that escaped the wound and with probing fingers found the flap of tissue I need to slit. I made my cut and held the air passage open with the scalpel. I could immediately hear that the boy's ineffective gasping had eased. His breathing was rapid and shallow, but he was at least now getting air.

The aides surrounding me looked to one another in amazement, murmuring their wonder at this miracle they had just witnessed. I called out for some tubing. After what seemed like an eternity, someone handed me a foot long section of hose that had been procured from a dusty cabinet. It was somewhat hardened with age and I wondered if it would not be brittle. It was just going to have to do.

Handing off the scalpel to the nearest aide instructing her to keep the air passage open, I sawed at the tubing until it was a couple of inches long. Thankfully, it did not crumble apart. I hurriedly dipped it into the bowl of cleansing solution. I said a silent prayer that it was clean enough and inserted it, removing my scalpel at the same time.

I then resumed my assessment of his injuries. He had a bad wound in his right side, most likely made by a nasty Orc blade, a big bump on his left temple, and what was most assuredly a broken leg. Whatever he had tangled with had certainly done a good job on him.

I examined the gash in his side more closely, asking for more light. A sputtering lamp was proffered above my head, and I peered into the wound, checking to see if his kidney and liver were intact. No arteries or major vessels had been cut. I was very thankful for that. It seemed as if this was nothing more than a bad slash. Another silent prayer, one of thanksgiving this time, was uttered under my breath. I set about getting the aides to accrue the supplies I would need to suture the wound. This part was easy and I began to breathe normally again.

I glanced at the boy's face several times during my sewing, making sure he was getting the oxygen he needed. His face no longer held the deathly pallor it had when I had first seen him. He was still far too pale, however, from the large amount of blood he had lost. I began to mentally reassess his injuries. All I could do for the bump on the head was wait for him to regain consciousness. And the leg setting could be done as soon as the suturing was finished.

I tied the last knot, cut the thread and handed the stitching tools to the waiting hands of a nearby aide, thanking her as I did so. I stood upright, stretching the small of my back. I checked the tubing in the boy's throat, tossed the bloodied bandage aside, took up a new one and packed it around the tube. I smoothed the hair on his brow back, noting his young age. His face was that of a mere boy, not nearly old enough to be wielding any sort of weapon in any battle. The times are desperate indeed, it seems.

I lifted his wrist, checking his pulse, and trailed my hands down to his grimy fingers. The hands of a boy! How my heart ached for him and all the others on the battlefield like him. Life was certainly unfair in the best of times, but right now it was downright reprehensible.

May the Valar guard our bravest in the fight against the Dark Lord. Our bravest—but why should our bravest be our youngest as well?

I shook my head at the inequity of it all and set about my task of setting the poor lad's broken leg. If he could recover from the blood loss and the lack of oxygen he had suffered, and if the head wound did not prove to be too severe, I figured he would be all right in time. If he would recover from being an innocent thrust into a fight he had no business being in at all, I really could not tell.

I spent the next few hours dividing my time between seeing to the other patients and sitting at the bedside of the young soldier. Much to my surprise, a group of three aides approached me as I was dosing one of the wounded with an herb to fight his fever. I looked up at them and smiled, asking if I could be of some assistance.

"No, Mistress Maeren, we need no help right now," the designated speaker for the group said. "We just wanted to tell you what fine work you did with the boy earlier. I have never seen a procedure of the like before—in fact I was scared to death of the outcome—but you kept your head on your shoulders and he is alive because of it." The others with her nodded their heads and murmured their agreement.

"I appreciate your kind words, ladies," I replied. "It was a rather harrowing experience for us all."

One of the others of the group then spoke. "Let us go, ladies, and let the healer continue that which she does so excellently." Turning back to me, she continued, "And, Mistress Maeren, if there is anything I may improve upon here in the Houses, please do not hesitate to inform me of it, and I will do my best to see it done—and done correctly." With that, they scattered, each going about assigned tasks, for once without unfriendly looks or rude comments.

All I could do was shake my head. I am not sure how I accomplished it, but it seems I may be winning a few of them over. I took a glance upward and rephrased my thoughts. I had done nothing to alter their attitudes. The situation was thrust upon me by the Valar, and by the Valar, the aides' attitudes were changing.

A few moments after the aides left, the childlike soldier stirred in his sleep. He was moving his head from side to side. I hurried over to him, knelt by his cot, and placed my hands on his face, hoping to soothe him from thrashing about and dislodging the tube. I felt the smoothness of his cheeks. He was not even old enough to shave.

I wondered what dreams were haunting his youthful mind. I again agonized over the unfairness of it all. Children should be children for as long as they could be in this life. Not little soldiers sent to do men's work on a field of slaughter.

How I wished to be back at my Wishing Tree. There I could weep with no observers. I could weep for all who fought on the battlefields of Middle Earth—whether they were on the front lines facing Orcs—or the Valar knew what else—or in the Houses of Healing, wiping up the devastation wreaked on the brethren of our land.

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