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

Do not imagine for a moment that even after the nightmare of yesterday, I would have the good fortune to escape from dear Ioreth's forked tongue today. A few hours past the dawn of another gray day—as it slowly shoved away the darkness of what had been a most memorable night—Ioreth cornered me. I was about to step into the back rooms of the Houses, where I had an office and a room that served as my personal quarters. She began immediately giving me an earful concerning the boy whose life I had saved during the wee hours of the morning two days ago.

She started out just short of being insubordinate, but quickly raced past that line to being obnoxious. You would have thought that I had slit the boy's throat out of some sick enjoyment I might have gotten out of the process. For goodness sake, we had tended so many more wounded and dying, you would have thought I might have redeemed myself somewhat in her eyes. However, she was unmoved.

I nodded at first, tilting my head at her, showing I was listening and understanding her. But my calm demeanor changed into an angry frown as she continued to lash out at me. And still she ran on—and on. I finally reached my breaking point.

"Enough, Ioreth!" I shouted at her. "The lad lived, did he not?"

"Only by the grace of the Valar, he did," she retorted. "Don't think I won't take this up with Lord Jeneson at his earliest convenience."

Lord Jeneson was the director of all things concerning health in Minas Tirith. A stringy stick of a man, if he could indeed be considered a man, for he was decidedly effeminate for my tastes. Let us face it; I was more manly than he, the poor unfortunate soul. The teasing he most assuredly had endured as a lad must have been unbearable indeed.

"You do that, Ioreth. And my blessings go with you," I began. "And if by chance he wishes for me to step down from my position, I will gladly hand it all over to you. I am sure you would have this place up and running just as smoothly as Lord So-And-So did." Oh dear, I truly did say that name aloud, did I not?

I continued on, as there was nothing to be done about the irreverent name I had used for Minas Tirith's previous Warden. "As sure as I am standing here, had I not been the healer in the wards that night, the lad in there with a tube protruding from his throat, which I so insanely placed there, would be dead and gone, thanks to you." I stomped off.

I left the Houses in a hurry. Again I felt the urge to murder. I stepped out into the gloom that was trying to pass as midday, the trip to my room forgotten for the moment. I needed to walk. I needed to clear my head and calm down. I really needed a moment of peace and a breath of fresh air, but decided I would have to settle for the moment of peace, since the air was anything but fresh.

I suppose the Valar had decided to discipline me for being prone to stomping and feelings of murder, for ere I could even draw a deep breath, I spied two soldiers limping up the street. I watched their struggle, each holding onto the other, and not making much progress in their trek toward the Houses of Healing. I could not stand by idle while they labored so. I ran down the street to them and placed my arm around one blood and dirt caked waist. I grabbed his outstretched arm at the wrist and brought it down around my neck onto my shoulders.

We walked thusly for a few minutes, me watching my steps in the street. The road was pitted and muddy and the last thing these fellows needed was to follow me down as I slipped in a pothole.

I jumped, startled, when I looked up, and before me stood Aragorn, accompanied by an Elf and a Dwarf, who had evidently witnessed my plight and had come to assist me with the weary soldiers.

Gently pushing me aside, the Elf said, "Allow me, dear lady." The undertones of male supremacy could not be mistaken in his words. I frowned at him, which he seemed oblivious to, and stepped aside, allowing him access to the wounded soldier. I hazarded a glance at Aragorn and he was obviously trying not to laugh after witnessing my scowl at the Elf for insulting me unintentionally. He gave me a knowing wink and we made our way to the Houses of Healing as quickly as we could. As soon as we had the soldiers handed off to waiting aides, Aragorn turned to me and introduced the Elf and Dwarf in turn. "Maeren, these are my friends, Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli, Son of Gloin."

I dipped my head to both Elf and Dwarf, and thanked them all for helping me with the wounded men. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I am Maeren, daughter of Maedren of Rohan. I do appreciate your help, kind sirs. I hope to meet you again and perhaps we may have more time to properly converse. I am afraid for now I must take my leave of you and get to work."

The Elf smiled and said, "Well, we would not wish to have you chastised by the Warden for keeping you, so we will also bid you farewell."

I somehow got the idea that this Elf was used to fawning females of every imagined race. He gave the term fair a new meaning. To say he was handsome really didn't define him well enough. I had fleeting thoughts of Lord Jeneson, but I had to admit that even this Elf was manlier than he.

