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

A few hours past dawn, bedlam erupted in the wards. In the space of moments, what had been a relatively calm infirmary suddenly turned into a whirlwind of madness, wounded soldiers limping, stumbling and in some cases, practically crawling into every entrance of the Houses. Other soldiers, who were more or less uninjured, helped some of their fallen comrades into chairs, beds and even vacant spaces on the floor. The situation was daunting.

We all burst into action, my voice raised above all the pandemonium. I had a fleeting moment of self-doubt; there were just too many wounded and too few beds. I tossed the thought from my mind. I knew that where there is a will, there is a way, and I would find a way, even if it meant I would give my own bed to someone in need. I had no time for doubt. These men were depending on me to hold the melee in check, and at the same time heal those it was possible to heal. And I would do it or die trying.

With new determination, I waylaid a soldier who had just handed off his wounded friend to one of the aides. As he stood to catch his breath, I grabbed his arm, sorry I could not allow him even a moment's rest.

"Sir, would you be so kind," I shouted above the din, "as to gather enough of the men here who are uninjured and help me to clear out the storage rooms? We will be in need of the space, I fear."

"I am at your service, my lady," the soldier said. "Anything to be of help."

I showed him the rooms I needed vacated, and where to deposit the supplies that would be displaced. Unfortunately, there was no other place to put them but outside in the alleyway. I despaired that some of these much-needed supplies would be subject to theft and the elements. I prayed for pleasant weather and for the people of Minas Tirith to hold onto their morality at least until the siege was over.

We kept at it for hours. I knew not the exact time, but it was at least early evening when the flow of torn and broken bodies began to wane somewhat. But we continued on and on. We would continue—until we had tended every last one of them. We would do it. We must. They depended on us for assurance when they thought they were dying and likewise as they did die. We failed in that, I am afraid. There was simply no time. If we tarried with those who had no chance of survival, we could not help those who would live, if they received the proper treatment in time. It is a heartbreaking choice to harden your heart and walk away from someone who is conscious and dying, to see to someone who will not die if you but tend to them immediately. I knew it not then, but dreams of these dying soldiers would haunt me for the rest of my life.

When the steady stream of wounded began to ebb somewhat, I was able to open my ears to pieces of conversations being held around me. I learned that there had been a vicious battle out on the Pelennor. Hosts of the Dark Lord's Orcs and , Uruk-Hai, as well as his forces of the Haradrim, the Easterlings, and the wild men of Dunland, descended upon the Pelennor. Like roaches swarming from cracks in the wall in the deep of night they came, slaughtering any and all who stood in their way, be they men, women, or children. Bits and pieces of information filtered into the wards, filling us with the horror that was unfolding upon the battlefield.

The wounded kept coming and coming. The legs of one young man I tended had been crushed beyond repair. There was no hope of saving them or him. He had lost so much blood he was past help. His legs were as meat having been ground for sausage, complete mush, and I unconsciously wondered aloud at what could have caused him such damage.

"It was Oliphaunts, Mistress," said one soldier on a nearby cot. It was then that I realized that I must have spoken out loud.

"Oliphaunts?" I gasped. "I thought them but legend!"

"Yes, indeed, Ma'am," he replied. "They are fierce and enormous—and deadly. Legend they may have been to us, but they are legend no more."

I continued my work, my back fairly breaking from the stress of lifting, shifting and pushing men who far outweighed me. Now that the worst of the storm was passing, I was becoming aware of my fatigue and pain, but there was still no time for that. I, as well as all those in the Houses of Healing, was in pain, and none of us could stop to rest. Certainly the wounded would feel pain tonight, as well as for days to come. No, there was no time for self-indulgence. There was more work to be done.

There were murmurs of the dark and terrifying Lord of the Nazgul, and how he had battered and broken through the great gates of Minas Tirith this morning. Whispers told of how he had struck down the King of Rohan. I was stunned. King Theoden is dead? Before I had time to process that dread news, I became aware of another bit of information. Eowyn was responsible for the evil Witch King's demise. Theoden's niece, along with what was being called a 'Halfling,' had together smote the demon, leaving a gold crown and his empty black cloak as his only remains. Now, though, Eowyn and the Halfling were here, somewhere in the wards, very ill with a sickness unknown. All these whispers were passing into my ears, seeping into the cracks in my mind. I was becoming mesmerized by their cadence, lulled into a sleepless dream as I stood unsteadily on my feet, ceaselessly working.

"Mistress Maeren," Ioreth exclaimed breathlessly. "Thank Eru I found you! There are scores of soldiers whose wounds have been tended, but who are not recovering. There is naught that should be making them worse, but 'tis a fact that they are declining, not healing."

