Scene Five: Of Letters and Ladies

About a week after Eowyn had come to work at the houses, Soredamors became very sick. The weather had gotten colder, and the young girl coughed and coughed into all hours of the night.

On the first day Soredamors was gone, Eowyn was given her duties. After hours of scrubbing soaked (with what? Eowyn did not want to know) bed sheets with harsh lye soap, Hothien informed her she should now feed the patients.

Eowyn delivered soup to each one with a heavy heart, knowing at the end of the line would be the handsome man who was crippled. The man she had stared at so hard on her first day of work.

She'd had to feed the woman with the sores today—the poor thing's illness had taken a tragic turn for the worst. She delivered bowl after bowl of chicken broth until she got to the last door. The shield maiden braced herself, poured the last of the broth into the last of the bowls and took the last wooden spoon she had brought up: these were her weapons, she told herself, against the tide of shame.

Eowyn opened the door and was eye-to-eye with the man almost instantly—his eyes were piercing, and the dimness in them made her heart hurt.

"Sir," she said, "I have brought your meal."

"Thank you," he said, diverting his eyes from hers as he tried to wiggle his way up into a better sitting position, "but where is the young healer?"

"Soredamors has fallen ill," said she, putting the bowl down on the bedside table and helping him sit all the way up, "and I have come to take her place. My name is Eowyn. You are?"

"I am called Strider," he said. She drew a chair to his bedside and took up the broth. Slowly, she dipped the spoon into the liquid and carefully held it up to his mouth. He parted his wind-chapped lips and spoonful by spoonful, she fed him the most of the bowl.

It hurt. It hurt her to have to do this thing to a man who looked as though he was imprisoned in his bed. And she knew it was just as Soredamors had said—Strider would not meet her eyes, not even once during the feeding.

When it was done, she picked up her bowl and asked him if there was anything else she could do for him. He shook his head, and then paused.

"My lady…you have done much for me today, but…there is a lady," he said slowly, "a woman of Elven birth who was expecting me at her home in these past weeks. She is worried, I am sure, and does not know of my…condition."

Eowyn nodded immediately. "Of course, milord. What is this lady's name, and where would I tell a messenger to go?"

At this moment, Eowyn witnessed the brightness in his eyes return, just for a moment as he said her name.

"She is Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of the Elves. She resides in Rivendell," he said, smiling to himself.

Eowyn did not need to put a lot of thought into figuring out that this lady was more than just an Elf to him. She bowed to the broken man. A smile awoke in her heart—she could do something to repair the damage in his heart, if not in his body.

"I would be more than happy to, my lord," she said, and exited.

Strider sat in long moments of quiet thought after the lady had left. He had recognized her instantly—she was the one who had stared at him so through the crack in the door. She was both beautiful and cold, yet her hands were as strong as any man's. Seeing her had made him think of Arwen.

What would his Elven lady think of him? Of course, he reassured himself, their love was stronger than him. Their love was stronger than his arms, stronger than the harshest wind, the raging sea. She would still love him.

She has to, he thought desperately as he looked out the window to see a cloudy, gray sky.

She has to.

Eowyn sent the letter off with a messenger the next day and returned to her duties in the houses. She spent the morning cleaning the plagued woman's sores, which was long, careful, and painful work for the afflicted. Eowyn learned that her name was Alaiwen. She would forever remember this woman's endurance—not once did she even show the slightest hint of pain. The rest of the day was spent, yet again, cleaning bed sheets.

When Hothien informed her it was time for the evening meal, Eowyn accepted the job gratefully. Again she went from room to room, dreading when she would have to feed Strider.

They repeated the same process as before, and they did this every day for a week, until the healer child was better. Then it was Soredamors who fed Aragorn instead, and Eowyn almost missed their conversation.

Until, of course, the lady arrived.

She was Elven, perhaps the most beautiful Elf Eowyn had ever been fortunate enough to see. Tall, willowy, dark of hair and bright of eye, she did not move, she flowed down from her horse and up the stairs of Edoras, and, eventually, to the Healing Wing.

Hothien was busy, so it was Soredamors who greeted the Elf lady while Eowyn worked at scrubbing a bedsheet. The door was open and she overheard their conversation.

"My lady," said the little red-head nicely, "welcome to the healing wing. Pray tell whom I may help you find?"

There was a long, awkward pause. Then, a voice, frigid as ice.

"A child?" it admonished quietly.

"Yes, milady," answered Soredamors, as though this happened all the time. "Who may I help you find?" she repeated.

The dark head shook. "A man…his name is Aragorn. He is…injured, gravely."

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl-healer after a moment's recognition, "You mean the man without the arm."

She said this a little too loudly as younger children do with embarrassing information. The Elf lady's eyes widened considerably.

"Crippled? I…"

"Come this way," chirped Soredamors, leading her down the hall to the last door. Eowyn put down her washing and followed. When the two reached the door, the Elf practically pushed the little healer out of the way, throwing the door open and practically dashing inside. Soredamors shut the door quickly behind her, looking a bit put off. Eowyn came and stood by her. They spoke no words. They had bonded somewhat in their daily activities together.

The Elf was in that room for perhaps an hour, and Eowyn and Soredamors did not stir from that spot. Muffled voices, arguing voices, perhaps? You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. Something dark was pulling at them from inside that little room.

The Elf came out of the room all a flutter, tears streaming down her cheeks. She turned her head and cried something out in Elvish towards him, and then tore off down the hall and out of Edoras.

It was not hard for them to deduce what happened.

For it was the next day that the cripple stopped eating.