"Breathe. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure."
-Oprah Winfrey

"Lady Éowyn. Where is she?" Amelia asked the elderly woman she had caught the elbow of. She was dressed in the grey and blue robes of a healer. She didn't answer Amelia's inquiry, but gestured in the direction of a plateau, where several ailing soldiers were treated at the same time. Then she hurried onwards, called to her next patient before Amelia got to thank her. Instead, she made for the racks of beds, little more than sheets laid out on the stone, where she could see Aragorn crouching beside a blonde woman, whose brother sat anxiously beside her.

A cough from her side distracted her and she turned with raised eyebrows, breaking into a smile when she saw an exhausted hobbit resting on the edge of the dais.

"Merry!" She embraced him tightly, pulling back quickly when he grunted, and she looked at his arm, wrapped in bandages. "Sorry. Forgot."

"Oh, I-I don't mind." Merry mumbled hoarsely, smiling weakly at her. Amelia returned his smile with a gentle one of her own, but then she bumped his shoulder.

"Witch-king killer. You're fancy bits now."

"Oh, I believe that honor goes to Lady Éowyn." Merry glanced at Éowyn, still and unmoving a little ways away from them and Amelia hummed.

"Speaking of which, I should probably go visit. Think you'll manage?" Merry nodded weakly and, sending him one last, gentle smile, she walked towards Éowyn, whose brother was crouching beside her.

Neither Éomer, Aragorn nor Éowyn acknowledged her as she crouched down beside Éomer. Aragorn pressed a wet cloth to Éowyn's forehead and closed his eyes, mumbling words that Amelia couldn't make sense of or understand. Instead of interrupting, she sat in silence, waiting for Éowyn to wake. Her left sleeve had been pulled up, exposing fresh, black scars forming a pattern on it. Amelia looked away from the arm, not wishing to look at it any longer than necessary.

Aragorn slid his hand gently away from Éowyn's forehead, still caught up in his mutterings, and rested it on the side of her head as he picked the cloth off of her with the other.

Éowyn's chainmail, that she had yet to be changed out of, rattled sharply as she drew in a deep breath through her nose, her eyelids fluttering. Amelia glanced at Éomer, whose eyes were fixed on Éowyn with tentative hope, and Amelia rose again as Éowyn's eyes opened slightly. She looked up at Aragorn and before Amelia turned away, she saw a weak expression of disbelief cross Éowyn's face.

She stepped down from the plateau and rolled her shoulders, but then she frowned when she heard two healers nearby caught up in a rapt discussion not long away, both of them staring at Aragorn with awe. She heard them repeat an old verse and then it spread as she passed several beds.

When the black breath blows
and death's shadow grows
and all lights pass,
come athelas! come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king's hand lying!

Amelia looked over her shoulder as she heard the full verse and cocked her heard at Aragorn, who looked humble and approachable as he knelt by Éowyn's bedside, continuing his administrations, and yet every inch a king.

"Hold him down." The main physician ordered Amelia as she gripped the foot of the unconscious man, who lay on a repurposed dining table in an improvised infirmary, in a ruined house in the fourth ring of the city. It was filthy, the air heavy with the stink of blood, bile and smoke, and the hygiene in the place was horrendous, with the healers and assistants cleaning the tools in a shared bucket of lukewarm water. Being treated in there was potentially more hazardous for the health than going without treatment entirely, but even so, it was filled to the brim, with grown men, women and small children even, who cried out for their mothers no matter their age. While the most honorable had been moved to the true places of healing in the city, those more unfortunate than them were left to the hastily set up hospices around the city, being tended by old wives and apprentices. Amelia had figured that she could do more good where the conditions were the worst than the places where sufficient healers and resources already were.

"Last course of action?" Amelia huffed as she rolled up her sleeves, grabbing one arm of the man while an assistant, with weary eyes and a thin face, pressed the other one down into the table.

