The Houses of Healing
March, Third Age 3019
She was wiping the fevered brow of a Gondorian footman when she first saw him in the Houses of Healing. Eomer of Rohan, the great Rohirrim horsemaster, renowned warrior, reduced to another grieving soul in these desolate halls. He strode past where Syrah was kneeling next to the man currently under her care, his golden hair tangled, his eyes dark and weary, edged in redness.
She had heard from Cala, the healer in charge of this ward, that they had brought his sister into the houses the day prior and taken her to the quieter chambers reserved for nobility and those with ailments requiring the careful hands of the master healers. Syrah rather thought that the courtly divisions between the free peoples of Middle Earth should have less bearing in a place like this, in a time like this - but she was not here to make decrees about how the healing wards should be run.
The ascending King of Rohan was pacing, a restless energy radiating from him. He was tall, making his strides long. It didn't take him long to cross the space. His eyes scanned the room as he moved, though to Syrah it seemed like he didn't really see what was happening around him - a good thing, she thought, his spirit looked wounded enough already without also taking in the suffering of the men in this room.
The Pelennor was teeming with the injured; to the healing wards they brought only those who desperately needed tending - the healers had not the time to spend on minor cuts and bruises. Those who were obviously on death's door were in another sector of the ward. This particular room held those who needed to be watched closely: men who had weeping wounds and needed dressings replaced frequently, or were on the brink of infection and had to be checked often.
The room was lined with low cots - no more than thin wooden pallets with a meager layer of straw - leaving scarcely enough room for the healers to move around. It was always quiet, save for the hum of ragged breathing coming from the resting soldiers and the occasional moans of pain. Syrah was no healer, but she had steady hands and the need to do something with them. She had been in the wards for weeks now, and had grown accustomed to the tang of blood mingled with herbs that permeated this ward, to the heaviness that sat in the air.
The Gondorian she was tending to stirred a bit, and she placed a hand on his shoulder and applied a gentle pressure as she reached to rewet the cloth and wipe his brow again. "Hush, you are safe. Rest now," she murmured, and she felt the tension in him ease a bit under her hands. It was a trick she had found that often calmed wounded men as they began to awaken, that a woman's soft voice could lull them back into a restful state. It worked particularly well on the younger soldiers, those who were closer to being boys than men. Perhaps, Syrah thought, they were reminded of the soothing comfort of their mothers' voices. It was clear that too many of these soldiers were inexperienced in battle, their wounds showed it. Such were the times they lived in.
There was a small shuffle as someone else entered the room. A man of Gondorian coloring, in simple garb but clean and unwounded. He was nearly as tall as the King of Rohan, who stopped his pacing when he noticed the new man approaching. They shared a few soft words before Eomer led them out of the room and towards where his sister was resting.
Syrah looked now towards Cala who was a few rows away, wrapping the arm of a Rohirrim who had been pierced by an arrow. She was only a few years older than Syrah but had spent her childhood learning the healing arts from her own mother. Syrah set the wet linen she was holding into the bowl and brought it with her when she walked over to Cala. The question in Syrah's mind must have been obvious on her face, Cala answered in a quiet voice, "Lord Aragorn, a Dunedain ranger. They are saying he is the rightful King of Gondor, and the king is said to be a great healer."
The Syrah from a few weeks ago may have marveled at this, been filled with hope and wonder at the idea of the King of her beloved country returning to claim the throne. But today's Syrah could only nod as she held a hand out to accept the soiled dressings from Cala. She took a brief moment to hope that Cala was right about the king's healing hands, maybe they could take some of the pain away from this wretched place. She set the bowl and dressings on a far table and went to fetch a fresh bowl of water. There was always another brow to wipe.
Eomer found himself pacing the halls of the House of Healing again. The surge of relief at his sister's safety after Aragorn had tended to her had receded, and the grief he had been suppressing for weeks now burst forth. Theodred, taken at the Fords of Isen. Eomer had hardly had the chance to think about the implications of his cousin's death, so wrapped up he had been in the tides of this war, in the task of serving his King. Theoden, his uncle who had all but raised him from a boy to a man. Now he too was dead.
His king. Eomer had no king now. He was King of the Mark now. A crown he had never desired.
Seeking a moment alone, he followed the heavy scent of herbs and draughts to a dim corridor dotted with supply closets. Instead of the solitude he was seeking, he saw her. Rather, he heard her quiet sniffle coming from an alcove at the end of the corridor. She was tucked beside a shelf of linens, her back to him, her dark braid swaying as her shoulders trembled.
Something compelled him to ask about the wellness of this lady rather than simply turning away. "Are you alright?" His voice was rough even to his own ears, hoarse from the toll of the earlier battles.
The woman flinched sharply and turned. He recognized her from the sick room earlier. Her eyes, wide and dark, swam with unshed tears, her cheeks held the tracks of those that had already escaped. A shaking hand rose to wipe them away as she spoke. "Y-yes my lord. Forgive me."