I narrowed my eyes, still smiling, though it was somewhat of a smug smile. I said with a voice laced with acid and sweetened with honey, "Well, I promise not to be very hard on myself, Master Elf." Wrinkling my nose, I added, "Oh, and since I can see you are in dire need, the public baths are just down the way, on the right, just past the Inn. You cannot miss them."

His knit his brows together and mumbled something to Aragorn, wondering about what I had just said. And with that, I turned quickly and headed into the wards. I suddenly wondered at my boldness—I had never even seen an Elf, let alone insulted one. But truthfully, he had insulted me first, intended or not. I suppose I was lucky he was a good sport. Or maybe he was just speechless and was saving my punishment for another time. No, just oblivious, in his quest for male supremacy.

I continued on and just before passing the threshold into the wards, I stole a glance backward. I could swear I heard the Dwarf—Gimli, wasn't it—laugh, and smack the Elf on the back saying mockingly, "Oh Master Elf, it seems not all females find you as irresistible as you always tell me they do."

The men we had helped in from the street proved to be more exhausted than injured, and were quickly cleaned up and bandaged and tucked into clean cots. After I was sure all was under control in the wards, I walked wearily into the back rooms of the Houses of Healing where I made my home such as it was. I heated a pot of water for a quick tidy up. Maybe I could grab a bite to eat and a short nap as well.

Looking into the mirror hanging above the crude washstand I stood before, I loosened my hair from the knot where it was fastened at the nape of my neck. My hairpins were bent and rusting. I made a mental note to find the time to get some new ones. I ran my fingers through my hair, closing my eyes as I shook it out. I scratched my scalp, trying to message the cares of the past few days away. I dared a glance into the mirror, dreading what I might see smudged or smeared across my face. As I suspected, it was a sight. Blood adorned my left temple, where I must have absently brushed the hair out of my eyes whilst tending some wound. I grimaced as I looked at the smudges of dirt that graced my chin. I shook my head, wondering just how I had managed to get so filthy in a ward that was supposed to be at least clean, if not immaculate. I laughed at myself as I took in my grubby appearance. It seems I had been a little too close to crossing the line this morning in insulting the Elf concerning his state of filthiness—which in reality was not near as dirty at I had made out. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. As it turns out, I had no room to talk.

As soon as the water on the stove was warm enough, I poured a good bit of it into my washbowl. I drenched a washcloth, wrung it out, and began dabbing at the smudges of dirt and blood that were on my face. I took off my apron and dress, my tired fingers stiff for whatever reason, undoing the buttons slowly. As soon as I was naked, I stretched like a cat just rousing from a doze in a cozy basket. How I wished I were just rising from a nap. I was beyond tired.

I began applying the washcloth, smeared with soap, over my body. It felt so good I again closed my eyes. I came to with a jerk, suddenly realizing that I was about to drop the cloth and go to sleep on my feet.

I shook my head, trying to shove the sleepiness away, and refilled my washbowl with clean water for a rinse. After patting myself dry with one of my thin towels, I found clean undergarments and proceeded to put them on. Just before donning them, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. What was smudged on my shoulder? On closer inspection, I realized that it was no smudge. It was a patch of red, chafed skin.

A smile crossed my lips. I remembered how I came to be so marked. Aragorn's beard. I remembered how he had kissed my neck and shoulders and rested his face in the crook of my neck during our night together. The repeated meeting of skin and beard was what caused this rosy reminder.

I surprised myself by blushing. You would think I was some untried virgin, the way I was embarrassed by this small thing. It is funny. No matter how old a woman may get, she still thinks the same of herself, as she grows older. It seems as if a part inside of you doesn't age, it just gets wiser, hopefully. Here I was, a woman nearly thirty. I had been married for eleven years before my husband's death, and had even borne a son. Yet I could still find myself blushing like the young, sheltered girl I no longer was. Yes, it was funny.

I couldn't remember the last time I had really looked at myself. I looked my body up and down. And side-to-side—tilting my head first right and then left. I grimaced at the sight. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, for there was nothing to do for it.

