Ailith's eyes fluttered open and stared at the white ceiling. She closed them and stirred under the blankets before opening them again.

"Good, you are awake at last," a familiar voice said to her right. She turned her head, her mouth falling open.

"Cousin," she said with surprise. Beleg lit his pipe and gave it a few experimental puffs.

"Yes, little Rohiril. I'm here. And you are lucky to be here. You have been busy; last time I saw you, you were not so scarred and battle-worn. What have you been doing?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"Doing what you told me to do," she said curtly, trying to sit up. Pain ripped through her side and she lay back on the pillows reluctantly.

"I told you to be a leader! Not to throw yourself into every battle you can find and then ride a horse to the point of exhaustion across two countries!" he exclaimed. "No one is particularly pleased with you, by the way."

"Why?"

"Firstly the horse. I thought your people were supposed to care for horses, not ride them to death. You have embarrassed quite a few people by doing that," he said. "Secondly, you left on the eve of battle to fight elsewhere, though you neglected to mention that last part, and people tend to get rather upset if it looks like you are running from battle. Thirdly, you decided to come back to fight; late, injured and without any men. Fourthly, you had the decency to collapse due your injuries and take up a bed in the Houses of Healing while you recovered."

She glowered at him and tried to ignore the creeping tendrils of shame tugging at her. She had behaved foolishly, she knew that. She could have collapsed somewhere between the Fortress and Minas Tirith and what good would that have done? Her body would have been lost and no-one would have known her fate.

"Oh, and you have set the gossips' tongues a-wagging," Beleg continued drily. "You new King was very concerned about the manner of your arrival and, if not for his sister's injuries, I believe you would have awoken to find him in my seat."

"Wonderful," she muttered. He raised his eyebrows at her expectantly. "It is none of your business, Beleg, so get that look off your face. Never mind me, what are you doing here?"

"Charming. I accompanied my kinsmen here. Our Chieftain, Aragorn, has come to claim his throne and birthright."

She blinked in surprise. An old history lesson with Leonére flooded through her mind and she gasped.

"Aragorn is of the line of Kings? He is Isildur's heir?" she asked. Beleg nodded, a grin on his face.

"The line of Numenor will be restored, my people can leave exile in the North and, if not for the problematic neighbour to the East, peace can at last come to our land," he said. She laughed and then started to cough as her ribs ached in protest.

"The neighbour is a little more than problematic, don't you think?" she said. Beleg laughed too and got to his feet. He stretched and ambled towards the door.

"Well, no matter how problematic he becomes, you will not be dealing with him anytime soon. Your injuries will have you away from the battlefield for a long time, Rohiril," he said and left her to wallow in remorse and self-pity.

Within a few days, the Healers permitted her to leave her bed and spend a few hours sitting by the window of her room. She sat in the chair they brought for her, unmoving, as her eyes drank in Minas Tirith in all its war-ravaged glory.

She had never seen architecture of such magnitude and beauty and she longed to explore the city.

But she was no fool. The Healers of Minas Tirith had none of the tyrannical aura that radiated from Merewald but Ailith knew from her own experiences of healing how frustrating it was when patients refused to do as they were told.

So she stayed put.

Sitting by the window.

Drinking in the city.

She had no visitors, save for Beleg. She did not care.

What a fool I was, she kept thinking. Over and over and over.

After a week or so, she wasn't really concentrating on the passage of time, she was allowed to venture out into the garden. There, she sat by the wall and still gazed upon the city. Nobody could disturb her. When a Healer returned to her, she would stand automatically and let herself be led back to her chamber like a child .

"Ailith?" a tentative voice asked. She jumped out of her stupor and turned to see Éowyn. Her hand moved convulsively and she reached out to her friend.

They embraced warmly but they could not cry. They had both used their tears for others; they had none left for themselves.

"I heard the Healers talk of what you did," Ailith said. "You and the Halfling Merry, you slew the Witchking!"

"And your cousin said you fought alongside the Ents," Éowyn said. "That must have been an impressive sight."

"Not really. I did not do much in the battle. My horse fell early on to a stray arrow and I spent most of the battle trying to stay alive. We would have died without the intervention of the Ents."

"It seems we have both struggled," Éowyn agreed. She looked down at the tiny scar on her palm. "I guess we can call ourselves true Shieldmaidens now."

"I suppose we can," Ailith smiled.

She did not realise it but her true Healing began then. One small talk with her closest friend did more good than all the herbs in the stores of the White City.

Yet all Healing can have its setbacks.

She was waiting in the gardens for Éowyn to join her again when she heard the crunch of boots upon gravel.

"Ailith," Éomer said. He stroked some hair off her face and kissed her, a strange tender kiss that sent alarms ringing in her head. "My sister and my lover; I could have lost you both," he said softly.

"You have so little faith in us," she said light-heartedly. He laughed and sat down beside her. His face was suddenly solemn.

"We march for Mordor in a few days," he told her. "And I would be happier riding to my first battle as King knowing I had a Queen waiting for me to return."

Fear twisted in her heart and she yanked her hands away from his.

"Please say you are not asking me what I think you are," she said shakily. A range of emotions flashed across his face. Confusion, hurt and finally anger.

"You won't even think about it!" he exploded. She realised that it had not even occurred to him that she would say no. He shot to his feet, his hands opening and closing with anger. She watched him carefully through narrowed eyes.

"I don't need to think about it. I can't marry you, Éomer. And I am not cruel enough to send you into battle with false hope," she said bitterly. His mouth twisted and he stormed from the gardens before he said or did something he would later regret.

She sagged in her seat.

She had to do that. She had to.

Some months later

The funeral procession wound slowly across the Plains. The death of a King was always a solemn event. And this King had been particularly beloved, making the occasion even more sombre. The funeral lament was not cried aloud by a single singer but murmured by each mourner individually.

The new King stood in silence, his sister and her betrothed close behind. He still looked uneasy in the crown which until very recently had adorned his uncle's head.

Nobody noticed the two Riders approach from the North and dismount respectfully. They stayed at the back of the crowd until the end of the ceremony. As the crowd dispersed to return home, the woman in the black dress approached the new grave as her companion remounted his horse.

Éomer looked back at the grave and his expression hardened when he saw who stood there. He turned and strode back down the hill. His sister laid a hand on her betrothed's arm as he made to follow.

"Leave him, Faramir," she said quietly. "They need to talk."

She had read and replied to every letter they had exchanged over the past few months. She knew what had to be said. And what was not to be said.

Éomer reached the lone figure in black and paused by their side.

"Have you considered my offer any further?" he asked.

"No. Why should I? The answer is still no," Ailith replied.

"I could order you," he threatened. She scoffed bitterly.

"Really? As what? My commander or my King? If you are my commander then I am a treacherous soldier who will disobey a direct order and if you are my King then you will have the unhappiest Queen in existence, that I will assure you of."

She turned to go back to her horse but he caught her hand.

"Please, Ailith," he said. His face was strangely impassive but his voice broke with emotion. Her heart tugged and she longed to just give in to him.

But she couldn't.

"No. Goodbye, Éomer," she said eventually and walked towards her horse. He didn't see the tears on her own cheeks.

"Did you tell him?" Folcred asked when she reached him and the horses.

"It wasn't necessary," she said thickly, mounting her horse and angrily wiping the tears off her cheeks. As their horses started the long journey back to the Fortress, she pulled the loose material of her dress against the small tell-tale bump of new life in her stomach.

"It wasn't necessary," she repeated.