"Only course of action." The physician, a tall, thin woman with black hair and grey eyes, grit her teeth, positioning the crude saw on the man's ankle. "The rot's already set in." The man's foot smelled foul and had swelled, lacerations crossing it like a web. When peeled back, the flesh revealed fat, writhing maggots and the smelling of decay. It was dead, like a plant that had gone without water and sun for too long. The man's skin was burning with fever and the only movement he made when the metal of the saw touched his foot was that of his breaths. Then, the physician, in long, hard strokes, began to move it and his eyes screwed shot as a wail tore itself free of his throat and a spasm went through his body, like a fish caught on dry land. As his struggling grew worse, particularly when the saw reached the bone, Amelia put her entire weight on his torso, pressing it downwards and doing her best not to look in the direction of the legs. Blood, fresh and red, sprayed from the stump and the man, though not fully conscious, both from exhaustion, fever and the effect of some herb that had been forced down his throat, sobbed, tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks.

"Bind it tightly." The physician barked at the assistant, who moved to her side to bind the bleeding remains of the leg. "Otherwise, he'll bleed out or catch an infection." They had long since run out of proper bandages, and had resorted to using any sort of clean cloth. Strips of curtains, dresses, nightshirts and tablecloths, none were turned away. Citizens had been ordered to hand over any herbal remedies, tools and medicines that they possessed without candid reason. Amelia saw dozens of good people, most clad in dented armor, die in a handful of hours, due to injuries that would have been curable in any hospital in her own world. Infections and fevers, open wounds and coughs, all could kill in a world without the proper care. Occasionally, Amelia would have been able to offer her own opinion on such matters, such as proper sanitization, hygiene and symptoms that wouldn't have been noticeable to those who failed to look for them, but to her frustration, her advice was often disregarded as inexperience or sheer idiocy.

Finally, the man's wild struggling ceased and he simply wept, his fingers flexing weakly, and the healers wiped their hands as clean of blood as they could, muttering to each other as they hurried onwards to the next patient, a weak, but heavily pregnant woman who had taken a terrible blow to the back.

Catching a breath, Amelia leaned against the remains of a crumbling wall of white bricks. The hospital had been placed in the house belonging to a large family, of which all the members had been confirmed to have perished, either in battle, illness or simple bad luck, and the cruder cases were on the upper floor of the house. The entire façade had been smashed to rubble, leaving it completely open out onto the street.

"Miss Amelia?" She turned around while wiping her right cheekbone with the back of her hand, unintentionally smearing a fresh coating of blood across it.

"Who's asking?" She spoke loudly, for she couldn't see who had said her name in the chaotic throng of moaning patients, physicians, healers and assistants hurrying to and fro and the lighting was less than ideal, the time being late in the day before the march would take place.

"Miss!" A guard hurried towards her, sporting a blooming bruise covering half his face, as he held up the back of his hand against his mouth, as if to ward off some poisonous vapor. "The Lords Legolas and Gimly request your presence at your earliest convenience." Amelia raised an eyebrow at him, but then shrugged.

"Alright then. Run along and tell them I'll be there in some hours or so. I'm a bit busy here."

However, Amelia quickly realized that whatever help she could provide was minimal and easily replaced, since nothing of it was useful advice that wouldn't be ignored. The healers had precious little patience left and thus a large number of injuries, pretty much anything worse than an easily treatable flesh wound, was cured with an amputation.
Hurrying out of the makeshift hospice, Amelia headed towards the upper rings of the city at a brisk pace in the rapidly fading daylight.

She found Legolas and Gimli in the throne room, alone, excepting the guards flanking the great door leading out into the courtyard. They were both bruised and one had a bloody bandage covering his eye, but Amelia suspected that they had distinguished themselves somehow, seeing as they were given as easy posting instead of assisting the healers or keeping watch on the remains of the ramparts.

Gimli had a large bruise blooming on his forehead, yet Legolas looked as flawless as ever. Gimli was lounging in Denethor's seat, smoking, and Legolas stood beside him, engaged in a mumbled, casual conversation that stopped when Amelia approached.

"Lady Amelia," She scowled at Legolas' formal addressing of her. "It gladdens me to see you again."

"You wanted to talk?" Amelia crossed her arms, never one for beating around the bush. Legolas gave her a serene smile and Gimli chuckled to himself, earning a glare from Amelia.

"Very much so. It has been some time since our last conversation in casual company."

"Yeah, I suppose." Amelia shrugged, still not seeing the actual purpose of their conversation.

"It was my wish to ask you away from the hospitals and the healers." Legolas cocked his fair head, studying her with eyes that seemed too old for his youthful face. "From what I have gathered, you have been keeping busy since the battle." Amelia grunted and gave him a sharp nod.

