Chapter 8

Lothíriel's expression softened considerably once the man identified himself, but she maintained a determined tone.

"Forgive me, my Lord. If you would like to sit with her I'll have a chair brought bedside."

"This seat is occupied?" he queried, dark brows raising over discerning hazel eyes as he indicated with his helmet to the stool.

"It is," she replied with a tilt of her head. The grief and exhaustion allowed for precious little decorum in interacting with this horselord, though she knew it would be wiser to defer and back down. "I am attending the Lady. But let me not be a barrier for you to look after your sister."

Though his expression remained severe his gaze tempered as she moved around him to kneel beside Éowyn, checking her breath and inspecting her arm. He retreated several steps, watching warily but no longer crowding her space. After the loss of Halgeir the woman was in no mood for trading barbs with this man and she was well aware he was someone of consequence if he was Éowyn's brother. When an apprentice approached with fresh water Lothíriel bade him fetch a seat for the man, which was brought swiftly. The horselord set the stool on the other side of his sister, his eyes trained on her as Lothíriel worked.

"I thought her dead," he murmured at length, though it wasn't clear if he was speaking to Lothíriel or himself as he leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. "It was… how could she be here?" the dark-haired woman said nothing but offered him a glance as she began re-bandaging the shieldmaiden's wrist. "When the Prince corrected my folly – that she lived… But when will she wake?"

Lothíriel's brows rose at the mention of the Prince, wondering how her father correctly deduced Éowyn lived but finding it unsurprising. It hardly felt like an appropriate time to inform the man that she was Imrahil's daughter. In fact, there wasn't a reason for him to know at all as long as she maintained this role. It took her a moment to realize the horselord was looking at her, awaiting a response.

"I don't know, my Lord," she answered quietly. She began applying a salve to the rope burn on Éowyn's left hand, her fingers working deftly as she spoke. "She is not the only one so afflicted. None who have been stricken with the Black Shadow have woken yet."

"But the others live?"

"Yes. In a slumbering state. She does not have the fever seen in others. But this deep sleep is consistent."

The man said no more, his brows knit over concerned eyes. She chanced a look at him as she cleaned her hands on the apron. He appeared around Amrothos' age with the visage of a man who'd seen the horror of battle many times before the day's events. With the opportunity to study him she determined his hair was darker than his sisters, pulled away from his face but stained with blood and sweat. He did not strike her as a man who smiled often.

"She is here, my Lord," Ioreth voice caused both to look down at the steps below where the woman and a dark-haired warrior approached. Though he was dressed in attire of a ranger the man had a regal bearing as he came to Éowyn's side, a small steaming bowl in his hand. After Ioreth gave an affirming nod, Lothíriel stood and backed away, allowing he man to take her place. He sang quietly as he set the bowl at his side and inspected the wounds Lothíriel had newly dressed. Standing beside the older healer the Princess watched him gingerly examine Éowyn's broken blackened forearm. Her brother, for his part, made no move to protest and seemed comfortable in the man's presence.

"The hands of a King are the hands of a healer," Ioreth intoned softly, answering the unasked question of her companion. Lothíriel's lips parted, eyes widening as she realized his identity. The blood of Elendil; he who bore the royal livery at the end of the war. Her heartbeat quickened as they watched him tend to the blonde woman, his quiet lamentation barely discernable.

"Tell me, Aragorn," came her brother's anxious voice. "Will she yet survive?"

"Her wounds are healing," the man confirmed, raising his gaze to the horselord. "The arm that was broken has been tended with due skill."

He brought forth the bowl of liquid, its steam curling into the air near Éowyn's placid face. Aragorn beheld her for a moment before speaking her name, dipping a cloth in the bowl and tenderly bathing the broken arm. The scent wafting toward Lothíriel was oddly familiar but she could not place it.

"Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan! Awake. The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean." The tendrils of vapor were brought before her face once more as Aragorn raised his gaze once more to her brother. "Call her – let her year your voice, my friend."

