Chapter 10

The quiet that settled on the sixth level of Minas Tirith was both comforting and peculiar, considering the chaos of the past two days. It seemed the healers were entering a period of maintenance and care for the patients, the most excruciating scenarios already played out for better or ill. Lothíriel left the King of Rohan in her chamber and made a brief sweep of the wards, checking in on Faramir to find him asleep and Pippin's companion as well.

When she returned to Éowyn's bedside the woman stifled a yawn as she sat on the stool. The thought of laying on the cold stone for a quick nap was far more appealing than she wanted to admit. After taking a quick check of the Lady of Rohan's vitals, Lothíriel rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped on her knee as she sat before her patient. Whether it was a minute or several that passed before a voice roused her from her dozing she couldn't say, grey eyes opening to see Éowyn staring at her.

"Forgive me," she murmured drowsily, sitting up a bit straighter as she addressed the other woman. "How do you feel, my Lady?"

"Out of sorts," Éowyn replied softly, her voice strained as she shifted on the pallet. "The waking and dreaming world converge and I know not the difference."

"Your body heals as we might expect," Lothíriel replied, assisting the woman as she sat up, bringing her legs to the side of the bed. Her broken arm rested in a sling, carefully adjusted against her torso. "But your heart is troubled."

"It is strange," she agreed with a furrowed brow. They sat opposite each other, regarding one another as Éowyn pulled the blanket over her lap. "Where is my brother?"

"Resting."

"That is good. He frets too much."

"As brothers are wont to do."

This elicited a small smile from the blonde woman as she smoothed the dark fabric of the blanket with one hand, a distant expression replacing the momentary amusement as her eyes grew cold. Lothíriel tilted her head as she studied the wraith-slayer.

"Are you hungry?"

"I suppose I ought to be," Éowyn answered with a perplexed look. "But I find the thought of a meal unappealing and eating a labor I am not interested in." Her words were slow and careful, as though she did not trust the sounds from her throat to be understood. Lothíriel reached across the negative space and placed a hand gently on her bandaged wrist, careful not to apply pressure. Éowyn raised her gaze to the Lady of Dol Amroth's.

"Your dreams and words uttered in sleep have been dark, my Lady. I can imagine what you see when your eyes are closed disheartens you greatly." She paused to allow Éowyn to readjust her broken arm before continuing. "I trust, however, your strong heart will prevail."

"It is not so strong," she whispered, dropping her gaze.

"Then we must find a way to give it hope."

When Éowyn did not respond Lothíriel removed her hand and offered a smile. It was far from her place to tell the shieldmaiden how she ought to find hope but if she could be with her in this time of doubt then that would have to suffice. And perhaps her brother would have more insight. Éowyn's lids grew heavy as she swayed, caught by Lothíriel's hands on her shoulders and gently laid back on the pallet.

"Let me bring you some food, if only to sustain you until your appetite returns. And tea," the healer murmured, adjusting her legs on the mattress as the Lady of Rohan nodded wordlessly, slipping back into slumber.

Her symptoms were so unlike Faramir that it worried and puzzled Lothíriel. In her brief years as a healer she'd occasionally seen folk wither from an unknown ailment of the heart, their will to live and sustain so greatly weakened that they slip away. But those she'd seen with such a presentation were elderly or suffering great catastrophe. Certainly, Éowyn's travails were numerous but she had much to live for and the love of her brother, as well as her countrymen. The dark-haired woman pondered this as she departed Éowyn's bedside after assuring her sleep was peaceful.

Finding her way to the kitchen to request a meal for the Lady of Rohan to be brought by a servant once it was prepared, Lothíriel considered her next stop. Éowyn's brother had requested she rouse him if his sister was lucid but her waking had been brief. And the King likely needed sleep. But so too did the healer, her muscles aching and the desire to find a quiet corner overwhelming. Resigning herself to checking on Éowyn once more and waking the horselord so she might sleep a few candlemarks, Lothíriel turned the corner to Éowyn's ward, nearly colliding with a body coming the opposite direction.

"Oh!" She cried, reaching a hand out to steady the person before her. It was an older man, perhaps her father's age, his Gondorian armor denoting him a member of the city guard. He was familiar yet unknown and it irked her that she could not place him. He stared at her, expression clouded and eyes dazed. "Are you alright?"

"You are the lady of the healing house?" he inquired, squinting at her as she shook her head.

"No, the Lady Ioreth and the Warden are likely resting at this hour. But I can assist you. Are you in need of a healer?"

"No. Not for myself. I seek my son. He is a healer by trade. I cannot find him."

Lothíriel's facial muscles stiffened as she pulled her hands away from the man. The brown eyes, a touch of auburn in his mostly white hair. No. This couldn't be her fate.

"He's a tall fellow," the man continued, searching her face for recognition. "Halgeir. I was certain he'd be here but I didn't yet check the sleeping quarters."

"I - "

"You do know him! What fortune, lady! Where are the lodgings for the lads? I was sure -"

"He is not there," she found herself saying, taking a step back and wishing to flee entirely. The man fell silent as they stared at each other. It took all her willpower and a firm bite to her tongue to keep from freeing the tears prickling the edges of her eyes. Halgeir's father's face shifted from relief to confusion before sinking entirely.