"Not preparing for the last battle cost a lot of lives." She sent a vehement thought at Denethor. "Improvement on that front might not cause things to go the same way next time."

"And thus, you bear the burden of a hundred lives on your shoulders." Legolas gently admonished her.

"It's easier than one single life, believe it or not." Amelia looked away, exhaling through her nose. "I suppose that, since we made here in one piece, I can stop hovering over Boromir. He's a grown man. He doesn't need a nanny."

"And what about a confidante?" Amelia snorted at the suggestion.

"I'm all for being his friend, Legolas, but it's not that easy. I'm going home, sooner or later. I'm not saying I'll freeze myself off, but…" She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and shifted on her feet. "It's not easy."

"It seems that the lives of mortals are doomed to be so." Legolas nodded to himself, his eyes far away and yet still attentive and alert.

"You don't need to tell me twice." Amelia paused, trailing off before she broke the silence yet again. "So… we're marching on the Black Gate."

"Aye, that we are." Gimli sent her a good-natured smile, one that she was happy to return. Burly as he was, she would quickly have called him one of the few friends she had.
"Seems unreal, that it'll all be ending so soon, doesn't it?" She frowned at herself. "That came out wrong. I mean… it's been, what, five, six months since I arrived in Rivendell? Now, everything'll be over tomorrow. Kind of crazy to think about."

"It shall be good to have this done and dealt with." Gimli exclaimed enthusiastically, blowing a writhing ring of smoke.

"'Course, there's that…" Amelia drawled, but then shook herself out of her hesitancy to speak her mind. "Really, I should be bouncing for joy. It won't be long before I go home now." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "It's gonna be weird, seeing everyone again. Friends, family… Weird. Either, they'll scream and cry and demand to know where I've been or they won't even have noticed I was gone. Not sure which is better."

"You've changed. For better or for worse." Legolas stated bluntly and Amelia found herself agreeing with him rather quickly.

"Yeah, and I've got the scars to show for it. I mean, that wicked one on my shoulder from that arrow at Amon Hen? And I've got several that I have no idea where they come from." She sobered. "And I won't be able to explain any of it. They'll throw me in an asylum for sure if I try." She sighed inaudibly to herself. "I'm so much more now than I ever could have been back there… and no one will ever know."

"We will know. And we will remember."

"So will I. I just wish… nah. It's just crazy… All these things and soon, I'll probably just have convinced myself someone spiked my food or something." There was a heavy silence.

"Do you regret it, then? Any of it?"

"No." Amelia said firmly, shaking her head. "I'm not the type for regrets. I'm that dumb type who sticks by her decisions, even if she knows they were stupid. I'm stubborn that way."

"That seems very…"

"Me. It seems very 'me', doesn't it?" Amelia sent Legolas a grin, one he returned with a serene smile. She began to see the true purpose of his calling her for a mere conversation, but didn't bring it up. "Never mind about that. What happens, happens." Her mouth curled upwards, wistful. "It has been quite a ride though, hasn't it?"

"Aye, that it has, lass." Gimli agreed with a nod, gesturing at her with his pipe, smoke wreathed around his head. "That it has indeed."

Amelia got, to her own surprise, more than one offer of a change of clothes, as well as armor, despite such luxuries being scarce so soon after a battle of any kind. She declined as gracefully as she could, but grew firm when it was insisted upon. She failed to understand why such things would be wasted upon her, of all people, but could see their point of view after she realized that it was most likely an attempt to make her somewhat presentable, seeing as it was probable that she would ride with people of stature in the trek to Mordor. Even battered and bruised as they were, the people of Gondor still had great respect for their rulers, something that Amelia could understand, even though she didn't approve of it.

She kept her filthy clothes, her brigandine and her sword, with her ring being the cleanest part of her. She winced in sympathy when she heard that Aragorn had not been given a choice in the matter, having been subjected to a complete overhaul of his look, and she grit her teeth and clenched her fists when she heard that Denethor had been so bold as to demand it. Her proposal of a coup had been all but forgotten, and yet it seemed as if the Steward had somehow become irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. Amelia heard it in the voices of the people when she visited the hospice again, their desperate hope as they whispered of the descendants of Númenor returning, of a crownless king come to reclaim his rightful place, of his hands of healing and a white tree in bloom. The rumors grew wilder with each passing hour, and yet Amelia couldn't begrudge them seizing all the hope that they could, not after what she had seen what they were up against. The Steward of Gondor had been forgotten, something that Amelia sorely wished she could have told him personally, and yet, it seemed as if he would still make all attempts to convince the world that it was not so, even fight to realize that fantasy of his.

