The days following Elessar's coronation had been a torture for Lothíriel. Her father and brothers had rarely visited Minas Tirith before, but now that the war was over and the party of captains and warriors had returned from Cormallen, their presence was haunting her every step. A few days ago, she heard that her eldest brother Elphir invited his wife and child to join him in the White City, which meant they were bound to stay at least a few weeks, if not months. One day she even caught a glimpse of her father in the Houses of Healing and her heart almost gave out – she managed to quickly turn around and hide in a nearby storage closet, only later truly realizing how close she could have been to losing everything she had worked for these past three years. And so, Lothíriel took every measure she could come up with to avoid running into her family members, but she found it increasingly difficult to find excuses as to why she kept to the healer's study for hours on end and why she didn't take off her mask even when she wasn't in the vicinity of any sick people.
The one excuse that worked best and also provided her with the most joy was something she had learned back in Dol Amroth and was still genuinely fascinated by to this day - studying the human body. Looking at what was beneath the skin had been something unheard of in Dol Amroth, probably in all of Gondor as far as she knew. That is, until the day her father's Swan Knights managed to fight off a Haradrim raid on their shores and captured the only woman in their midst - a healer, as Lothíriel later learned, who agreed to serve Dol Amroth in exchange for her life, albeit more or less as a prisoner. Lothíriel was fascinated by her tales and learned that despite the reputation of the Haradrim, they were excellent healers, skilled in crafts she had never even dreamed about.
It was, of course, very improper for a princess to be dealing with this sort of thing, but Lothíriel had made it a habit to sneak downstairs to the healing quarters whenever her father was away or simply too busy to check on her, long before there even was a Haradrim healer around. Thinking about it in retrospect, she probably did it at first simply to spite her father, knowing how much he would disapprove. This is unheard of, Lothíriel, she imagined her father's stern voice in her mind; I will not allow this to go on. You are not to do anything without my permission.
Of course he never actually uttered those words in this particular case, although he did speak similarly on countless other occasions. Lothíriel had never actually found the courage to confront her father about her little trips to the forbidden territory of the healing quarters, and so she simply had to content herself with keeping it her own, and a few reluctant healers', dirty secret.
However, what had started off as mere teenage rebellion gradually turned into a genuine interest. Lothíriel finally found something substantial in her life; something that truly mattered and made a difference in the world. She often enjoyed visiting the patients convalescing in the large white rooms overlooking the Bay of Belfalas (indeed the only aspect her father could not disapprove of as it was part of her royal duties) and simply listening to their stories, fascinated by the fact that many of these people were able to sit there and talk to her only thanks to the expertise of the Dol Amroth healers. The arrival of the Haradrim woman opened her eyes to the vast unknown possibilities of the healing crafts and so she spent many hours listening to her stories and taking notes of the woman's teachings, putting down every little detail. In retrospect, she was glad she did - the first time she had a chance to look inside an actual human body without the supervision of the more experienced Dol Amroth healers, her notes were her only guide in the process. At first, the healers of Minas Tirith were very reluctant to give her the opportunity she needed, thinking it extremely offensive towards the deceased. However, after so many of the Haradrim woman's descriptions and healing methods had turned out to work, together they slowly started studying the different crevices of the body. Suddenly they were able to cure ailments they never thought possible and people were coming to Minas Tirith from far and wide to be healed of their troubles. Sadly, though, their knowledge was still very limited. And so with this excuse, and in order to avoid her father, she spent most days closed in the healers' study, weighing hearts, studying the size of stomachs and cutting up drunkards' livers.
On one such day, just as she was looking at a particularly badly damaged liver, she heard a knock on the door. At first she stiffened, but then she remembered she was covered from head to toe in a cap covering her hair, face mask, long apron and leather gloves.
It was one of the younger healers poking her head in from behind the wooden door.
"Méav? The Warden asks to see you in his office," she said.
"Can you tell him I will come later? I'm a bit busy right now," Lothíriel replied, pointing at the open body in front of her.
"He wants you to come at once," the young girl insisted. "He said it's important."
Lothíriel sighed and nodded. "Alright, alright. I'm coming."
She put the liver back on the table, took off her gloves and the dirty apron and reluctantly made her way towards the door. What could possibly be so important?
Could it be my father? Lothíriel felt a cold shudder run down her back at the horrifying thought. She had imagined all possible scenarios of what she would say if she ever had to confront him again someday, playing them in her mind over and over. The situations and settings were diverse, but they had one thing in common – she always spoke to her father with determination and dignity in her voice, and once everything was said, often turned her back on the man and walked away triumphantly with a sure step. However the recent fiasco with the storage closet made her realize that no matter how much she practiced in her mind, the reality would never be quite so graceful. At this point, she was left praying that the person inside the Warden's office was no one but the Warden himself.
