We're out of bandages.

I finish bandaging a young soldier's arm, and I wipe the blood off of my hands on my skirt. He looks at me, mumbling his gratitude. His eyes are so sad, so lost. I am drawn in, mesmerized and sympathetic. No one should have to go through what he just did. I want to stay and comfort him, but more wounded are being brought to our impromptu house of healing. I squeeze his shoulder, and move on to the next man.

Mama slices and boils our dresses. We use the cloth to wrap up the wounded.

A/N: Takes place after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Told from a random Minas Tirith resident.