"Please, there are no titles or forgiveness needed in these halls," he said softly. "You are doing honorable work, healer."
She lowered her gaze and shook her head. "I am no healer," it was almost a whisper. "I am just trying to go where help is needed." Another tear rolled down her cheek, this one falling to the dusty stone floor. She moved her hands into the folds of her gown, bunching the stained fabric in her fists, fighting for her composure.
He couldn't bring himself to leave her in this distress. "Are you certain you are alright? Shall I send for another healer to tend to you?"
She shook her head again, stronger this time. She looked back up at him, something close to a plea in her eyes. "No - no my lord. I apologize for losing my composure. The grief…the loss. I watch sons, brothers, fathers die each day. I am afraid my heart is not strong enough for this work, yet I cannot stay away."
"There is no need to apologize for grief, or for feeling it deeply," his voice was low, filled with understanding. He reached out and placed his hand on her arm, a gesture of comfort. She flinched at the contact but did not pull away. He felt the warmth of her even through the rough fabric of her gown. "The grief is painful because there is something worth fighting for."
She wrapped her free arm across her stomach, almost hugging herself. "There is so much pain here and I do not have the ability to take it away, it makes me feel helpless." The words came out as a confession.
Helpless. The word cut into Eomer's core. He, too, was lost in a sea of helplessness. This fragile woman was wading in it with him. He took a step towards her, propelled to close this gap between them, as if suddenly she was the only thing that could prevent him from drowning. "What is your name, lady?," he asked, his voice a soft murmur.
She lifted her eyes to meet his own and for the first time he saw their true color - a deep mahogany with lighter flecks of brown dappled throughout. They teemed with sorrow and exhaustion, mirroring his own. His gaze turned to her lips, rosy and full with a slight quiver as she spoke, "Syrah…Syrah of Gondor".
"Syrah," he repeated softly, and a chill rushed down her spine as she heard the lilt of Rohirric in his voice for the first time. His hand moved from her arm to cup her face, her cheek damp and cold. Instead of flinching away, this time she turned slightly towards his touch, seeking the warmth and strength of his calloused palm, the caress of his thumb as he gently wiped the lingering tears from her cheek.
Syrah saw in him the anguish she felt herself, and felt the need to acknowledge it. "My Lord…please accept my condolences for the loss of Theoden King, for all the sacrifices your people made to save our city."
Eomer had to shut his eyes at the painful reminder. He felt his jaw tighten as he pushed back the tears he had been fighting since he had found his sister on the Pelennor. After a few moments he looked back at her, his eyes holding a sorrow that made Syrah's heart clench. "It is kind of you to say that," he murmured.
There was a long pause where the only sound was their mingling breaths. Then, she brought one of her small hands to rest atop his, nestling her fingers between his. "My Lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I…I can help you forget the pain. For a moment."
Syrah's lip quivered as she waited for his response, not fully sure what she was even offering. Solace, escape, sanctuary. She needed it for herself as much as she wanted to give it to him.
Then, slowly, he brought his other hand up and cupped her face as he took another small step towards her. Syrah could feel the warmth radiating off him now, smell the scent of horse and sweat and herbs clinging to him. She tentatively moved her hands to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart from beneath his tunic.
Eomer took in her face: she was not the ideal of Gondorian beauty as he understood it, though such standards seemed irrelevant in this place. Her olive skin was a bit deeper than the typical women of Gondor, her features darker and more striking. He considered her offer - realized he wanted to take it. Yes, to forget would be a welcome respite. This woman was offering the diversion he so desperately needed.
He leaned in and kissed her. Her eyes fluttered shut. The kiss was neither chaste nor tender, it was demanding, desperate, raw. His lips moved against hers roughly and tasted vaguely salty, for a brief moment Syrah wondered if he too had wept today, but she quickly set that aside and let herself be swept away. He gripped her arms and brought her closer to his solid form. He drew back a hairsbreadth as he asked, "Is this alright?" His voice was husky and an unfamiliar warmth went through Syrah's chest.
"Yes," she breathed back immediately, her eyes still closed. The word had barely left her mouth when he pressed his lips back to hers, somehow even more crushing than before. She felt his tongue probe at the seam of her lips. She had never been kissed like this, but instinct told her he wanted her to part her lips and she yielded. She could now taste the faint tang of Gondorian ale on his tongue.
His hands started to wander. They moved from her arms to her waist, curving around her hips. She moved her own arms to wrap around his shoulders, bringing herself even closer, pressing her chest to his. His lips moved to her neck, his beard rough against the thin skin there, sending a tremor through her.
He gently guided them towards a nearby supply closet, his hand at the small of her back. Their lips parted for a moment as he led her inside and shut the door. The air was stale and held a chill that Syrah hardly felt against the warmth of Eomer's solid form. He pressed her against the wall beside the door, the stone cool and rough against her back, and resumed his kisses. His hands were on her again, moving from her hips to her back, trailing up her waist. His thumbs reached out and brushed her breasts through her gown and her breath hitched.