His proclamation, made from his chambers and declared by reluctant messengers, that he had begrudgingly accepted their foolhardy plan of an outright attack, something that Amelia suspected came from no small amount of coercion from Boromir and Imrahil, and that he would be the one to lead the charge made Amelia laugh so loudly that a flock of crows flew up from their perches on the rooftops. After an hour of giggling to herself and having been explained that it was no joke of poor taste, she was tempted to march into Denethor's chamber and throw him out the carved window, regardless of the consequences, obstacles or political ramifications.

His declaration turned out to not only seem humorous to her, but to the majority of the city. Since she had found out by hearing a crier in the streets while working in the hospice, it meant that the news spread like a wildfire, and was regarded as either idiocy or a poor attempt to lighten the strained mood in the city. It seemed that very few people actually knew what had happened to Denethor, and even fewer seemed to care. Amelia even got a few mumblings of congratulations regarding her rather public confrontation with the Steward during the battle, and a small girl handed her some flowers she had found growing behind her ruined house, most of them weeds, and Amelia got the strange feeling that perhaps her name wasn't as much of a secret as she would have liked, seeing as she was recognized more often than not while out and about in the city.

That, of course, did not mean that Denethor's insistence didn't worry her, but it did put a comforting dampener on the slight feel of panic that had begun spreading in her chest with each hour that Denethor remained as solidified in his power as he was, despite his obvious loss of popularity and political support.

Riding out of the city was harder than Amelia thought it would be.

Led by Denethor, outfitted in silvery armor with Gondor's sigil displayed on both his chest and shoulders, the long procession rode out of the city, rohirrim riding alongside the men of Gondor, soldiers and knights on even foot with hastily trained militia and what amounted to elderly men with curved knives and boiled leather for armor. Aragorn rode behind him, something that even Denethor was not stupid enough to protest against, looking every inch a king, with his hair pulled back, the white tree bright against its dark background on his chest and his red cloak fastened with the silvery heads of serpents, their eyes green gemstones that shone in the light of the dawn.

They rode at first light and Amelia doubted that any of them had gotten more than a few, restless hours of sleep the night before. Beside Boromir, Legolas, Aragorn, Imrahil and Denethor, all clad finely, she looked common and out of place, but she cared not for the looks and opinions of others. She might have once, but no longer.

The horses were restless, reflecting the moods of their riders. Most of the armor worn had clumsily covered dents or even missing parts. Some lacked sabatons, others helmets, caps and others their pauldrons. Still, there was something in the air, or perhaps it was the solemn resignation on the faces of those riding out of the white city, that gave the procession the appearance of a true army with nothing left to lose. Instead of a ragged band of farmers with pitchforks and bakers with knives, they were all the men of the west.

Amelia saw Aragorn look back over his shoulder when he rode out of the gate, right after Denethor, and she gave him a rueful smile, one that she realized he didn't see, since he wasn't looking at her at all. His bright eyes rested on the white walls behind him, the houses razed by fire and towers collapsed on themselves, bricks littering the streets and hospitals still overflowing, and then, he turned away, fastening his eyes on the glow in the east.

When Amelia turned back to look on Minas Tirith, exhaustion weighing on her eyelids, her collar chafing at her neck and her fingers awkwardly holding the reins of her horse, she saw two white cities. One was a derelict ruin, where old lords sat in dusty halls, mourning the dead while ignoring the living, with only the ghostly remains of a once proud people living amidst greying walls of stone. The other was a fierce guardian, a tall tower shining like a jewel against the dark morning sky, making the snow on the mountains behind her seem grey in comparison with her beauty and stark whiteness, a place where bells tolled in gladness and the spirit of the people behind the walls was stout and unbroken.

Turning her horse away and kicking the animal into a trot, Amelia followed Isildur's Heir towards the black mountains of Mordor.