Hi, everyone: trigger warning for a self harm scene at the very end of this chapter. There aren't any super graphic descriptions but I don't want anyone to be caught off guard.

Chapter 29

Even after a week, when her fever finally subsided and Lori gradually gained the strength to move around again, fatigue still haunted her footsteps. She was listless, lost in thought when she didn't mean to be, and it took a force of will to keep up with her duties as a healer.

Her friends had noticed. Éowyn checked on her frequently, and Sárelle always hovered nearby when they walked together, as if ready to catch her should she stumble. Dernhild teased her as usual, but there was still a flicker of concern in her eyes.

Lori was grateful for them. They'd helped her through an awful week, shown her kindness and compassion without expecting anything in return. And if they mistook her depression for the aftereffects of her illness, she wasn't going to say anything.

It surprised her, then, when Éowyn burst into the infirmary a few days after Lori had recovered. She had a habit of entering without knocking, but she never did it so explosively.

"Éowyn?" She rose from her worktable, noting her stricken expression. "What happened?"

"It's Théodred." There was a quiver of fear in Éowyn's voice. "Éomer has just returned with him from the Westfold. He is badly wounded."

Lori leapt into action, sweeping around the room to gather what supplies she would need and tossing them in her bag. "How bad?"

"I do not know." Éowyn was rocking on her heels, and as soon as Lori was ready, the two of them rushed towards Théodred's chambers.

Éomer was already there, still wearing his armor and smelling of blood and sweat. He and a pair of men had laid Théodred on the bed and were busy pulling his gear off.

"I need light." Lori deposited her bag at the foot of the bed and leaned forward to look Théodred over. He was unconscious and frighteningly pale, and his armor was smeared with blood and grime. "Where was he injured?"

"His stomach," Éomer said, sounding breathless. "By a spear or a sword—I do not know. It was orcs. They were ambushed at the Fords of Isen."

Lori pushed her way to Théodred's upper half and took his pulse, then his temperature. There was already a fever burning beneath his skin, and she swore softly. One of the men bumped her arm as he unbuckled Théodred's breastplate, and she swore again.

"Éowyn, help me get his armor off. The rest of you, just stay out of the way, please."

As they worked to peel away the layers he wore, a sickly-sweet smell permeated the room, and Éowyn let out a small gasp.

"What is that?" she asked, hands hovering over the blood-matted fabric of his undershirt.

"You said you found him by the river?" Lori touched Éowyn's hand to let her know she would take care of the rest.

"It was raining, too," Éomer said quietly.

"And that was how many days ago?"

"Two since we found him. I do not know how long he was…"

Lori finally uncovered the wound and pressed her lips together. The skin around it was red and swollen. Parts of it were festering, and the smell only intensified.

"All right." She leaned away. The adrenaline surging through her veins nearly made her dizzy. "I need clean water, fresh rags, and more light." She pulled her bag closer and began rifling through it, pulling out the herbs and tools she would need.

"Go," Éomer said, and the two men rushed out of the room.

Éowyn gripped Lori's arm. "Can you save him?"

She met her eyes. "I am going to do everything I can, but I need to move quickly now. We'll talk more once he's stable."

Éowyn nodded and left the room, likely to help gather supplies.

Lori threw herself into her work, trying hard to keep her hands steady. She'd treated infected wounds before, but never something this severe. This was what she had been preparing for all these years; every tutor she'd had and herb she'd memorized would culminate here in this room.

She would not fail.

Hours passed, and Lori's body ached with exhaustion. She was still on the tail end of recovery, and this was the most intensive work she'd put in since helping deliver Lady Déorwyn's baby.

She'd removed most of the dead flesh from Théodred's wound, though the rest of it was too swollen for her to see the true extent of the damage. Thankfully, his blood pressure wasn't dangerously low—it seemed the biggest risk to him now was infection.

Éowyn had been in and out of the room, bringing whatever extra supplies Lori needed. Éomer had spent the better part of an hour pacing until she'd kicked him out for distracting her—and making her own anxiety worse, though she hadn't voiced that part aloud.

Théodred hadn't woken at all since they'd found him at the ford. Even the pain of the surgery hadn't roused him, and he was silent and gleaming with sweat as Lori carefully poured a draught meant to reduce fever past his lips.

She had just finished cleaning her hands when a soft knock sounded at the door and Éowyn walked in. Her lip trembled as she beheld Théodred's prone form, and she crossed the room to check his temperature. She traded the damp cloth on his forehead for a fresh one.