He pulled back and began to fumble with the laces running up the front of her gown. He worked deftly despite a slight tremor, the backs of his fingers brushing against the fabric of her chemise, each touch sending a jolt through her. Syrah took the opportunity to catch her breath. Her heart pounded in her chest and she wondered if he could hear it.
He pulled the bodice apart once the laces were undone, exposing the smooth planes of her throat and shoulders, the swell of her breasts. He pulled the gown down past her hips, leaving her in only a sleeveless chemise. He looked up and down her figure appreciatively and then continued to explore her warmth and curves with his hands. Every touch sent heat blossoming through Syrah. The chemise was so thin that she may as well have been wearing nothing at all. One hand on her back, the other traced up her waist, coming to cup her breast. He brushed a thumb over her perked nipple and she gasped.
He moved his lips back onto hers, not as crushing as before but no less hungry. His beard rasped against her upper lip, she was surprised to realize she liked the feeling, that she craved more of it. He trailed his lips back down her neck again, and this time moved lower. He kissed down her collarbone and over the soft curves of her breasts. She moaned, a sound she wasn't aware she knew how to make, and threaded her fingers through his hair to try and ground herself. She was fairly certain her legs would have given out by now if not for the solid wall behind her back.
He continued to place kisses across the tops of her breasts as his hands trailed lower. He began to pull up the fabric of her chemise, drawing it over her thighs. He ran a hand down her inner thigh, to her knee, then began running it back upwards, his fingers fluttering over the sensitive skin. The heat that had been building between her legs suddenly intensified, demanding attention.
He approached the juncture between her legs, reaching the thatch of soft curls that lay there. His calloused fingers began to probe, and a jolt, sharp and unexpected, shot through Syrah as he touched the sensitive flesh. A loud gasp escaped her as she recoiled from the unfamiliar touch. She stumbled backwards but found she had nowhere to go with the wall at her back. Eomer stilled instantly, drawing back as if burned.
Silence, broken only by the sound of Syrah's gasps and Eomer's ragged breaths dominated the small room. His eyes were wide as he took in the woman standing before him. He saw things he hadn't before: the hesitant vulnerability in those round brown eyes, her delicate, trembling hands, the flush of color on her cheeks, the way she now drew her arm across her chest, protecting herself. All of it spoke to an innocence that was now painfully clear.
"Forgive me," his words were heavy with self-reproach. "You are…you are untouched." It was not a question.
A chill came over Syrah as she registered the distance he had placed between them, the sudden rejection. She found herself wanting his warmth, his body pressed back against hers. She reached for his hands, her fingers clutching around his, trying to pull him back towards her. "Does that matter anymore?" she cried, and realized her voice was thick with tears. "Please don't stop, it doesn't matter. I don't care about it." She tugged at his hands again, but he remained firm. "Please," she whispered in a desperate plea, "I need this."
His eyes had lost the desire they held moments before, replaced now with tenderness and regret. He sighed and removed her hands from his own. "It matters," he said softly, as he bent to pick up her gown. "Forgive me," he repeated, though this time he seemed to say it more to himself.
Guilt slammed into him as she began to sob softly. "Please," she implored again. Her lips quivered and she crossed her trembling arms more tightly across her chest. His heart ached even more at this - some instinctual part of her was trying to shield herself from him even as she begged him to continue.
"Syrah," he whispered, but the words were still loud in this small space. "This is not the way." His voice caught. "Forgive me. Please, let me help you dress."
Fresh tears trickled down her face and she pressed her lips together. She did not resist as he slid her gown back into place. The passion, the desire that had raged between them was gone, replaced by awkwardness and sorrow.
He secured the first few laces of her dress, enough to prevent it from falling back open, and then moved to cup her face in his hands once more. He wiped her tears away with his thumbs again, and looked at her with a tenderness that somehow opened a new wound within her. He murmured something to himself in Rohirric that Syrah suspected was an oath, and then pulled her into his arms.
The intimacy had vanished, replaced by the type of comfort one would give a small child. She pressed her face to his tunic, letting it absorb her tears as he rubbed slow circles on her back. "Hush," he soothed, his low voice a rumble against her ear. "Syrah, do not weep."
She let him hold her, paralyzed by the shame and utter vulnerability she had just shown this man. She stayed in his arms as the tears began to slow, focusing on the feel of his strong heartbeat. Once she had stopped trembling he pulled away. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and placed a chaste kiss there. "You are weary, Syrah," he said softly, his voice tinged with sadness. "Rest now."
Syrah was not sure that any amount of rest could cure the ache in her heart now, but found herself nodding slowly. He gave her one last lingering glance before he turned and exited the supply room, not realizing that with him he took a piece of her fractured heart.
A/N: I never thought I'd foray into LOTR fanfiction, but here we are. This particular brainworm can be read as a oneshot or as the start of a longer story. I can't commit to writing a multi-chapter story at this point, but I still wanted to put this story out there. This follows the movie-verse as that is the story I know much better than the books, but may have aspects from the books.