10 April 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith
There were shouts in the streets. The sound had grown too usual in the last weeks to pay it very much heed, and Lothíriel did not hasten her preparations to attend the Houses of Healing. Her plain dress was laced methodically, and she tied a clean apron over it, smoothing out the wrinkles. She plaited back her hair almost lazily, dreading in her heart of hearts returning to the stink of blood and the cries of wounded soldiers. But immediately she berated herself for such ungracious thoughts; the men had given much for the defense of her home. To wrap bandages and administer water and hot broth was a small price for her to pay, however difficult it was.
The shouting grew nearer, and to her it seemed that it had entered the courtyard. Curious and not a little irritated, Lothíriel picked up her reticule and left her chamber at once.
To her utmost surprise, her father's captain was there, speaking to the housekeeper in low tones, and so he must not have been shouting. But why had he come? The armies had sent word they would be striking camp on the Fields of Cormallen several days earlier, and would remain there for the time being. As she approached, the housekeeper covered her mouth with her hand, barely stifling a cry of agony. Lothíriel hastened her steps.
"What is it, Captain Farad? Where is my father?"
The captain turned to her with a smart bow, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm as he extended two folded letters to her, which she accepted and tucked into her pocket. "He sends word from Cormallen," Farad said, straightening, and for the first time, she recognized the rippling anxiety in the man's face. Her stomach swooped with fear, and her next words are choked—
"What word?"
"Your brother has been taken to the Houses of Healing. Prince Imrahil wished you to be aware; he will enter the city when he may, and he puts Amrothos under your care—"
But Lothíriel did not hear the remainder of his explanation. Her head was ringing, and she could do nothing but blink stupidly at the captain. "Amrothos?" she choked at last, cutting him off rudely but not caring one whit.
"He was wounded severely at the Black Gate, princess. Lord Aragorn recommended he be sent into the city for better treatment."
"He—he is already there?"
"Yes, my lady."
Lothíriel remained to hear no more—on numb legs she rushed for the gate, the guards hurrying to open it for her before she burst into the street. Evidently Amrothos was not the only one brought to the Healing Houses, for the streets were blocked with wagons of moaning men, bandaged and bloody and soiled, and—
She held her hand to her nose, unable to bear the stink as she wove around carts and those carrying them. It was only a short walk to the Healing Houses, but never had it felt longer. Her heart was beating out of her breast, her stomach rolling and regretting the scarce breakfast she had consumed earlier.
"Warden, Warden!" Lothíriel cried, catching sight of his familiar figure amongst the new chaos in the main foyer. He was bent over a stretcher, but looked up when he heard her voice.
"Princess," he said, and he did not smile. "Go through—he is in the third chamber on the left."
The sight of her brother, her laughing, teasing brother, on a low cot and surrounded by healers was nearly too much for Lothíriel—she smelled blood and rotten flesh. There was a sharp exhale from Amrothos, and she heard him snap,
"It does not need to be removed!"
"My lord, the infection has already spread—if it goes on, it will reach your internal organs and rot those too—"
Lothíriel pushed past the healer at the end of the cot, looking down in horror to see a mass of bandages around Amrothos's leg, red and green and brown and black—she did not what to know what she was looking at. She swallowed past the rising bile in her throat.
"Lothíriel!" Amrothos said in surprise. His face was sunken, his black hair plastered to his face in its filth and his eyes glittered unnaturally. She did not need to have the healer's whispered explanation to know that he was fevered.
"Tell them that I can keep my leg, Lothíriel," Amrothos pleaded, lifting an arm to reach for her. Lothíriel crouched by his side immediately, grasping his hand tightly as she searched him for further injury, pushing back his hair and feeling his hot face.
"What happened?" she asked, hating the sight of his dirty, matted hair. It was so unlike him!
"A troll," he said dryly. "Those beasts are blasted quick, then though they don't look it. If Father tells you I have worsened this by my own stubbornness, do not listen to him—"
"He rode his horse all the way to Cormallen, my lady," the healer said, disapproval dripping off her every word. Amrothos scowled, and shut his mouth.
"Amrothos!" Lothíriel cried, aghast. "You idiot!"
"My lady, we really must remove the appendage before the infection spreads—already his flesh rots. It cannot be healed."
"No!" Amrothos said sharply, lifting his head to scowl at the healer. "I am confident in your abilities; I am sure you can save it—"
"I cannot undo this damage! This damage which you have exacerbated!" the healer snapped back. Lothíriel glanced back in surprise; the woman's fists were on her hip, glaring down at Amrothos with equal fury that he gave. "If you keep your leg, you will die in a fortnight, I promise you that. Your blood is already poisoned; you very well may die anyways."
Lothíriel's breath caught in her throat, her fingers tightening on Amrothos's hand until he grunted and pulled himself from her grip.
"Ease up, sister," he said, then a flash of pain crossed his face as he shifted.
"Amrothos," she told him at once. "You must allow them to remove your leg."
There was a weight of opinion that sisters evidently had that healers, occupation aside, did not. For upon her declaration Amrothos's expression stilled, and his eyes darted to her, and she saw, for the first time in her life—her brother frightened.
"You must trust the healers to do their work," Lothíriel said softly. "I—I will be here, if you wish. I shan't leave you."
A wan, hollow smile graced his usually-handsome face. "'Tis ugly work, Loth. You will not wish to see it."
She swallowed, clenching her shaking hands together as her gaze held his. "I will care for you, Amrothos. I will not leave."