"How is he?"

Lori sank into a chair near his bedside and tried to control the slight tremor in her hands. "It…It doesn't look like there's any serious internal bleeding, and hopefully that won't change once the swelling goes down. I just have to watch him now, make sure the infection doesn't get worse."

Éowyn's lips thinned, and she clasped her hands together. "I have always found this to be the most difficult part of tending to the sick or wounded. That we must simply wait and hope they do not succumb."

The anguish in her voice twisted Lori's heart. She knew she was also thinking about Théoden. She waited until Éowyn met her gaze, then said, "He's fighting, you know. Even if Théodred is unconscious, his body is fighting to keep him alive. That's what the fever is."

"Yet his fever could kill him."

"I won't let that happen," Lori said, surprising herself with the fervor in her voice. "He can come back from this. I'll make sure of it."

Éowyn smiled faintly. "I believe in you, Lori. I will come by as often as I can and bring you whatever you need."

She tried to return the smile. "Does…Does the king know?"

"I have told him, but whether he heard me is another matter." Her expression darkened. "This all seems remarkably convenient for Gríma. First Théodred plans to remove him from court, and weeks later he is grievously wounded in battle."

Her skin went cold. "Are you saying… Do you think Gríma had something to do with this?"

"I do not know. I cannot conceive how such a thing would be possible, unless he has poisoned the minds of Théodred's men as well." Éowyn shook her head as if to dislodge the thought. "Éomer thinks it suspicious that orcs attacked so close to the domain of Saruman the White."

Lori bit her lip. She remembered the imposing ring of mountains she'd passed when first traveling to Rohan. Nan Curunír, Aragorn had called it, realm of the wizard Saruman. She still had trouble conceptualizing what a wizard actually was, even after meeting Gandalf, and the idea of one living in a tower was still a bit much for her.

"I don't know," she said with a sigh. "I don't know what's happening here. The only thing I can do is take care of Théodred. We'll take the rest as it comes."

"Indeed."

That bitter expression had returned to Éowyn's face, and Lori hated seeing it there. She reached over and briefly squeezed her hand.

"For what it's worth, I feel much better knowing you have my back."

"Always." Her expression softened a little. "I should go. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lori nodded goodbye as Éowyn disappeared through the door. She took a moment to gather her strength, then heaved herself out of her chair.

She still had work to do.

A day passed. Two.

Théodred's fever burned steadily. Lori didn't sleep much, too consumed with managing his temperature and periodically checking his wound. The swelling had gone down enough for her to probe the wound for debris or infected tissue, but she didn't have the tools to look deeper. At this point, it was a tedious, unsettling waiting game.

Whenever exhaustion got the better of her, she only slept in twenty-minute snatches before anxiety jolted her back into the waking world.

After her first nearly-sleepless night, Lori had dug the bottle of miruvor from the bottom of her bag and drained half of it. She assumed something so valuable wouldn't go bad, though she'd never bothered to ask. The warmth and energy that had spilled through her limbs had been proof enough that it was still good for its intended purpose.

Erestor had instructed her to save it for herself. She was still staying true to his request, technically, though all of her thoughts were focused on Théodred.

It worried her that his fever hadn't gone down at all, that he hadn't woken or moved. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach constantly, though she tried to stay optimistic for Éowyn and Éomer.

Desperation finally drove her to bring out her second gift from the elves. The bottle of athelas seemed pathetically small in her hand, and she prayed a portion of it would be enough to make a difference.

She emptied half the bottle into a small bowl and crushed the leaves into a fine powder. The smell calmed her nerves a little, and she breathed deeply as she worked. Surely this would help. If Théodred showed signs of improvement, she could search for more.

Just as she was pouring hot water into the powder, a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," she responded softly.

Éomer entered and stopped short. "What is that brew you're making?"

"I'm trying something new. This is an herb I brought from the north, but I only have a little bit of it." She stirred the mixture a few times. "Once this cools, I'll apply some to the wound and see if that helps Théodred's infection."

Éomer was silent for a moment, then let out a soft snort.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. If he was choosing this moment to be skeptical about her medical practices, she wasn't sure she had the patience to deal with him.

"What?"

He crossed his arms. "It's nothing. You'll think me a fool."

She paused and turned to face him. "Go on."

