Chapter 9

The evening drew in as the last of the wounded were brought to the city, the dusk sky an array of colors as the sun sank. Lothíriel kept herself busy with other patients to give the King of Rohan privacy but she noticed he hardly left his spot beside his sister's bed. She imagined it would be the same if it were her in that pallet but at least her brothers would be able to take shifts. She found herself wondering what drove Éowyn to ride into battle and the peculiarity of her symptoms compared to Faramir, who grew in strength by the hour. She'd discovered Pippin's fellow Hobbit companion was also afflicted by the Black Shadow but he too was roused by the ministrations of the ranger-turned-king, Aragorn, and showed a healthy recovery. Éowyn alone was different.

Sympathy for the King of Rohan persuaded her to gather a small basket of food from the kitchen, having finished tasks for the evening before her break. The hall was quiet, most of the beds moved to other wards to afford the Lady of Rohan discretion and the King relative solitude. Only the Warden, Ioreth and Lothíriel were permitted to look after Éowyn and therefore the hall was unusually quiet. Ascending the stairs the Lady of Dol Amroth found Éowyn's brother seated, as always, but he had his head in his hands, the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. His shoulders moved steadily but exaggerated, as though he were training his breath.

"Forgive the intrusion," she murmured as she crested the steps, the man's face raising. His eyes were red but no tears were visible. He straightened up, permitting her to come closer with a nod. She offered the small basket over the bed to him, which he received with raised brows.

"I cannot imagine you've had much to eat," she answered with a gesture to the basket. "It isn't much. If you are seeking more, I can stay with her."

"Thank you, mistress," he murmured, pulling the cloth back to display a wedge of cheese, small baguette and an apple. It wasn't nearly enough to satisfy his hunger, she suspected, but it would keep him from keeling over. "I confess I am not touched by hunger, though by all rights I should be famished."

"Grief does strange things," she replied, sitting opposite him. Turning her attention to Éowyn, the dark-haired woman felt her forehead and watched her breathing for several moments. "Her rest seems more peaceful."

"Aye. She awoke about an hour ago, spoke of shadowed dreams and feeling ensnared before falling back to slumber."

"It is puzzling," Lothíriel commented as she began applying salve to Éowyn's burns. "Why she should be so affected while the others not."

The King said nothing, watching her massage the liniment across the red marks on his sister's arm and hand. Lothíriel had hoped he would take his food and eat elsewhere. It was unnerving to have him sitting there, observing and perhaps evaluating her competence. He did not offer much by way of support or sense of calm but neither did his presence feel hostile. Simply ill at ease.

"Night has fallen," she murmured, glancing over at him as she worked. "You must be exhausted."

"Is it already night?"

"Yes."

"Time seems hazy. I could've sworn it's only been a few hours into midday."

"I am sure there is a chamber in the Citadel for you to take rest, Your Highness."

"Please don't call me that." Lothíriel caught his eyes with raised brows, his objection spoken with a tinge of derision. His brows furrowed as he softened, if only slightly. "I am… not accustomed to such titles."

"What would you have me call you?"

"Uh," he faltered with contemplation, before becoming focused on the contents of the basket. "Thank you for the food, mistress." Lothíriel bit her tongue to keep from correcting him with her name, nodding instead.

"Have you been to Citadel yet?" something about him sitting here in solitude all night did not sit well with her. He eyed her for a moment, both of them aware that she was pushing an agenda but he offered a noncommittal shrug as he set the basket down at his feet.

"I have not. If my sister wakes I would like to be here."

"I've heard rumors the Commanders of the West are considering their next move against Mordor," she replied with a casual tone, as though it were commonplace topic. She hoped the vagueness of the statement would not inspire questions about how she came by this information. "The enemy will not likely let the realms of Men revel in victory long."

"You have an ear for politics," he quipped with the ghost of a smile, though Lothíriel may have been imagining it. When she didn't respond the King tilted his head to look in the general eastern direction. "Yes, it is still being decided what our next move should be."

"With such a reprieve I would hope you'd find some rest."

"You are persistent."

"My expertise is not limited to physical ailments." She caught his glare and held it for a moment. "You won't be useful to anyone falling asleep on your horse. If you are concerned about attending your sister there is a room just across the hall. It's small and the bed is only a stretch better than the floor. But if the Lady needs you it would only be a quick dash across the corridor."

She expected him to rebuff her but his hazel eyes dropped the defensive glare for a moment, his fatigue – physical and emotional – flickering earnestly. Lowering his head for a moment to stare at his forearms before raising his gaze again the King sighed.

"I accept this. Especially if it serves to keep you from assailing me with advisement."

Swallowing a retort, Lothíriel nodded and wiped her hands on the apron. Closing the lid of the salve, she laid Éowyn's arm back on the pallet and checked her temperature once more before standing. The King looked up at her with bemusement before realizing she intended to show him to the room now. Standing with a quiet groan, the man looked at his sister once more.

"If she stirs I will retrieve you at once," Lothíriel assured him. With a nod she led him down the steps and across the ward to the hallway, plucking a candle in a metal cradle from the alcove in the wall. She half expected him to think better of it and depart for the Citadel or return to Éowyn's bedside. But he stayed with her as they crossed the empty vestibule to the storeroom-made-bedroom. Opening the door, Lothíriel stepped in, gathered a few items and lit the candle on the tiny side table. The King watched her before his expression turned to a frown.

"This your chamber?"

"More of a cabinet than chamber." When he didn't smile she followed it up with a confident, determined tone. "But I am not scheduled to rest for another hour. And this is the closest room to your sister."

He seemed doubtful and clearly uncomfortable with the idea of occupying her 'room' but Lothíriel stepped closer to the entrance, her body near enough to his that he was forced to move further into the chamber to avoid indecency.

"I insist."

"I will only rest for a short while," he assured her, his visage still disquieted. "You will fetch me when your shift ends, or my sister awakens." She canted her head in both an informal bow and acknowledgement.

"I will, my Lord."