A still, tense moment—and he gave the barest nod. A sigh of relief from the healer, and Lothíriel heard her start preparations at once. Then Amrothos's expression crumbled, and he closed his eyes tightly.
"Great Ulmo below, Lothíriel! I wish to have it over."
"It will be done quickly, I am sure," she said. "There are many wounded. You cannot monopolize all the attention of the healers, unfortunately." This earned her a short laugh, which did little to hide his agony.
Lothíriel patted his hand and stood to give her help to the healer. There were clean bandages to fetch, poppy syrup for his comfort, and other things which she could not look upon without feeling as though she might vomit. Another healer was brought in for assistance.
She knelt by Amrothos's head once more, thankful at least for the draping linen which was fastened against the wall to keep the operation out of sight, though she could still hear the murmured conversation of the healers behind it. His face was ashen.
"You should not stay," he said a final time, and Lothíriel shook her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth.
"My lady, if you would give him this—"
A medicine was prepared, and she accepted the cup wordlessly from the healer, lifting Amrothos's head as best she could to help him drink. He grimaced at the taste, but finished it at her urging. Lothíriel's eyesight was growing spotty in her panic, the cup clattered to the ground when she tried to set it down carefully.
"Go on." Her brother's voice was hoarse, and his took her hands in a strong grip.
Her vision swam, and only her duty to Amrothos kept her from fainting. She squeezed his hand so tightly that her fingers were numb in a matter of moments, and she wished her ears were numb too. Those horrible, awful sounds of the healers at the gruesome work she would never forget. Amrothos, for his part, did not cry aloud, though he was forced to spit blood from biting his tongue into a handkerchief she held for him.
Eventually he groaned as his eyes fluttered shut, and her heart skipping a beat, Lothíriel called for one of the healers—but she was assured that he had merely fainted.
"And better for it, too," the girl said, for Lothíriel realized that the healer was younger even than herself, though her eyes were as tired beyond her years. The healer's arms were covered in blood up to her elbows, where her sleeves were rolled, and Lothíriel swallowed, but to no avail—she rushed for the chamber pot on shaking legs, and deposited her breakfast posthaste. The work was nearly done, though she did not look towards it as she returned to her brother's side, a headache growing in her head.
There was only the cauterization to be done, and to distract herself from the nightmare sure to come, Lothíriel pressed cool cloths to Amrothos's head to try to ease his fever. His head rolled restlessly, his brow creased—and as soon as the sizzling iron was pressed into his flesh he at last cried aloud, and the awful stink of burning flesh filled the small chamber.
"It is over," Lothíriel soothed him, drawing his face to look into hers. His expression was wild, unseeing as he blinked around. "Amrothos!" she said loudly, but he fainted once more.
"He did well, my lady."
The healers were now cleaning their supplies, and Lothíriel glanced over, unable to form a smile.
"Will he be well?" she asked in a low voice. "Will—will he live?"
The young healer held her gaze, pausing in her bundling together bloodied bandages. "Ioreth has an excellent regime against the poisoning of the blood," she said. "But it is not infallible. Yet your brother is strong. You have good reason to hope, providing that he rests."
"I have a dosage of turmeric and garlic tea prepared," cut in the other healer, her voice sharp. "That is for when he wakes. For now, a bread poultice. Cease dawdling, Careth, and get to it!"
The girl blushed, and obeyed. Lothíriel returned her attention to Amrothos, whose face was devoid of all color despite the sheen of sweat upon it. She began again to wash her brother's face, tears building in her eyes as the shock of what had just happened took over her consciousness.
It was many hours later that she was at last prevailed upon by the Warden to leave her brother's side. He informed her he had need of her the following morning, but involved in other duties than coddling a man who would live or die whether she was beside him or not. The words were harsh, but barely broke through her haze.
Lothíriel walked home slowly, breathing in the smell of the night air—filled with cooking fires and the human stink that Minas Tirith had in such abundance. Above her, the sky twinkled with stars unsympathetic to the piercing pain in her heart.
What would her father say when he found out Amrothos was crippled, and in danger of dying?
More tears came then, and sniffling them back, uncaring whether she was seen in such a state—Lothíriel remembered the letters which Captain Farad had given her. She found an empty place on the low wall next to a lit torch, pulling the parchment from her pocket to at last give it her attention.
The first letter was from her father. It was short and to the point: Amrothos is in grave danger from his wound. See to him, and see that he is cared for. I cannot enter the city before our new King, so I place him under your responsibility. Erchirion, Elphir and I are unwounded—worry not for us.
And beneath this note was another, thicker parchment, which with numbed astonishment Lothíriel recognized Éomer's handwriting upon it, addressed clearly to her. She broke the seal, and read,
Dearest Lothíriel,
I may confess now that the danger has passed, that I feared I might never write your name again or see your lovely face. My relief is a hundredfold! But these things I would rather tell you in person. Will you come to Cormallen, when and if you may leave Amrothos in the care of the healers? Your family would also be pleased to see you, but I most of all, I think in my selfish happiness.
I have also invited Éowyn to come. Perhaps you may ride together. I await your response—
Éomer
She read the message several times before she could understand. The sighing relief of Éomer unhurt barely pierced her grief for Amrothos, and she allowed a smile which she did not feel. Whether she could attend Cormallen, she did not know—and so she tucked both letters back into her pocket, and rose onto her aching feet to finish the journey home.
The respite she sought in sleep did not come that night.