She opened the door and immediately released the breath she had been unconsciously holding in before she entered the sunny room. Although the Warden was not alone, her father and brothers were nowhere in sight – instead, she saw Lady Éowyn, Faramir and the King of Rohan sitting at the large oak table in the middle of the room.
"You have asked to see me?" she said as she entered and bowed in the direction of the noble party.
"Yes, I have," the Warden replied. "Come sit with us, Méav."
Lothíriel nodded and sat down on one of the free chairs at the end of the table.
"Why in the world are you so covered up?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh, I, uh, I was looking at a body and forgot to take the mask off, sir," Lothíriel said, slowly taking the mask and the hair cap off and putting them on the table in front of her. Of course she had kept them on quite deliberately, hoping they would give her a chance to escape her father before her true identity was discovered. But the people sitting in the study now were utterly oblivious to her well-kept secret. There used to be days when the presence of Denethor, Boromir and Faramir in the city frightened her, but she discovered long ago that they did not recognize a niece and cousin they had met for the last time on a visit to Dol Amroth years ago, when she was still but a child.
"Well, never mind that. The reason I have called you here is that Lady Éowyn has made an interesting proposition to me, one which I find very intriguing. I believe this to be a great opportunity to-"
"I want you to come to the Mark with us, Méav," Lady Éowyn jumped in impatiently, obviously not one for the lengthy roundabout way of speech of the Gondorian court and offices. The Warden eyed her annoyedly but didn't object.
"Come to Rohan with you, my lady?" Lothíriel asked, genuinely surprised.
"Yes. The things I have seen in the Houses of Healing while I was here made me realize how far more advanced your healing methods were. I would like our healers to learn those skills too."
"The Warden suggested you are one of the more experienced healers here and could be willing to accept such an offer," Faramir added.
While the Haradrim healing methods she had brought with her to the capital, combined with her genuine interest in the subject, certainly made up for her relatively short experience as an actual healer, she was nowhere near her 'more experienced' peers. Lothíriel thought the Warden was rather more pragmatic than that – she was probably the only healer that had no family, husband or children she would have to leave behind.
"It's a very generous offer, my lady," Lothíriel said with some reluctance in her voice as she pondered her words.
Go to Rohan?
She had never even been brave enough to go any further than Minas Tirith on her own. She always told herself the decision to stay so close to her home was made quite pragmatically, believing it was truly darkest under the candlelight. The truth however was that a part of her was scared to really leave everything she knew behind – now she was at least still in her own country, with her own people.
"We would really appreciate your help, Méav," said Lady Éowyn with an encouraging smile. "Me and my brother both. Isn't that right, Éomer?" she turned to the King and gave him a telling look.
"Yes, we would," the King nodded hesitantly, giving her a fleeting glance before he looked away again.
For some reason Lothíriel thought he wasn't quite as keen on her coming to Rohan as his sister. For a while she actually convinced herself that the obnoxious angry nature of the new king she was faced with after the siege was probably just caused by the unfortunate circumstances they had found themselves in, but their accidental moonlit encounter the other day immediately dissolved any such fancies in her mind. She was never prone to court gossip, but he truly seemed to be a savage warrior-king, as he had been often referred to among those who were not too happy about Gondor's newly formed alliance with their northern neighbor.
"It is a great honor bestowed upon our humble Houses of Healing, Méav. A great honor and a great responsibility to share our knowledge with our allies and help improve the lives of their people," the Warden added ceremoniously.
Lothíriel suddenly felt the need to snicker at his words – in his years as Warden he had much experience with Gondorian nobility and she had always found it amusing how theatrically his words sounded whenever he spoke to one of their more noble patients. Somehow, she thought such ceremoniousness was not really necessary when addressing Lady Éowyn, but she knew his words had another meaning to them, one aimed only at her: saying no to such a proposition was out of the question. Besides, leaving Minas Tirith meant leaving her father and brothers behind, too. She would go to a place where no one knew her true identity and maybe she could breathe free at last, the constant fear of discovery she had carried with herself wherever she went finally gone. It would surely be difficult, but she had already done it once, hadn't she?
And so, Lothíriel took a deep breath and reluctantly said: "In that case, I accept, my lady. It would be a great honor indeed."
"What wonderful news!" The corners of Lady Éowyn's mouth curved up in a wide smile. "It's settled then. We will leave Minas Tirith in five days' time."
