Oh, the melodrama. We're going a bit AU here, folks, hope you don't mind. Hope this isn't too melodramatic for you. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing, and they don't belong to me.
In looking back, Eowyn knew not where she found the strength to drag Faramir's motionless body back to the Houses of Healing. She could feel the fever heat rolling off him, and the sight of his flushed and sweating face sent panic racing through her veins. As she pulled him along, she called frantically for someone, anyone, to aid her, to rescue him. She stepped on the hem of her gown, tearing it, and she stumbled backward, pulling Faramir's body to rest in her lap. A near-howl of helplessness left her lips, and she cradled his head against her breast, calling desperately for someone to come.
After what seemed an age, a confused looking solder of Rohan appeared, his head swathed with a bloodstained bandage. His confusion turned to purpose as he swept Faramir into his arms and bore him swiftly out of the gardens, with Eowyn fast upon his heels. Eowyn's chest constricted as Faramir's head rolled back against the soldier's chest, as one already dead.
The soldier's voice barked a terse command, and several healers appeared straightaway, leading him on until they disappeared into Faramir's bower. Eowyn tried to follow on, but a strong arm blocked her way, shunting her aside. Eowyn met Ioreth's steel eyes, and the healer gave a small shake of her head, turning to join her patient. Eowyn grasped her arm with a desperate sound, and whispered frantically, "Ioreth, you must save him." She was terrified to see the old healer's own eyes fill with tears. "Dear Ioreth, please." Eowyn forced herself to release her grip, instead folding her hands into a supplicant gesture. "Let me help, I beg."
Ioreth gave a curt shake of her head, her headdress brushing the strong curve of her jaw. "Lady, if you would help, you should tend to these men as you would the Lord Faramir." She swept her arm out, gesturing along the corridor, filled with silent, broken men. "Take all the fear, all the pain, and all the love in your heart, my lady, and gather them together. Banish them by comforting these men, easing their pain so that you may ease your own. And pray then to Mandos, as Luthien did, that he may spare your lord from this dread darkness." With a bracing look, Ioreth turned away, and shut the heavy oak door behind her.
Eowyn closed her eyes, cursing the dewy tears upon her lashes. After a long moment of silence, she took a steadying breath, and knelt, laying her hand gently on the shoulder of a battered soldier of Gondor on a litter at her feet. At her touch, he opened his eyes, squinting against the light, a grimace of pain passing over his face. The pain aged his face, which was beardless and fair-skinned, and Eowyn's heart gave a pang in her chest to see one so young laid so low. His clouded eyes sought her face, but the delusion of his pain made her a mere shadow in his vision. He tried to wriggle away from her touch, but cried out in pain, and whimpered, "Who is it?"
Eowyn smoothed her hand over his forehead, brushing the blood-stiffened hair away from his forehead. "Rest, sir, it is merely a healer." A strange thrill ran through her at the words. "Are you in pain?"
The lad rolled his head back and forth once, but his eyes belied his agony, and a sheen of fever sweat glistened on his cheeks. Eowyn's knees twinged at her awkward position, so she gathered her gown about her and seated herself at the soldier's side. She was at a loss for what to do, so she grasped his hand in her own and continued stroking his forehead with whisper-softness. He did not shy away, instead sagging back against the cot with an out-blown breath.
Eowyn knew not how long she sat there, but she waited until the young soldier's eyelashes fluttered closed, framing his cheeks. His breath was slow and even, his chest rising and falling with steady cadence. She brushed her fingers lightly over his hair, then forced her protesting knees to stand, and moved on to the next prostrate form, and knelt beside him.
For long hours she moved up and down the hallway, from broken body to broken body, soothing, whispering, holding hands. She ignored the blood that caked, gummy, around her fingernails, and took no note of the passage of the dusk into night.
Her mind occupied, she did not notice the heavy door to Faramir's chambers swing open, and did not hear the weary footsteps approaching from behind. Ioreth's wizened but strong hand on her shoulder made Eowyn jump slightly, but she did not turn until she had finished washing clean a soldier's blood-stained hands.
As she tipped her chin to look at the old healer, Eowyn felt a heavy sigh escape her. But as she took Ioreth's hand and stood, she felt a strange sense of calm, a grim satisfaction in having helped to soothe the agony of the soldiers, in some small way. She had felt thus before, when she sat at the side of her spell-wracked uncle, or at the bed of her mortally wounded cousin, but now there was a hint of pride behind the sadness.
"Tell me, Ioreth, how is the Lord Faramir?" Eowyn spoke softly, mindful of the sleeping man at her feet.
Ioreth tipped her head to one side, her face conflicted. "He is sleeping now. His wound is infected, and he let it go on for far too long. We have drained away the poison now, and all that remains is to keep the wound clean, and to fight the fever that follows such suppuration. He must find the strength to win that battle now." Ioreth lifted her hand and laid it against Eowyn's pale cheek. "I say again, let us beg Mandos to spare our Steward." Ioreth's touch lingered for a moment, and then she turned to limp slowly down the darkened corridor.
Eowyn watched her go, and found herself wanting to gather the older woman into an embrace and comfort her weary spirit. Instead, she tucked a lank of hair behind her ear and turned to Faramir's door. With a steeling breath, she pushed it open and stepped quietly to the edge of the high, wood-posted bed.
Faramir lay still as a corpse, his chest hitching occasionally with his breaths. His face was dewed with sweat. Eowyn reached out tentatively, and softly brushed a tendril of fever-damp hair away from his eyes. Despite the complexion of illness, the worry lines had left his face, and he looked young, vulnerable. On impulse and without thought, Eowyn dipped her head and rested her lips against his forehead, closing her eyes with a desperate prayer to the god of the dead. In the darkness of the night, the heat of Faramir's fever burned her lips, and fear clutched her heart, and she struggled not to abandon herself to despair.