"Éowyn," the blond man murmured, kneeling beside her bed and covering her hand with his own, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Éowyn!" To the amazement of the beholders the woman's eyes fluttered before opening, focusing on her brother as she spoke.

"Éomer," she whispered. "What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?"

"Not long, my sister," her brother answered, brushing hair from her forehead. "But think no more upon it."

Lothíriel and Ioreth remained a respectful distance from the pair, giving Éowyn space to focus on her brother. The Princess of Dol Amroth caught sight of the ranger quietly departing, descending the stairs silently. Giving Ioreth an encouraging nod, the woman trailed Aragorn as he departed, following his steps until they were well away from the siblings.

"My Lord," she called cautiously as he turned to appraise her, seeming unsurprised that she'd pursued him. "Your ability to heal is tremendous. Have you yet attended Lord Faramir in his affliction?"

"I have," he answered gravely, though his expression indicated some level of recognition. "He has awoken, my Lady. But I must take my leave."

With a small bow the man proceeded down the narrow hallway, bearing his cup of healing water along. Though she might otherwise inquire further into his skill and what was in the bowl Lothíriel instead turned and went swiftly to the chamber of her cousin, joining the Warden, Beregond and her brothers therein.

"Lothíriel!" Amrothos cried as she entered, bringing her close in an embrace, which was received gladly. Stepping away she regarded Faramir, still weak and faint but awake.

"Cousin," she greeted him, taking the seat vacated by Erchirion beside the bed.

"I heard you in my dreams," he murmured, his voice dimmed by exhaustion. "You spoke to me as though I were a room away. Far off but I knew it was you."

"Now you hear me plainly," she replied with a smile, her hand over his. "The darkness has faded and you are returned to us."

"Returned yes, but I am troubled with the tidings."

Lothíriel looked back at her brothers, unsure of how much Faramir knew. Amrothos gave her a cant of the head to indicate he knew all that he should, including the death of his father. Returning her gaze to the new Steward, the Princess patted his hand gently.

"They are ill tidings," she agreed. "Would you have me sit with you, Cousin?"

Faramir smiled though it didn't last long, his eyelids fluttering as he stifled a yawn. With a nod Lothíriel released his hand and retreated so the Warden could administer a sip of tea. Standing beside her brothers the woman watched their cousin settle back against the pillows, sleepily looking at them.

"No, little swan. That is not necessary. My heart is well to know you are all close. But I feel a mighty sleep overcoming me."

"We shall return shortly," Erchirion promised with a grin before shepherding his siblings from the room. Outside the chamber they reconvened, the quietness of this side of the ward affording them a moment to talk privately.

"Is Father named Steward?" Lothíriel inquired, her voice low.

"Indeed," her middle brother answered. "For a time. The King has returned but it was decided between him, Mithrandir and Father that now is not the time for his unveiling."

"He's doing the King's labor with his healing hands."

"You've seen him at work?"

"He came to the aid of the Lady of Rohan, whom I was attending. He brought her from the darkness, though she does not seem as tranquil as Faramir."

"Then you met her brother, the new King of Rohan?" Amrothos queried as they sidestepped a servant passing through the hallway. His sister's expression shifted to mild surprise as she considered his words.

"Met," Lothíriel ducked her head with a wince, recalling their initial interaction. "Yes."

"Pray tell, sister. You didn't insult the new king of the Rohirrim."

"No," she replied with an indignant frown. "And he does not know me by my name. Nor title. And I would prefer to keep it thus. Neither he nor anyone else need know."

"As you wish, little swan," Erchirion agreed with a smile. Amrothos looked ready to speak on the matter but a glance from his older brother stayed his tongue. "You look… tired. Have you rested?"

"As much as you have, I wager."

"Fair enough. Now there are more hands to heal, sister. Be sure to find sleep. That chamber is still waiting for you in the Citadel."