Lothíriel forced a smile and nodded. Only five more days, she thought to herself. What in the world have you agreed to, Lothíriel?
ooOOoo
The Rohirric party was ready to leave at first light a few days after King Elessar's coronation. Éomer was watching the sunrise from one of the many terraces of Minas Tirith, taking in one last look at the Pelennor fields below. He found it hard to believe what a historic battle was fought in that very place just two short months ago. To say that the fields looked almost unrecognizable would be an overstatement as the traces of war were still very much visible; the burnt and trampled grass all over, huge blocks of stone lying scattered beneath the great city, a forgotten sword or helmet here and there. But all in all, the people of Minas Tirith seemed to be slowly getting back to normal, going about cleaning and rebuilding the city at a pace that truly stunned him.
He sighed as he remembered yet again that another kind of battle was still ahead of him – with their departure approaching, Éomer had become more and more aware that he would truly have to be the King of the Riddermark from now on. The few carefree weeks spent in Gondor were a welcome distraction, but the reality could no longer be postponed. He told himself over and over that it was only natural to be worried when taking on such a huge responsibility, one he was scarcely prepared for. He wasn't brought up knowing he would one day sit on the throne; that had ever been Théodred's destiny. But now both he and his uncle were feasting in the halls of their forefathers and Éomer had no choice but to take over a throne he felt didn't quite belong to him.
With these thoughts in mind, he slowly made his way down towards the city gates, where the rest of the party was already awaiting him. I still have a few days of riding ahead of me to contemplate these things anyway, he thought. Once he made sure everything was ready for departure, the necessary goodbyes were said and the Rohirrim set out on their long journey back home. As was customary, he positioned himself at the head of the large convoy, save for a small group of his most trusted warriors that circled him in case there was any trouble on the way, and a handful of scouts already scattered a few miles ahead of them. At first, Éomer was reluctant to ride inside a convoy of personal guards like a chaperoned princess and insisted on riding ahead together with just a few men, eager to return home after months away. However, as his sister rightfully pointed out, the roads were still very dangerous and the Riddermark couldn't afford to lose an heirless king in these difficult times. It was much safer to travel in a large group.
And so, Éomer had to swallow his pride and ride at a pace that felt excruciatingly slow, half expecting one of the carts to overtake him at any moment. Firefoot seemed to mirror his own mood exactly; as if nodding agreement, he swung his head back and neighed nervously.
"I know, my friend," Éomer sighed, apologetically patting the horse's neck.
After what felt like eternity, the fiery orange glow of the setting sun finally descended upon the snowy peaks of the White Mountains and the party was ready to set up camp for the night. The scouts reported no visible danger in the area, and so they settled on an open piece of land nearby a quiet stream where they could leave their tired horses to cool down and replenish their strength. Éomer was too restless after their monotonous journey to immediately sit down and rest, and so after Firefoot had been taken care of, he joined a group of his men going about looking for firewood to warm up every member of the large party, which proved no easy task. There were precious few trees around, which meant Éomer had no choice but to wade through an overgrown thicket of birch trees picking up whatever scraps of wood he could find; his friend and former second-in-command, Éothain, only a few steps ahead.
"And I told him that charging three silver pennies just to replace an ordinary horseshoe was a bloody rip-off," Éothain recounted a story from Minas Tirith that Éomer was listening to at half an ear only. "And that bloody audacious smith actually replied, and I'm not kidding you-"
SLAM!
For a moment Éomer saw nothing but flashes of black and crimson. The shock of the impact left him unable to think or do anything, except to perceive the pain that slowly started to spread all over his forehead. His head was dizzy and he couldn't open his eyes; there was a faint ringing in his ears.
"…your grace? Éomer?" Éothain's voice came from seemingly far away and gradually crystallized into its regular volume.
With a sudden snap, Éomer was back in reality. When he opened his left eye at last, he saw he was sprawled on the grassy ground of the thicket, Éothain crouched beside him with a worried look in his eyes. His right eye still wouldn't open and he realized there was blood pouring down that side of his face.
"Stupid branch!" Éothain exclaimed angrily.
"What the hell happened?" Éomer asked as he slowly sat up, more and more aware of the throbbing pain emanating from above his right eyebrow.
"I was pushing this bloody huge branch out of the way when it bounced back right on your head," Éothain explained.
Éomer thought the branch was probably not the one at fault here but didn't care to delve into this particular debate at the moment. He pushed a handkerchief that Éothain handed him tightly on his wounded forehead to stop the blood flow and unsuccessfully tried to wipe the warm blood off his right eye with his sleeve. Éothain helped him get back on his feet and guided him in the direction of their camp.
"You need to have a healer take a look at this," he said. "The bastard is bleeding a lot."
"I don't need a healer, it's just a scratch," Éomer protested faintly, not believing his own words.