After I had overcome the shock of her sudden greeting, I said, "Show me." We both walked swiftly through the wards. Ioreth had used the good sense Eru had given her, and had gathered these ill men into a ward separate from the main one. They were divided from the rest by a series of blanket-draped ropes, making curtains shielding the merely wounded from those desperately ill from this unknown malady. I pushed aside a blanket, entering the makeshift shelter, and quickly took in the number of wounded there. The ward full teemed with them!

There were beds squashed together with only room enough for one of us to squeeze between them to tend to the occupants. I bent over a soldier, checking his hurts, which were not very severe, yet he was unconscious - I could not rouse him. I went to another and still another, and the same could be said of them as well.

Now this was a puzzle! A puzzle and a nightmare! How could we treat that which had no symptoms? That which seemed to be wasting the victim slowly toward death, without any hint as to what it might be?

"Ioreth, have you any notion as to where Lady Eowyn of Rohan has been taken?" I asked. I wondered at the truth of the rumor I had heard—that while her injury was minor, she was sorely sick. Could these men be suffering the same illness as she?

"Yes, Mistress," she told me. "The Lady was placed in one of the storerooms that have been cleared out down the hall, first door on the right. It seemed more private, as befitting a woman of her stature. She also apparently has this same illness. —And, oh, yes!" she exclaimed in afterthought. "You will not guess who else was brought in! The Steward's own son, Lord Faramir! He was wounded as he retreated from the Causeway Forts. And I must not forget the little fellow, Merry, who was at the Lady's side as she was engaged in battle with the Witch King! They are all down that hallway, in the supply rooms. And all are suffering the same dread sickness as these poor lads."

I swam through the sea that was Ioreth's explanation, but was now in a hurry. I thanked her and walked swiftly down the hallway. When I reached the first door on the right, I turned the knob and opened it. I frowned with confusion when I saw that not only the wounded Lady of Rohan was within the room, but also three other people: an old man, a younger, though certainly bedraggled man, who sat on the edge of Eowyn's bed, seeming to be praying for her, and—"Eomer!" I cried, barging past the old man. Eomer stood from where he had been kneeling beside Eowyn's bed, and when he realized who I was, he enfolded me into his arms in a fierce hug.

Eomer! Strength for me. Familiar to me. Home to me.

"Maeren, sweet Maeren, wherever have you been?" Eomer asked, his voice filled with worry. "I have been watching over Eowyn since I was informed that she yet lived, but I have been despairing in your absence."

I had been aware of Eomer since I became aware of things carnal. Every woman in Rohan that yet breathed knew of Eomer. Nephew to the King, he was. Strong, virile, handsome—the list of his attributes was endless. He captivated all those who beheld him, especially if they were female. I had not the chance for formal introduction to him until I was already married to my Dustin. I first met Eomer when I was working in the Houses of Healing in Edoras with Lord Keodwen. One afternoon, he was helped into the wards after he and a few of the riders had been beset by Orcs. He had taken a wound from an Orc blade high up in the back of his left thigh. I was much more embarrassed about tending to him than he was of me doing it, and he took great delight in my discomfiture. We traded verbal barbs, each trying to outdo the other, and before I knew it, he was bandaged and ready to limp back to the Golden Halls. Thereafter, every chance he got, he would come to visit us in the wards. He would bewail a severe injury, which he insisted would need tending and bandaging. Said injury would usually be so small as to be nonexistent. We grew to have great love for each other. Not romantic love, but love nonetheless. He was very special to me, and I to him, or so he claimed.

The man praying over Eowyn also stood and approached us. "You are the Warden of the Houses?" he asked quietly. When I nodded in affirmation, he went on, "I am in need of an herb called Athelas—also called Kingsfoil. Have you any here?"

I closed my eyes, mentally going through the inventory of the Wards. "No, we have none here—no, wait! I have some in my room. I shall go fetch it. Are you in need of anything else?"

"A pot of steaming water, please," he said.

I left to gather the things that the man—I knew not his name, I just realized—had asked of me, dragging Eomer by the hand behind me.

"I have much I need to speak to you of, Eomer, if you would not mind," I said. Stopping to look at him, I added, "Even if you do mind, please come with me." My eyes pleaded in a way he could not refuse.

Shaking his head and smiling, Eomer said, "You know I could never turn down such a face. Lead the way, Maeren." We continued on our campaign to my room, making our way through the packed and noisy wards and hallways of the Houses of Healing.

After what seemed a long swim through a sea of beds and bodies, we arrived at my quarters. I opened the door allowing us entrance and closed it behind us, leaning against it momentarily with fatigue. The moment of stillness was over too soon, and I began searching my cabinets for the elusive Athelas.

I asked Eomer if the tragic news of Theoden's death was in fact correct. "Eomer, how could the King be in battle?" I asked as I searched. I grabbed a chair away from the table in the center of my room, and climbed atop it, stretching to see into the cabinet above my head. "He could barely walk when last I was home."