He stared at the athelas mixture as if lost in thought. "When I was younger and my mother still lived, she would make pastries every autumn. She used apples, honey, some other spices I couldn't name. Éowyn tried to recreate the recipe, but she's never come close. But that brew…it smells exactly like what my mother used to make."

Despite her stress and exhaustion, Lori felt a small smile creep onto her lips. "Well, since you brought it up, this herb smells like something different for everyone. It's supposed to bring back good memories. For me, it smells like the tea I used to drink back home."

Éomer shook his head. "That sounds like something out of a fairytale."

Lori decided not to mention that she'd been given the herb by elves. Even if they were on good terms, she wasn't sure how he would take that.

"I just hope it will help Théodred." She took another deep breath as anxiety nearly overwhelmed her. They still had time. The athelas had to work.

"When was the last time you slept?"

She looked up and met Éomer's scrutinizing stare. "A few hours ago. I-I haven't gotten much rest, but I'll be fine. I can stay focused." The miruvor had worn off late last night, but she would keep herself awake though sheer force of will if she had to.

"No one would begrudge you a few hours of sleep."

She shook her head. "I want to stay close by, just in case he takes a turn for the worse. I need to keep an eye on him."

And I don't want to leave him alone, she added silently. Not while Gríma is prowling around.

Her hands were growing restless, and she checked the athelas mixture. It was still warm, but cool enough to place on the body.

This has to work. This has to work.

With a silent prayer, she undid Théodred's bandages and applied some of the paste his wound.

Éomer's hand on her shoulder nearly made her jump.

"You should rest for a while. I'll keep watch while you sleep."

Lori floundered for an excuse, but she couldn't find any real reason to refuse. If she was being honest with herself, she was dead on her feet.

"Just…keep an eye on his temperature and his breathing. If anything changes, let me know right away."

Éomer nodded, as earnestly as if he were a soldier taking orders from a captain. It eased Lori's anxiety a little bit. This was his cousin he was looking after, and she knew Éomer was nothing if not diligent when it came to protecting his family.

"Don't let me sleep for more than a few hours." She shot him a weary but grateful smile and retreated to the chair in the corner of the room.

She curled up, held the lingering scent of athelas in her nose, and within minutes she was asleep.

Théodred's fever had gone down, perhaps thanks to the athelas, but his heartbeat was worryingly slow. Lori picked at the skin on her knuckles as she looked him over. She had herbs to decrease blood pressure, but none to raise it. She wished, not for the first time, that she had someone to consult—Adela, Aragorn, Erestor. It was getting harder to dismiss the thought that she wasn't prepared for this at all.

A knock sounded at the door. Lori took in a shaky breath and went to answer it.

Éowyn stood on the other side, face pale and eyes wide. The sight made Lori's stomach drop.

"What is it?" She stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. "What happened?"

"Éomer is gone." Éowyn stepped inside and immediately began pacing. "Banished, by order of the king."

"What?" Lori shut the door behind her. "What do you mean? How is that possible?"

Éomer had been with her only last night, had given her a chance to sleep and kept her company for a while after she woke. She didn't know what he could have done that would cause the king to cast him out.

"He has been pressing the issue of Isengard, that we may no longer be able to trust Saruman. It is the right of every marshal to give counsel on matters of war, but this morning he was accused of treasonous speech. Of warmongering." Her jaw trembled. "There is no doubt in my mind this is Gríma's doing. He is growing bolder."

The full reality of their situation sank in then. Théoden's mind was gone, his son injured and unconscious, and now Éomer had been banished. Their list of allies had become vanishingly small.

"Hey." Lori stepped forward and grasped Éowyn's arms, halting her pacing. Comforting her was just about the only thing she had control over now. "We still have time to figure something out. Did Éomer at least leave with supplies?"

She nodded grimly. "His éored followed him out of the city. I imagine they will ride back to the border."

Back to where Théodred had been wounded. Lori tried not to flinch at the thought.

"Then he has people who will protect him, people he can trust," she said, as much for her benefit as Éowyn's. "He'll be all right."

"And what of us?"

Her voice was nearly a whisper, and for the first time fear splintered through the anger in her eyes.

Lori opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come. She didn't know what to say.

"I am a fool to ask that of you." Éowyn looked away. "I do not expect you to have an answer."

Lori squeezed her arm before she could pull away. "Let's…Let's just sit for a moment, all right?"

By some silent agreement they sat on the floor, at the foot of Théodred's bed. Lori rubbed her hands over her face and tried to slow her breathing.