"Thank you," she replied as Amrothos reached out to adjust the linen cap over her dark hair.

"You've done an admirable job, Loth," he murmured. "But don't suffer needlessly. Minas Tirith will see no more war today. We overheard the Warden drawing up a shift. Be sure to utilize the schedule of rest, just as we are." Lothíriel nodded as they prepared to depart.

"Father will likely call on you tonight or tomorrow morning as the commanders of the West come to a decision. Mordor suffered a defeat, but the war is not yet over." Erchirion took Lothíriel's hands as he spoke, running a finger across her blood-stained palm. "We must all use this respite with intention."

With a final farewell her brothers departed, their leave filling her with a longing to join them. But she was plentiful with responsibility between Éowyn and Faramir waking. She turned back to Éowyn's ward, contemplating the brief but influential knowledge she'd gained from her brothers. It seemed curious that Éowyn's brother had been announced as the King of Rohan. She recalled from the broad teachings of the realms of Men that Théoden had a son or two. Had they all perished? She would have to adjust her interactions mightily with this new information. Even if he'd known her title and status, she was hardly in a position to interact so informally with him.

Climbing the steps to Éowyn's pallet he was seated in the same place she'd left him, dark brows drawn as though he were deep in thought. The Lady of Rohan had fallen into a sleep interrupted by frowns and turning of her head as though she were displeased with her dreams. Lothíriel cleared her throat softly as she reached the top step to avoid surprising the king, whose hazel gaze caught her with a nod. His face was unreadable, trained in sternness. The Lady of Dol Amroth offered a formal bow to the man, which he seemed to ignore, before taking her seat.

"How long has she been sleeping?" she asked quietly, gingerly checking for a fever.

"She fell back soon after she was roused," he replied in an equally hushed tone, his gaze lingering on her face before returning to his sister.

"I apologize for my words when first we met," she murmured, busying herself with the bandage on Éowyn's unbroken wrist. "I thought you were another soldier come to ogle the lady. I did not know you were the king. Nor her brother."

"Has she had many such visitors?"

"A handful. A woman at war is an oddity it seems few can resist."

The king said nothing to this but a 'hmm' was given as he watched her set the wrist down and re-apply salve to the burns. Lothíriel worked in silence, reminding herself the man must be grieving not only the state and presence of his sister but the death of his uncle and Valar-knew how many kinsmen. His reticence was none of her business. After she completed the topical treatments the healer prepared to leave the man, gathering various items before he spoke, halting her progress.

"She speaks of darkness and despair," he said, training his vision still on his sister before looking at Lothíriel. "It is… I cannot convince her she is alive and the victory she had on the field."

The woman took a breath as she studied the shieldmaiden, still sleeping but not without disruption. Settling her hands in her lap Lothíriel took her time in answering, not entirely sure he was asking her a question but feeling compelled to speak anyway.

"Her torment must be great." She paused, gauging his reaction. When she could not discern one she continued. "She has lost her uncle. And the incumbrance of her concealment must weigh heavily on her mind."

"How so?"

"I imagine she disguised herself as a soldier for some time. She must've been petrified every glance, every interaction could give her ruse up. And we both know the horror of war can irrevocably scar the most battle-hardened of warriors."

"I did not want this for her," he said at length, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Lothíriel recalled, then, holding Halgeir's lifeless hand hours prior, wishing fate had been kinder to him. She empathized with the king's words, feeling connected to him in their grief, though he certainly had no knowledge of this bond.

"I hope she is healed of this anguish," she replied as he looked at her. "Love and patience may be more effective than these bandages and salves."

With that Lothíriel stood to give him privacy and make rounds in the ward. He didn't raise his gaze, even as she bowed, expression still inscrutable and eyes slick. She wanted to offer that he might attend the Citadel for food and rest but figured it would fall on deaf ears. He likely knew the amenities afforded to him, especially as king. She turned away and slipped silently down the stairs, leaving the sovereign to his fears and misgivings.