I have always been considered what is called plain—just your ordinary Rohirric woman. My hair was somewhere between blond and red and not notable. My eyes were probably my best feature—green, large and long lashed. My breasts had never been large, but they were no longer the pert young things they had been before I had suckled Tristin. I was pretty long waisted and my ribs were apt to poke out. Oh well, I might as well dress. I could look at the sack of bones that was my body until Mordor ran cold, and wouldn't be able to change that which the Valar had granted me.

After eating a small bit—and, I confess—daydreaming some about how I had spent the previous night, I rose from my little table in the center of my room. I decided to go check on the patients in the ward. There were still wounded soldiers practically stacked atop one another. The chaos was down, even though the sounds of those suffering were, if anything, even more pronounced. Work, it seems, is never done.

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I went from bed to bed, checking bandages, and giving doses of fever and pain relieving herbs. After three hours I decided to take a few minutes rest and visit our heroes ensconced in the storerooms in the far end of the wards.

As I walked down the hall containing the rooms I sought, I heard what seemed to be muffled weeping from a door I was intending to walk past. I was wishing to see Eowyn before seeing the other two patients. The sound was coming from the room of Lord Faramir. I hesitated. I did not personally know him, but I could not turn my back upon the sorrowful sounds of his mourning. He was most assuredly in mourning. His father had killed himself, and had nearly taken Faramir with him to the Halls of Mandos.

Faramir's father, Lord Denethor—the Steward of Gondor—had apparently gone somewhat mad with grief. He had not only lost his firstborn son Boromir, but was also anguished with what, in his mind, was sure to be the end of Middle Earth as he knew it.

I had heard the story that was spreading throughout the city, of how Denethor had despaired over losing everything of importance to him. He was determined he would not leave his only remaining son to suffer under the inevitable rule of the Dark Lord. So, he had taken Faramir, who was unconscious and very ill, to the Hallows, where all the Kings and Stewards of Gondor were laid to rest. He entered the House of Stewards, and laid first Faramir, and then himself upon large tables of stone. He had his servants prepare a pyre around the tables, intending for them to set fire to the wood soaked in oil.

Somehow, for the story given to me was unclear at this point, the wizard Galdalf had been summoned. While he could not save Denethor from his intended end, Gandalf had managed to save Faramir. It now seemed apparent that Faramir had learned of his father's suicide, as well as his own narrow brush with death at his father's hands.

I paused one more moment, my hand on the doorknob, before I knocked quietly and entered. It was clear that Faramir had been weeping. He hastily tried to hide that fact, turning over on his side, showing his back to me. I closed the door and approached the bed.

"Please leave me," Faramir said in a choked voice, "I want no company."

My heart clenched at his sadness. "I have come to check on your hurts, my lord," I said. "I am Maeren, the Warden of the Houses. We have never met. You are Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, I believe?"

My question went unanswered. He said nothing, nor did he turn to face me. The light in the room was dim. Only one small candle on an instrument table at the far side of the room cast a flickering shadow.

"My lord, please turn toward me, so that I may tend to your shoulder," I said trying to sound as proficient as I could. Perhaps while I was tending to his physical needs, he would allow me to be a shoulder on which to lay some of his many sorrows. I didn't hold out much hope for accomplishing this, because men were notorious for holding their sorrows inside. I didn't see why Lord Faramir would be any different.

He heeded my request, rolling over onto his back. He had obviously had a chance to wipe his face. The only trace of tears was in the redness of his eyes. I sat on the edge of the bed next to him. He remained stonily silent and looked everywhere but at me, as I untied the loose nightshirt he wore. He actually looked quite fearsome.

Removing the bandage from his shoulder, I checked the wound, which was well on its way toward healing. I replaced the bandage, although truthfully, the wound was closed nicely and he had no need of it anymore. I was stalling for time, trying to gather my thoughts as to what I would say to him—and how best to say it. I decided the direct approach would be better than skirting the issue. I prayed that the story I was taking as fact was indeed true. I would hate to add insult to injury with falseness.

I finished retying his nightshirt and lay my hands on his shoulder. It seemed almost cold to the touch. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine. His fearsome expression softened a little and his tears began flowing again, down the sides of his face into his ears. I took the sheet that was covering him and stretched it up to wipe the dampness from the side of his face closest to me.

He made no sound with his weeping—the tears just fell from weary eyes. He finally said, "My father tried to kill me."

