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

I returned to the wards soon after delivering the Athelas to the man who would be King of Gondor. As much as I wished to remain and see to Eowyn's healing myself, I felt she was in capable hands. After all, everyone who practiced the healing arts in Middle Earth knew the old saw—'the hands of the King are hands of a healer.'

There were so many others who needed immediate care that I decided to leave the condition of those who were declining, such as Eowyn, to Aragorn. If he was successful with her healing, perhaps he would also be successful with the others. After explaining my plan those present in the room, I reluctantly left. I certainly wished to remain at Eowyn's side, but my responsibilities dictated that I relegate duties to those best qualified. I would say that the future King of Gondor was certainly qualified.

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Things were starting to wind down in the wards, at least as far as the arrival of more wounded was concerned. I was taking a breather, leaning against one of the few walls that did not have a makeshift bed shoved up against it. All of a sudden there was another great commotion, as a young lad was carried into the wards by a bloody soldier. It sounded as if there would be another onslaught of wounded by the amount of noise they made in bringing in the youth, but he was the only one.

He was awake and alert and very afraid. A thatch of his brown hair was plastered to his forehead with dirt and sweat and blood. Black blood of an Orc. His blood, red and true as any soldier of Gondor, had soaked through the rags that bound his abdomen. He had practically been disemboweled, and the hastily tied bandage was the only thing remaining between his insides and his outsides.

The youth could not have been older than fifteen years. Just about the age my Tristin would be were he still gracing Middle Earth with his presence. The boy looked up at me, terrified of dying, asking me if he would live, and I lied outright to the sweet child. I stopped all the medical attention I'd been giving him, as it wasn't doing anyone any good, especially not him, and ran a cool, wet cloth across his brow, soothing him the only way I could at this point. I then sat down on his cot and lifted him into my arms. His fading eyes then looked up into mine, and he said, "Mother, Father will be proud of me, will he not?"

My heart caught in my throat. "Oh yes, my son," I answered. "He will indeed be proud." The lad then closed his eyes, a smile on his face.

The pain of losing my son but a few short years ago stabbed me, and tears fell onto the ashen face of the boy I cradled in my arms as he drew his last breath. If the aides who had been attending me noticed my tears as I tried in vain to comfort the young man, I knew not. And I cared not.

I gently lay the youth back down onto his deathbed and slowly walked away. The aides looked at me questioningly, but I hadn't the heart to say a word. I prayed that none of the remaining soldiers brought in tonight were wounded seriously. I could not remain in the Houses another second. The death of this young man, coupled with the emergency with the boy just last night, caused all thoughts except those of escape to abandon me.

I made my way to my garden. I do not remember how I ended up there, but there I was—sitting beneath the Wishing Tree, thinking of my Tristin. I wished for my tears to flow, but at the same time hoped they would not, for fear they would never stop. I wept unceasingly after my little family was killed. I wept until I had no tears left. It was then that my heart wept, and weeps still when I have moments such as these - when I am all alone and feel abandoned by them. Three years ago it was. Three of the shortest long years I would ever live.

My husband and son were killed in a fire. They had been working in one of the stables housing some of the best brood mares in the Riddermark. It was assumed that one of the stablemen, knowing full well the enormity of his treachery, was having a smoke while he worked at spreading hay, and had somehow dropped an ember into the dry straw. I can only hope that the fool paid for his gross lack of wit with his life in the same way as my loved ones. However, since the culprit was never found, I will never know. How I wished that he had been found. The penalty for smoking in the stables was death—the King took the horses' lives very seriously. And I was consumed with thoughts of vengeance.

Unbeknownst to me at the time the fire broke out, my little family had been on duty in that same stable, and quite naturally began evacuating the terrified beasts of which they were in charge. My men, as I called them to the delight of twelve-year-old Tristin, being true men of the Riddermark, were fierce lovers of all things equine. They fearlessly returned again and again, leading the struggling mares and their newborn foals to the fresh air and coolness outside the burning barn.

I had been in the Houses of Healing helping Lord Keodwen set a small girl's broken arm, when I heard all the commotion and saw the smoke. All the other aides and I had run at full speed toward the burning building. We knew that when the fire bells rang, all hands were expected and needed to fight the fire should one ever erupt anywhere near the stables. Many others in the vicinity at the time had already armed themselves with buckets, forming a human chain, passing container after container of water toward the fire. I placed myself at the front of the line that was passing the full pails toward the stable, wishing to be closer to the building. Positioned in such a place, I hoped to catch sight of the ones in charge of the animals. I hadn't known exactly where my men would be that day, so I wanted to set myself at ease that I would not see either of them with a mare's halter in hand.

But my heart dropped to my feet as I saw first Dustin and then Tristin leading the rearing and prancing mares from the smoke-belching stable. I screamed to them, bidding them to come to me. It was obvious to everyone that the stable would not be standing much longer. Dustin waved at me, worry etched on his face, and said something to Tristin—probably telling him to get into the water line.

But Tristin was his father's son, as well as his constant companion, and would not leave him to face the peril alone. I watched as Dustin angrily shoved Tristin away, causing him to fall into the dust at his feet. My husband then hurried back into the barn to resume the rescue of the horses. But Tristin would not be deterred. I watched in horror as he again followed his father into the flaming stable.

All who were gathered outside the inferno could hear the screams of the terrified horses still trapped inside, but all knew it was time to stop retrieving the poor beasts, regretfully leaving them to fiery deaths. My brave and foolish husband and son, and others just as dedicated to their charges, returned inside one time too many, until a deafening crash resounded, sending embers and debris outward into the crowd working feverishly to douse the flames. The horses' screams ceased, and their guides to safety had no chance to flee what had become their funeral pyre. Yet the water brigade continued on and on, and I mindlessly kept my place in line, handing pail after pail of water on ahead, with tears streaming down my soot-smudged face.

Just as they are doing now.

Valar, please let the tears stop before I die of grief.

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