"Are you mad? A wound like that needs proper treatment!"
Ignoring any further protests, Éothain led Éomer into his tent and left him sitting alone on his makeshift bed while he went to fetch a healer. He couldn't have been gone more than five minutes when Éomer heard the heavy canvas flaps of the tent pushed open.
"Good evening, your Majesty."
The healer didn't wait for his response and immediately started to unpack her healing supplies on the bed next to him, her eyes never straying anywhere else.
"Good evening," Éomer greeted her in return.
Another silence followed, during which the healer started boiling water over the fire that must have been lit by someone while he was away. An uncomfortable feeling of guilt crept up Éomer's back and nestled itself tightly on his shoulders. Although he was left slightly ashamed and dumbstruck after this woman's confession and prompt departure from the terrace of the Houses of Healing when they last met, for it really did not befit a king to act as pettily as he did, he contented himself with the fact that he would soon leave the city and never see her again anyway. Deep down he knew how cowardly it was and that an apology would truly be in order, but he got so swept up by the preparations for their journey and the last-minute affairs he had to tend to while still in the city, that the unfortunate incident mostly avoided his mind.
However, when his sister told him of her intention to invite this girl – Méav, was it? – to the Mark, he realized he could no longer sweep what had happened under the rug. Even though he didn't quite believe the fault lay entirely with him, the honorable thing to do was to swallow his resentment and properly apologize. And after all, he aimed to be an honorable king, didn't he?
But why in the world have you waited this long, you fool? he thought miserably.
"Can you please show me the wound?" Méav asked, breaking the long silence.
He did so without a word and she leaned in closer to examine it, all the while ignoring his gaze completely. She seemed a total opposite of the woman he last spoke to – not emotional but utterly detached.
"The wound will require stitches," she said matter-of-factly and started fumbling in her medicine bag, producing a small glass bottle. She then took a piece of cloth that had been boiling on the fire, wiped the dried blood from around his eye with it once it had cooled down and proceeded to soak another piece in the strong-smelling liquor she just pulled out of her bag.
"This will sting a little."
"Nothing I haven't done before."
Still, he couldn't help a hiss escaping his clenched teeth as the wet cloth touched his raw flesh. He had had multiple wounds stitched in his life, and yet that very first sensation of pain still took him by surprise.
Méav's fingers felt warm on his face as she gently squeezed the ripped skin together and began to lead the needle and thread through it in practiced motion. She still didn't afford him even a passing glance, but this time it was not deliberate avoidance but rather deep focus; he saw tiny creases form on her forehead as her eyebrows contracted in concentration. All of a sudden, Éomer felt a wave of discomfort wash over him when he realized how close and how silent they were. You really should have said something by now, a voice in his head reminded him accusatorily.
"Listen-"
"Please don't talk right now, your Majesty. If you move, the stitches will be all over the place."
Alright then, as you wish.
The whole uncomfortable affair was over within the next fifteen minutes – his forehead still throbbed incessantly but the wound stopped bleeding, was covered in a layer of healing herbs and nicely bandaged. Méav packed up everything she had taken out back to her bag and was about to leave, which meant Éomer could postpone the matter no longer.
"Please, take a seat," he said quickly just as she was putting the bag on her shoulder.
"Is there anything else you would like me to have a look at?" she asked coolly.
"No, no, please just sit down."
She reluctantly dropped her bag on the floor, took a seat in the empty chair next to his bed and immediately began: "Is this about Einar, your Majesty? Because if it is, I really-"
"Just please sit and let me do the talking," he said irritably. She closed her mouth again and nodded. "I realize it is long overdue, but I want to apologize for the way I treated you the last time we spoke."
Her left eyebrow shot up and she eyed him suspiciously.
"I mean it," he added, hoping to convey a bit more sincerity with his words. "I never realized what it meant for you to try and save him."
Although it was hard to tell in the orange glow of the fire, he could swear her cheeks became a shade more distinct rose color. She dropped her suspecting gaze and started looking visibly uncomfortable. After a few more seconds of awkward silence, Éomer decided to cut this conversation short. An apology in return would be nice, but whatever, he thought sourly.
"Well, that's all I wanted to say," he said coolly as he stood up from his bed.
Méav breathed out deeply in what seemed to be relief, quickly picked up her back, stood up and turned to leave. However, as she reached out her hand to open the flaps of his tent, she stopped and turned back around to face him.
"Thank you, your grace," she said quietly, looking firmly into his own eyes.
Before he could say anything else, she shot out of the tent and let the flaps close behind her again, letting a wave of chilly night air inside. It didn't escape Éomer's attention that for the first time since they had met, she didn't call him 'your Majesty'.