"Is there somewhere we could go?" she asked quietly.

"I will not leave my uncle." Éowyn tilted her head. "Though perhaps if you and Dernhild were to accompany Sárelle to Gondor—"

"I'm not leaving you, either." Lori nudged her with one elbow. "Not to mention I have to take care of Théodred."

"Then we do not flee." Éowyn sighed, hands fisting in the fabric of her skirt. "We stay and fight."

An awful, insidious thought entered Lori's mind. Gríma had accused her of being a poisoner, once. It wouldn't be impossible to slip him something, not to kill, but enough to make him ill and keep him away from the king.

She shoved the thought away before she could consider it further. Even at her most desperate, she was still a healer. She'd vowed never to use her tools to harm someone else.

"Tomorrow," Éowyn said lowly, "you and I should meet with Sárelle and Dernhild. We can do it here. And we'll discuss what we will do next."

"All right." Lori relaxed a little. That was some semblance of a plan, at least. "We'll figure something out. We're all smart—or most of us, at least."

A ghost of a smile flickered over Éowyn's lips. "Today I will see what other allies we have within Meduseld. Yet if I could stay for a while longer…"

Lori reached over and squeezed her hand. "Stay as long as you want. We still have time."

She drew her closer, and Éowyn leaned her head on her shoulder.

The day passed in lurches. After Éowyn left, Lori drained the remaining half of miruvor and brewed another antibiotic for Théodred. His wound seemed to be healing, but he remained unresponsive. She didn't know how to tell if something else was wrong, if there was an infection in his blood or a problem with his brain…

It needled at her. The hours stretched out as she tried to quell her rising panic, like the swells and troughs of the tide.

She dozed off sometime in the middle of the night and woke feeling even more weary than before she'd fallen asleep. The whole room seemed strange, the edges of the bed and the window fuzzy and gray. She felt light and unsubstantial as she lurched to her feet and stoked the fire.

She was tired. She was so, so tired, and she didn't know when the end of this would be. When Théodred would wake, when Éomer would return, when Gríma would make his next move.

This winter will be a long one, but we will weather it.

Théodred had told her to have faith, to hold out until the end. For his sake, she would try.

Fighting against another wave of exhaustion, Lori went to check Théodred's vitals. She pressed her fingers to the pulse point on his wrist. There was no movement, not even the barest flutter, beneath her touch.

Panic jolted her heartbeat, and she tried his throat. A handful of agonizing seconds passed in which she tried to keep her hand steady and prayed for a pulse, but there was nothing.

"No. No, no, no."

Lori hoisted herself onto the bed and began chest compressions. She worried she was going too slow, but one set was enough to make her dizzy with exhaustion. She breathed air into his mouth, checked for a pulse, and tried again.

"Come on. Come on, please."

There was nothing, no movement of blood or air. She kept doing compressions until she didn't have the strength to stay upright, until she could no longer hold the truth at arm's length. She slid off the bed and crumpled to the floor, her chest heaving with sobs.

he'sdeadhe'sgonehe'sdead

She'd failed. She'd failed in the worst way a healer could. The shame and horror that overtook her was enough to make her whole body tremble.

Éowyn didn't know yet. Théodred's family still thought there was hope for him. His people, everyone in Edoras, in Rohan, didn't know that they'd lost their prince. Their heir.

Her stomach lurched. Would they punish her for this? Théoden was sick and Éomer had been banished. There was no one left. She'd ruined everything. If they dragged her to that cell again, if they cast her out or worse…

Maybe that was what she deserved. They'd all put their trust in her. Théodred had put his trust in her, and she'd let him die.

Her body shook. She clasped her arm in one hand, dug her nails into her skin.

She didn't notice that the door had opened until a shadowy figure moved in her periphery.

"Oh, dear. His injuries have finally claimed him, then?"

Lori lifted her head as Gríma walked into the room. A wave of revulsion made her shudder. She wanted to scream at him to get out, to throw the sharpest thing she could find, but it took all of her effort just to quiet her sobs. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Gríma crossed the room to stand at the foot of the bed, his footsteps soft and deliberate. "A true tragedy. The king will be devastated to hear of the loss of his only son."

The words were like a punch to her gut. Lori fisted one hand in the bedsheets and pulled herself to her feet.

"What are you doing here?" she forced out.

