Excepting a few hours of fitful rest in the darkest hours of night, Lothíriel spent most of the night in the Houses of Healing. She worked feverishly, powered by a hope that might as well prove vain. Washing, stitching, and binding wounds by candlelight. Sometimes she performed more delicate surgeries. Amputations and the worst surgeries she left for the more experienced healers. Around the fifth or sixth hour of the new day, all paused momentarily. A great thud from a gigantic battering ram echoed throughout the condemned city. Then the terrible voice of a dark power rose. Three times the ram sounded, and three times the voice of the Black Captain called. Lightening seemed to burst from the gate to the first circle and all the rest of the city. All living quaked for fear of the very near future. The brave men of the city fled the scene as the hulking figure of the dark Witchking of Angmar and his mount filled the empty gateway. All eyes turned towards the solitary figure of Mithrandir, seated on Shadowfax. A small flame of white against the black power of the nameless being.
As she watched Mithrandir, Lothíriel lifted her eyes to the east. She laughed, for she felt the rush of those heralds of the day filling the doomed valley with the light of the rising sun. Somewhere far below, a cock crowed the arrival of the dawn. From a ridge on Mindolluin, Calacondo appeared, wrapped in the light of stars. Then she heard numerous horns, blaring with life and regained hope.
As the sun began its long circuit, the golden armor of the Rohirrim gleamed, blinding the enemies. It seemed that the Horses of the Sea materialized into tangible horses, bearing the salvation of Minas Tirith along with the day. Calacondo himself seemed active in the battle. A flash of silver darted throughout the battlefield, strengthening the horses and causing the enemy to quell.
A hand touched Lothíriel's shoulder, reminding her of her duties. The Warden bid her to take charge of a patient recently come from an even greater battlefield than the siege of Minas Tirith. Confused by the Warden's mystic riddle, Lothíriel soon found the meaning when she entered the room where the patient lay.
There on the bed, Faramir lay, dreaming in a terrible fever. His wound was already washed. There was nothing she could do but try to bring down the fever.
"If only they brought you here in the first place," she sighed sorrowfully when she stroked his hot forehead.
The other healers had stirred the fire to its greatest strength, closed the windows, and drawn the curtains. Lothíriel doused the fire, withdrew the curtains, and opened the windows. Bringing down a fever meant exposure to lower temperatures, not equal or hotter temperatures. She removed the coverlets, leaving only a thin sheet. She bathed his brows and face with cool water, changing it often. The fever did not decrease, but at least it did not increase.
Another healer entered to take watch over Lord Faramir. He gasped in shock. Lothíriel's way of treating fevers was not quite the normal procedure.
"Do not relight the fire, close the windows, or block the sunlight," she ordered sternly. Her eyes burned dangerously. "Continue to bathe his forehead with cool water. One does not battle fire with fire. We must try to keep the fever at bay."
"Of course," stammered the healer. "I will do as your ladyship deems best."
Lothíriel relaxed and gave the healer a weary smile. "I am no lady here," she said. "There is no room for rank when there is a common enemy to fight."
Lothíriel descended from her post as Faramir's defender against death and handed it over the next healer. She did not have the will or power to call Faramir from his feverish wanderings. No one in the Houses of Healing did.
As the day waxed, Lothíriel paid no heed to news from the battle on Pelennor. Rather, she focused the remainder of her energy and strength to the battle against death. Time seemed to lose its power over her. Morning ran together with afternoon. She heard that a lady of Rohan entered, but she knew not when.
As the sun began to its setting journey, the battle concluded. Lothíriel then hurried to the Warden.
"Warden," she said. "There are living men, lying in the fields, but greatly wounded. Some may not be able to reach the Houses of Healing in time when they have a chance for life. I beg of you to allow me to go down and bring life to them. Or at least a light in the dark hour of death."
"It is too dangerous, child," objected the good Warden. "On the battlefield, other creatures other than men lie on the battlefield. One may still be alive and could easily take your life as you try to give it."
"I hear that all of the enemy who could escape have left," persisted Lothíriel. "The rest are trampled by the Rohirrim or any rider and slain by sword, spear, or arrow."
"It would be a gruesome sight that you need not see," argued the Warden. "Nay, better stay here."
"No more gruesome than the amputations and grievous wounds I have seen these last few hours."
"Your intentions are noble, but I cannot allow you to depart from the Houses of Healing," said the Warden firmly. "Your father would not permit that, and I am responsible for your safety. Also, there is little chance that any are still live after the day's battle. After all, you say that the Rohirrim and other riders thoroughly trampled the field."
Realizing the Warden truly meant what he said, Lothíriel bowed her head and submitted to the will of her mentor. After all, there is no use in bantering with a stone wall. Night fell, and another perian was brought to the Houses of Healing. With the night came a lordly man, who was called Aragorn, and two elves. The Black Breath, which the healers could not control, overpowered many and only those with greater power, training, or will could effectively battle the Black Breath. Whispers that the elves were sons of Elrond reached Lothíriel's ears. Like the rest of the healers, she gazed in wonder and curiosity as the elves began to battle the Black Breath. Then her attention turned to the man. Some of the older folk said he was the long expected king of Gondor. Whether or not he was, Lothíriel felt the man's strength of will. He had the strength to save Faramir, and he would because he was led towards Faramir's room.
Lothíriel glanced towards the fair-haired companion of the Lord Aragorn. She inhaled sharply. She recognized his face and bearing. The man took no notice of his surroundings. Worry and cares lined his brow. He headed towards the lady of Rohan's room. Lothíriel knew this man to be none other than Éomer of Rohan.