"No, it cannot be so," he whispered, brow furrowed furiously. "He is a healer. How could – no, my lady. You are mistaken."

"Forgive me," she pled, reaching her hands toward him once more in supplication. "He was called to serve in the defense of city."

"But I was there as well. Surely I would've seen him, my youngest boy! He may yet be there – men have not come up from the walls."

"I am regretful to share these tidings," she stated with a catch in her throat, wishing this interaction to end as her voice dropped to a whisper. "So deeply grieved."

"How? How did this happen?"

"He suffered a severe injury to his back. His body… we could not mend it nor alleviate his pain." She blinked away tears as the man shook his head, disbelief and shock dancing across his face. He grabbed her hands suddenly, squeezing tightly as if he were trying to pull the truth from her.

"He is dead, then – tell me, girl!"

"I am so sorry…"

"Father!" another man came from the adjacent ward, approaching the pair quickly with a frown. Upon seeing his father the fellow looked to Lothíriel, whose gaze shifted with a plea not to have to repeat the tidings.

"Your brother," the older man mumbled, voice stricken. "Alas! He has perished. What cruelty that he should die when we though him safe here."

"Come, father," Halgeir's brother murmured, pulling the soldier's hands off Lothíriel's wrists and guiding him back a step. The younger man's voice was heavy with anguish as he struggled to maintain an appropriate tone. "He… he was no stranger to the risks of war. We shall mourn him as he is due. Let us not trouble the lady."

Were she not fighting her own grief Lothíriel would have escorted them to a quiet bay and explained further or deposited them with another healer. But she could only stare in silence as Halgeir's brother led his father away, a wail coming from the older man's throat as the reality of his loss took hold. Her hands were shaking as she moved blindly in the other direction, wishing to get as far away from Halgeir's kin and memory as possible. She scarcely registered where her feet took her, repressing a howl of distress. Could she not escape this torment?

Finally her hand lay on the handle to her makeshift chamber but the iron disappeared from under hand, grey eyes flashing with confusion as the door pulled away to reveal the King of Rohan. Brows furrowed with bewilderment – what was he doing in her room? He met her with an equally mystified expression that tempered once he beheld her.

"Mistress?"

Her senses returned, realizing she was standing before the horselord with her hand outstretched to open the door, her visage a portrait of failed restraint. Tears strayed from the corners of her eyes and she tried to answer with a respectable tone but instead she could only choke back a cry. The King of Rohan took charge then, opening the door wider and taking her upper arm gently to guide her inside. She followed dumbly as he sat her on the cot and crouched before her.

"My lady?" this time his voice was soft, imploring her with concerned hazel eyes. She met his gaze before sniffing and taking a heavy breath.

"I am sorry," she mumbled, settling her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. "I was without thought."

"What causes this distress?" his dark brows seemed to forever be knitted in confusion, concern or consternation in her presence.

"I was caught unawares by the family of a man who died," she faltered, gulping in a breath to ensure she would not lose composure before the King. "I was not expecting or prepared to explain their son's death. He was… I couldn't heal his wounds. There are so many I couldn't help. I cannot possibly answer to their loved ones."

Her eyes shot up to meet his; fear triggering her heart to thump against her ribs as the thought of reliving that interaction over and over caused her hands to shake once more. She shut her eyes, willing her breathing to slow – this was not the audience to be weeping before. Abruptly warmth enveloped her hands as her eyes opened to find the King's hand covering hers. The soothing pressure he applied mollified her trembling. The simplicity and intimacy of his kindness was not lost on her but she didn't have the words to express what this small deed meant. He held his hand over hers for a moment longer before removing it as her eyes met his again.

"You should rest," he murmured, studying her face. "You offered me the selfsame counsel. Perhaps you will be less stubborn than I in accepting it."

"Rest will not alleviate this responsibility," she replied dully. To her surprise the corners of his lips curved into a faint smile below the dark mustache.

"No," he agreed, the smile disappearing. "But you will be renewed to return to your duties. And I cannot rob you of this fine bed any longer."

He stood, and she realized he still wore pieces of armor and hadn't found an opportunity to wash the grime of war from his person. He smelled of sweat, smoke, horse and blood. Standing as well, Lothíriel cleared her throat, overwhelmed with propriety as they stood in scandalous proximity in the makeshift room. He too seemed to realize their nearness for he took a small step back.

"I thank you for the opportunity to rest so near my sister. Has she woken?"

"Only briefly," she replied, her voice clearer as they strayed to safer topics. "She roused and we conversed for a few moments but she was overcome with fatigue. I'd planned to wake you before…"

"That is well," he answered with a nod. "I shall go to her."

"Of course. I will not rest long," she commented with a glance to the exit. "Lady Ioreth will likely be checking upon your sister soon. I will wake shortly to resume tending to her." The King of Rohan said nothing for a moment, instead turning toward door but paused, casting a look back at her.

"Take leave, mistress. You have been near enough to sorrow for one night."

Lothíriel met his eyes as he held the door with one hand, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he canted his head and departed. The room fell silent as she dropped back to the cot, breathing slowly. The warmth from his body dissipated some time ago but the indentation where his person had slept remained, as did flecks of mud and debris. Exhaustion gripped her at once as she laid down, hardly bothering to brush the dirt away, instead closing her eyes and inhaling the lingering scent of the horselord as sleep claimed her.