"I am sure you did everything you could," Gríma continued as if he hadn't heard her. His fingers were tracing the carved wood of the bed frame. Lori felt a scream build in her throat and looked away. "There are some maladies that cannot be defeated, even by…" His eyes flickered towards her. "Healers with such skills as you possess."

"Get the fuck out of here," she whispered.

"Perhaps you should not speak with such venom when I have come to offer you some measure of kindness." His hand stilled as he locked eyes with her. "You can imagine the sort of grief that Théodred's family will feel once they are brought news of his death. With grief often comes anger and undue malice." He stepped around the bedpost, towards her. "I would be willing to spare you of that, to deliver word of the prince's death myself."

In exchange for what? She glared at him, afraid to speak the words aloud, afraid to know what it was he wanted from her.

Fear and anger and disgust reared inside of her, just barely keeping her from drowning in despair. She couldn't let him win this, couldn't let him know how close she was to breaking.

"Théodred is—was my responsibility. I am going to be the one to deliver the news." Her voice wasn't nearly as steady as she'd hoped, but there was something in it that made Gríma stop his advance.

"Such diligence," Gríma said. "It is truly a wonder that—"

"Just shut up." Anger swept through her like a high and carried her forward like a wave. "I'm so sick of your bullshit. I'm not giving you whatever you came here for, and you have no reason to be here otherwise." She jabbed a finger towards the door. "Get out or so help me god I will make you."

She forced herself to hold eye contact, a tiny part of her terrified that he would call her bluff. But Gríma only looked at her with the deepest loathing and backed away. He skulked from the room without another word, and Lori nearly crumpled as the adrenaline seeped from her body.

She couldn't carry that anger when she went to see the others. She had no right, not when she was the one ultimately at fault.

Another wave of tears welled up, and Lori fisted both hands in her hair. She wanted to tear at her own skin until she was gone. She wanted it so badly it was hard to think of anything else.

Her grip tightened, and the pinpricks of pain on her scalp brought some measure of clarity back. Her work wasn't finished, yet. If for no other reason, she had to do this to spite Gríma.

Sniffling, she wiped her face dry and took several deep, slow breaths. She took the knife from her supplies and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt. She did not look at Théodred's body.

There wasn't much distance between Théodred's chambers and Éowyn's. The journey felt like an instant, and Lori didn't even realize where her feet had taken her until she'd raised her hand to knock. A burst of anxiety rose in her, forceful enough that she thought she might vomit, but she rapped softly on the wood anyway.

An eternity of silence passed. Lori felt the weight of the knife against her thigh, and the urge to use it was so intense she nearly turned away towards her own room. Perhaps she'd knocked too softly for Éowyn to hear.

She jumped slightly when the door swung open. Éowyn was still blinking sleep from her eyes, but after one look at Lori's face, she seemed to understand.

"He is dead?" she asked quietly.

Lori nodded and opened her mouth to say something—that he hadn't suffered, that she was sorry, that she'd tried, she'd tried and it still hadn't been enough—but her throat tightened before any words could pass her lips.

Éowyn closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and her expression was perfectly calm.

"I will inform the king and make the necessary arrangements. You should rest, Lori."

She nodded again, dumbly, still reeling, still fixated on the skin of her thighs.

Éowyn said nothing else and closed the door.

Lori stood there for a moment and realized a part of her had wanted Éowyn to hold her, to close the distance between their shared grief. She felt disgusted at herself and turned away from the door. There was no one here to comfort her. The one person who might have understood was hundreds of miles away.

Aragorn. She wanted to see him so badly it made her knees weak.

She was crying again by the time she made it to her room. Her chest rattled with the effort of holding in her sobs, her shaking hands fumbling to close the door. She curled up on her bed and grabbed the knife from her pocket like it was a lifeline. With her other hand, she pulled up her skirt.

There was no air in the room. She felt herself drowning, suffocating under the weight of everything that had transpired. She needed something sharp, something different that would take her away from the moment.

The first cut was deeper than she'd intended. The pain came a second later, making her gasp. Relief rolled over her in a wave, but it wasn't enough.

She'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be eager for blood.

The world came back into focus. The tension in her chest eased.

She let out a shuddering breath and kept at it, even after the tears had dried on her cheeks.

I know some people were hoping for it, but unfortunately Lori wasn't able to save Theodred. She's good at what she does but is still far from a master healer, and with limited resources besides. Also Theodred dying better serves her narrative at this point so…yeah. I fridged him. Sorry :(