I could tell he was ashamed of what he perceived as his weakness. He was weeping—and in front of a woman. Not only that, he seemed to be about to bare his soul to me. He was either extremely overwrought or an extremely sensitive man. His stern countenance, aside from the tears, had me opting for the former.

He lay there silent and stony as I organized my thoughts. "I know he did," I said quietly. "But the way I understand it, he thought he was doing it out of love. One cannot fault a parent for wanting to protect his child, even if he is misguided by grief."

"My father did not love me!" Faramir exclaimed quietly. "It was by his order that I went to Osgiliath, even though both he and I knew it to be futile. He had every reason to believe that he was sending me to my death. Yet he sent me anyway."

"As I heard it—and my source is very reliable," I lied, "He showed great remorse over that decision. When you returned wounded, he would not allow those carrying you to bring you here. He wanted you close to him, in his house, where he did not leave your side for even a moment."

I lifted the pitcher on the bedside table and poured him a glass of water. As I lifted his head to help him drink, I said, "I do not know you and I did not know him, so I will not begin to presume that I know of the relationship between you. I really have no business telling you of his motives, but from the outside looking in, I see a desperately misguided man making a futile attempt at atonement for his sin against his son. Take that or leave it. It is entirely your decision."

"I know not how I will take it. Presently I cannot get past the fact that he is dead. Dead without ever speaking of his care for me, did he have any." His voice was tremulous as he continued, "Even if he sought atonement, it was already too late." Faramir closed his eyes but no tears fell from them.

"I suppose it will be in how you choose to look at it," I said. "You can be bitter and eat your heart out over his neglect—and perhaps even his spite of you. Or you can grieve a poor old man's death. An old man who died without hearing his son speak of his love for him, which, as a parent, I can say without doubt would be a devastating thing."

Faramir opened his eyes and looked at me once again. "Thank you, my lady. I had not thought about it in those terms, but you are right. It is all in one's attitude."

I could see his soldier's face replace that of an injured son. I could not tell if he was comforted by what I had said or just closing his emotional door to me.

Since our words seemed to have taken a turn from the morose, I decided to engage in a little light conversation. Perhaps I could at least distract him from the dark thoughts that were plaguing his mind.

"Yes, attitude can get us far, how well I know," I replied. "Mine is apt to get me into trouble when I least expect it."

I rose and began straightening his covers and generally tidying up the room. I turned to look at him and was rewarded with maybe a hint of a smile. I was glad. His pain—both mentally and physically—must have been overwhelming. First he lost his older brother, then this situation resulting in his father's death. It was a wonder he could smile even slightly.

"You have had visitors, my lord," I said. "Some rough looking men have been asking after your health. The say they are Rangers of Ithilien."

"That would be my men. Will they be allowed in—or must I go out to see them?" he asked with a sideways gaze.

"I suppose that would depend on whether you will let them in. I have no objections if you do not." I smiled slightly. "And coercion will not get you anywhere with me, my Lord Faramir."

"Coercion?" he asked. "I do not coerce. I either do or I do not."

I knit my brows together. "Is that so, my lord? Then I will tell you that I have been ordered by Aragorn to not allow you out of the Houses until I see fit—and I shall not see fit until I am sure you have regained your strength sufficiently and not before. Is that clear?"

He smiled in defeat and said, "Very clear, my lady. It is a bitter pill to swallow, but I shall do my best to take my medicine—and defeat—like a man." He smiled at his cleverness with words.

"Oh, my lord," I said, wrinkling my nose. "You must do something about your horrendous puns—telling a healer, in the Houses of Healing, about having a bitter pill to swallow! Surely you can do better than that!"

I actually got a chuckle out of him then. He smiled and said, "My name is Faramir. I would appreciate your using it without a title please."

I smiled widely and said, "Only if you will speak my name as well, instead of 'my lady.' My name is Maeren."

"Then that is who you shall be," he said.

I smiled at him. He seemed in better spirits than he had been before I came in. I bid him goodnight and left, closing the door behind me. I stood just outside his door, thinking about Faramir and our conversation. On first meeting he seemed such a formidable man. But I did not find him to be so fearsome by the time I left. I also knew I had been wrong about him before. Yes, he was extremely overwrought, but I suspected that inside this man beat a very sensitive heart.

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