They had traveled many miles, spending long hours in the saddle. Every so often, they stopped to allow the horses rest, food, and water. They also relieved themselves and rested. It was still night when they were forced to halt close to the old forest of the wild men when one of their scouts returned with news that their way was blocked by many dark troops and impassable trenches. He was hardly surprised when a little man who looked like creatures from the old stories came out of the forest. A strange world, strange events. He was nearly used to it now. There was a path unknown to all but the wild men and the wild beasts, they were told. It was an old road, but still useable. A full day's ride, they were told. The king spoke with him, and together they agreed that they had no other option but to follow the wild man. Orders were sent out, and they were on the last leg of their march.
They were by no means quiet with the jangle of weapons, thudding of hoofbeats, and the whispered conversations between the men. He rode beside his king. When they emerged from the forest and bade farewell to their guide, the king desired to ride forth at once. Yet the nephew knew they would not last long without some rest. The king and his nephew conversed while the others listened. It was only natural the king and his heir should stand more as equals, especially on the verge of a battle where anything could happen. A few moments and the order was given; they would have a few hours' rest before the next march. It was night when they set out again, but this time, their swords and spears would taste blood. As they neared the walls surrounding the rim of what was called the fields of Pelennor, they could see the sinister red glow from the city in front of them. There was little challenging them past the wall. Orders were given as the companies shifted into positions relative to the king. Elfhelm on the right, Grimbold to the left, and he rode behind. Both men and horses were uneasy with anticipation while they awaited the king's signal.
He could not fully see the battlefield as the day had not yet fully shown her glory, yet he felt the fear in the atmosphere. Still, their king's words filled the air, inspiring them with rising courage. And so, they rode forth. They sang and laughed as their horses trampled their fallen enemy. They were crazy men in a crazy world. Arrows whistled; spears whirled. He held his head high, the white horsetail streaming behind him. only he could keep his life now.
Sometime later, he spotted the dark shadowy form of the general of the enemy hovering over his king. He fought to reach his king, but many enemies stood between him and his king. Sorrow then wrath filled him as he found not just his king lying on the field. As the commander now, he issued his first orders. Blind fury then consumed him, and he called his men into the thick of the fray. If their joy had brought fear, their rage now brought terror. But the expression of Éomer was so terrible that those who knew of the Ainu swore that the spirit of Oromë lay in Éomer.
The enemy surrounded them, yet he was not dismayed. Whenever he could, he made his way through his troops, lending aid and encouraging his men. He saw the fierce some towering creatures that myths spoke of. Great and terrible they were, causing unease among the horses and the men. Between fighting for his life and killing enemies, he observed. A couple of his men and steeds had already been trampled in their efforts to pierce the eyes of the creatures with their spears or arrows. Then he let his spear fly. His aim was true, piercing the driver. Cries of terror filled the air from friends and enemies as the creature swerved and pierced another of those monstrous animals with its tusks. He shouted orders as he grabbed a bloodied spear from one of the fallen.
The Houses of Healing were well prepared and organized. The preparation process was not as organized, but now, their operations ran as smoothly as a quiet river. They worked in shifts, an hour of sleep for every couple of hours of labor. Despite the given hour, she only managed twenty minutes as horrors replayed in her mind. Her years of training did not prepare her for the wide variety of wounds she treated. In fact, stitching the right parts together or anything relating to that was not her area of expertise. No, her strengths lay in all things related to plants. Her kingdom was the kitchen dedicated to the preparation of herbs and medicines. The scents within were almost pleasant because of their familiarity. She disliked leaving the safety of her little kingdom to help in the other healers with patients, yet she had to. The scent of blood, guts, and singed flesh made her gag, but she was a healer – and healers endure all the unpleasantness to find life. Those they could not save were carried out for family members to claim if the battle ever ended. They would find the names of all the unclaimed and bury them with all due honor.
Much happened, but there was far too much to do. Wounds that needed stitching or bandaging. Burns wanted salves to ease the stings. Flesh wounds that must be stitched. Medicines and salves to make. She worked in a daze following the instructions of her superiors, sometimes taking her own actions when her mentors were too busy to command her.
And so, through the night she labored, hardly stopping and paying attention to news of the battlefield. Then she heard horns and singing. Their enemies could not sing. She looked out the window and beheld the rising sun. It was the first time she saw the sun in days. Then on the field, she saw a river of green and white, gold and silver. Gondor was not alone anymore.