"Alas, I fear the tidings you have heard are true," he said. "Gandalf cured the King of his frailty—frailty wrought by Grima—the Wormtongue!" He spat out the name of the King's advisor, as one would spit poison from one's mouth.

"Gandalf?" I said with bewilderment, "Who is Gandalf? And how could he cure someone of old age? The information that I have always relied upon relates that is an ailment for which there is no cure!"

Eomer gave a short laugh and replied, "Gandalf, the White Rider—the old man in the room with Eowyn—is a wizard."

I raised my eyebrows in amazement, but made no comment. Eomer continued, "When the King was given back his health by Gandalf, he would not entertain the notion of remaining behind. He rode with the Eoreds, and was killed by the Lord of the Nazgul. I knew not that Eowyn rode with us—the King knew it not, either. She dressed in soldier's garb, and armored herself so as not to be recognized. Then she secretly joined the ranks of the men. When she saw that our uncle had been slain by the Nazgul's blade, she did likewise to him and now she lies near death. I am sore afraid for her."

I stopped my search to turn and face him again. His expression was careworn and anxious. I noticed for the first time that he was covered in the Orcs' black blood and who knew what else. "Eomer, we must have faith. Whatever is wrong with your sister will be found out and she will be fine. We must believe that."

I again turned back to the cabinet, resuming my quest. "Aha," I said as I discovered the object of my search. I climbed down from my perch and opened the packet containing the leaves. I smelled of the herb, checking its freshness. It seemed all right. It was not fresh-picked, but it would be potent nonetheless. I wondered at the man's need of it. For all I knew it was an herb not much used these days. Of old, its use was for general malaise, when nothing else seemed to lift one's spirits. An air freshener, as it were. I closed the packet and put it into the pocket of my apron.

I turned to check the water level in my kettle and deemed it to be sufficient in which to steep the Athelas. I swung the arm holding the kettle in the hearth to heat and bent to stoke the fire. I finally noticed that Eomer was still standing. I motioned him to the other chair I possessed and I pulled the one I had been using back to the table, sitting down at last.

After breathing a tired sigh, I said, "Poor Theodred must be beside himself with grief over his father's death. I suppose he will be crowned King as soon as time allows."

Eomer placed his elbows on the table, steepling his arms, and cradling his chin on his threaded fingers. He looked at me with sadness. "Poor Theodred, indeed." At my questioning gaze, he continued, "My cousin fell to an enemy blade at the Fords of Isen." His forehead replaced his chin on his hands and his shoulders sagged. As children, Eomer and Eowyn had been raised by Theoden, in the wake of their parents' deaths. They had grown up with Theodred, and Eomer idolized him as a lad. He felt as though they were brothers. I knew his heart must be breaking. In the space of a very short time, he had lost two of his closest kin—and another was in peril. I reached across my small table and squeezed his arm. He looked up at me and then swiped his hands across his eyes as if trying to dash away the tiredness I could see in them.

It dawned on me suddenly. I was in the company of royalty. With King Theoden dead, as well as poor Theodred, that meant that Eomer was next in line for Rohan's crown.

Eomer sat up straight and said, "We should hurry back. The King will be needing this herb he asked for."

Again, I had a bewildered look upon my face. "Eomer—you've not taken leave of your senses, have you? Who do you mean? Is it the old man or the bedraggled one in Eowyn's room you are mistaken about?"

"I am as sane as are you," Eomer said with a sober look. "That bedraggled man is Aragorn, son of Arathorn—Isildur's heir. He is Dunadain, a Ranger of the North. He will be crowned King of Gondor as soon as we have dispatched Sauron and his armies - if that can be done."

"Crowned King?" I asked in awe.

"Aye, crowned King," he repeated.

I had recognized the name—Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Isildur's heir.

Almost a week ago, I had heard it from the mouth of a man brought in badly wounded, almost dead. I had just managed to get his name before he drifted into delirious rambling. He said his name was Castagard. From the gray garb he wore, and the Silver Star brooch adorning his breast, I could tell he was Dunedain—a ranger of the North. I may be Rohirric, but my father made sure I knew my history, including all about the Dunedain; the rangers who strove to keep the countryside safe from all things evil.

As I removed his clothing, bathed and bandaged him, the ranger named Castagard rambled on and on of someone named Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and how he was Isildur's heir; how he would be King of Gondor when all this bloodletting was finished. At the time, I had passed it off as the feverish uttering of a very sick and dying man. Now it seemed that it wasn't simple delirium.

The hiss of water overflowing into the fire startled me out of my shock and I grabbed a towel. I lifted the kettle from the hook from which it hung. I found a large bowl, in which Aragorn could steep the Athelas. Eomer, insisting on carrying the heavy kettle, headed back to the storeroom with me, to see if we could be of any more help to the King and the wizard.

In the space of one day, I'd been witness to one King's passing, a friend about to inherit a Kingship, and a bedraggled ranger - to be King. Would wonders never cease...

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