Not long after, she heard that her dearest cousin had come to the Houses of Healing. They needed a cool bath drawn and something to bring down his fever. She refused to go, saying that she might be too overcome by his state to properly care for him. They had many other patients with symptoms like her cousin. They lay in feverish dreams, and some they were able to alleviate their symptoms. A Black Shadow for a terrible day.
Evening came, and she was weary. The adrenaline had long worn off, but she refused to go until she was able to see her cousin. Until then, she paused to take stock of all the herbs, medicines, and salves. They kept every herb in stock, and kingsfoil was one they had in plenty. They saw little use for kingsfoil, for all they knew, was that the herb relieved headaches. The men she cared for all the day and the previous night had wounds far more grievous than a headache. Of bandages, there were some rolls left, but she would need to make more. Dirtied cloths, stained with blood, would need washing. She sighed and started working. It was a mundane job, but after all the terrors she had seen, it was a welcome task. Then Bergil came running, saying that kingsfoil was needed. She sent six leaves in a cloth, telling him that they had more if it was not enough.
At last, she asked for a leave of a few hours from her superior and was granted her request. There were healers among the soldiers, and though they were also wary, they promised to aid them with the patients that still suffered from the Black Shadow. As for the rest, the healers' tasks were reduced to changing bandages, watching, and waiting. She first slipped towards her cousin's room. He lay sleeping. His breaths rose and fell steadily. His forehead was cool to touch, and she allowed herself a small smile. He would be alright, eventually. Then she sought her father or brothers.
She found her father standing outside another room with another man. One of the Rohirrim. She did not think he was just a rider. His stance was proud and lordly, and he spoke to her father with only respect due to his status as a lord of Gondor. She approached them and waited quietly behind her father. A touch to his arm and he turned. She whispered her questions of concern in the elvish tongue. A short reply: all was well with her kin. Her brothers had minor flesh wounds and her father none. Before she turned away, her father grasped her arm lightly.
"Lothíriel," he said in the common tongue. "This is Éomer son of Éomund, now King of the Riddermark. His sister, Lady Éowyn, lies recovering here in the Houses of Healing." It was not the right place, and not really the right time for such an introduction. Yet war and fate do not care about timing and places when throwing the unexpected together.
She bowed. Nothing like the fancy curtseys she was taught. Just a simple one. Right palm over her heart, bowed head, and a slight dip. "I am Lothíriel, a healer," she said. "I offer my services as I can. And I apologize for interrupting your conversation with Prince Imrahil."
He bowed in a similar manner as her. With almost a smile, he responded. "I only ask of you to care for my sister and be her friend while she remains under the Warden's care. If you have duties to attend, I shall not keep you."
With a nod, she bowed once more and departed. Once she found refuge in the healers' sleeping quarters, she allowed herself to think over her strange encounter. She could guess her father's intentions, but she was more interested in reviewing her memory of the King of Rohan. He was as tall as her father with eyes like the stormy blue-grey of the ocean she loved. At least that was what she saw in the dim lamplight. His eyes told a story of sorrow and suffering, yet there was still hope and endurance. An epiphany for her tired mind to consider. When her eyelids closed to the world, she dreamt. This time, amidst all the horrors of broken men on beds, cots, and mats; there were hopeful eyes glimmering from a battle-worn face. Even in brokenness, there was hope still. An epiphany to make some sense of what she had seen.
Before he left the Houses of Healing, he paid one last visit to his sister. She was still awake, but just barely. He promised to visit her before he departed for the next battle. He then went down to the fields of Pelennor where his men had pitched camp in an area that was least affected by the battle. He thought of many things before his body finally allowed him to rest. Father, mother, cousin, uncle. These he saw and remembered in his mind. Then he thought of his sister. His brave, strong sister. No one should have had to go through the trials she did, and yet she had survived. Maybe now she can heal and find the woman she is behind her shielded heart. Unbidden in his mind came to the image of the healer he met only an hour or so ago. When he first noticed her, her eyes were dull and almost empty of everything but the weariness she must have felt. How long had she labored before Rohan arrived, he did not know. A few words from Prince Imrahil, and he saw that saw a spark of hope in her eyes. A moment of epiphany. His calling as a warrior was not just to protect, but to also give hope in the way others cannot. When he dreamt, he dreamed of sunny days, riding, and the now hopeful eyes of the tired healer. An epiphany to make some sense of what he had seen.