Four Rings

by Whiskawaybelf

Summary:

A look from the first meeting to marriage. Lothirel and Eomer meet right as their worlds were ending. After the war they face a future no one imagined they would see.

Notes:

I wrote another Eothiriel fic roughly six? years ago. I reread it and liked ideas in it, but I wanted to try again as hopefully a stronger writer. I re-imagined a lot of their trajectory and wanted to explore a lot more of the repercussions of years of battles, how the world gets back to normal. I wanted a Lothiriel that felt a bit older. Then it turned into a novel in length. Each chapter is a chapter in their relationship. It'll all be posted over the next month.

Chapter 1: After Pelennor

Her father brought Éowyn in. Lothíriel had been certain the woman was dead until she too had felt it. There was a tiny thready hum still in her. It drowned out all the noise for a moment when she noticed it. Her father was one generation closer to the elves than she but he was not working in the Houses of Healing, she would have to manage with what she could perceive. Imrahil touched her shoulder with his heavy armoured hand. He gave her no advice as he went to return to battle. 

She would learn the whole of it after the battle was over but they only heard scattered reports as it raged. The healers, the guards and the novices could have no true sense of the outside world. The people of Minas Tirith were trapped and had been for almost two days. There was little news, only what one could see and hear. At the start Lothíriel and two other healers and a small guard had braved the battle in the city and dragged the injured to cover. Then the walls of Minas Tirith had fallen and the Fell Beasts had eaten. The Houses felt like a reprieve, but Lothíriel was sure they would die here. It didn’t stop her from her work but she knew this would be her last day. She might see the light of tomorrow but only barely. Her consolation was that she was not suffering, and she could ease some of the pain for others. She was almost numb with exhaustion. This day would never end. 

The warrior king stalked in as she cleared bloody linens from a cot and used them to finish cleaning the pools of gore from the floor. She, along with the Warden of the Houses, watched this broken man get drawn to his sister. He was given a seat and his sword was still in his hands as he sat. The healing rooms could have been halls of the dead or a quiet inn. He did not react to them at all. His eyes searched his sister for any sign of life, movement, recognition. When he saw nothing he bent his head and wept. She watched as one wave of desolation broke him. Then another. Then another. Then she looked away like a coward. She could not shirk her duties. 

Lothíriel carried a bowl of warm water, a cup with spirits, and clean cloths. Her long curls were pulled back under a kerchief and she was the colour of blood and muck. She had washed her hands over and over so they were clean, dry enough to crack, and yet still stained with blood. She felt guilty for taking this small moment for herself. Nothing around her was quiet. The screams of men and the answering shouts of nurses echoed around her. One breath to calm the heavy drumming of her heart and then she walked over. 

Before she could speak he grabbed her forearm, hard enough to hurt. She stilled. The warm water flooded her tray. The spirits spilled completely. The clothes were soaked. All of it dripped down her arms and onto her boots. She sighed her displeasure. Her heart already pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear his words. Her heart had not stopped since the war horns had announced the enemy. 

“Do not touch her,” his eyes were a shocking blue and beyond bloodshot. They said he went mad after he discovered her. She thought, He is still mad . 

“Then how should I help her?” Lothíriel did not think Éowyn could be healed. Not by her. She had no knowledge that could hold back the Black Breath. She cleaned Éowyn’s face as best as she could and removed her boots and cloak, even that hurt her. Lothíriel tried to feed her strengthening draughts, she tried some broth but it was all spit out. She tried to make her comfortable until someone stronger than her could try. She could mend Éowyn’s arm. Bandage it so the break could heal cleanly enough for the arm to be used again. But that arm would never have a chance to heal, the Black Breath would have her before the next morning. Lothíriel was here to finish cleaning her and give her some dignity in death. 

The mad eyes did not leave her face but the hand on her arm released sightly. She didn’t move her wrist. She stayed perfectly still. The water dripped down the tray, it slowed but did not stop. His eyes left hers for a moment, they scanned her face quickly, once then twice. Then his gaze dropped slightly, his breath came out in one hard press. He got smaller. His grip on her hand released. She handed him the now soaking clothes and gathered the bowl’s pieces from the floor. She nodded once and turned to fix a new tray. “Wipe your face,” she said gently, “wipe your hands. I’ll return.”

She did, her skirts still damp, her sleeve held the outline of his grip.

“She will moan,” Lothíriel said softly, “I have to remove her armour, 2e need to see the wound. I’m sorry.” 

She wanted to start at the woman’s doublet. It was heavy with the chainmail that re-enforced weak points. It was where the wound hid, stained with dark blood. She glanced around. It would be heavy. She didn’t want to hurt her. She began at the gloves, on the wounded arm Éowyn made a noise. Éomer looked at her and she knew he was fighting with himself not to stop her. She began to undo all the buckles and laces that once held arrows and knives and water. The doublet was next. Lothíriel stared fixedly at the floor. She said, “I need your help. It is too heavy for me.”

He rose slowly, he walked heavily, with the air of a man just barely on his side of an edge. His eyes never left her face and she could feel him waiting for her. She looked back. She tried to look certain, “She will moan.”

He spoke for the second time, “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Lothíriel said again. 

Éowyn did not try to fight them, she barely even hissed. Éomer laid her head back down and stood there. Lothíriel gently pushed him back to his seat. She began to clean Éowyn with warm water. Éomer winced, but Lothíriel went quickly and efficiently. She couldn’t wait in effort to be gentler. She had to start working. 

Éowyn was grey and insensible. Lothíriel felt that she was just barely holding on, her pulse barely touched her fingertips, her breath sounded like a breeze. “Shh,” Lothíriel whispered, though Éowyn didn’t say a word, “Please don’t slip away,” Lothíriel cleaned her face, whe placed a cloth on Éowyn’s forehead, “Let him know when you leave.” 

She looked over her shoulder. Blue eyes followed her. 

“This will hurt her,” she said, “I must.” She felt her eyes water. Don’t, she thought.

This time he nodded and looked down. His sword lay there. It was still bloody. 

Lothíriel poured water into the mess of blood, she followed it with spirits. She looked inside the wound. Her face betrayed nothing. Éowyn’s arm was dark. She barely breathed. There were so much noise around her. How could anything be this quiet? Death loved pandemonium. She will leave and he will die. Lothíriel bandaged Éowyn and gathered her bloody linens and hands and bowls and went to take them away. His hand caught her wrist again. It was more gentle this time but just as firm. 

“Come back,” he said. She nodded. 

When she returned there was another man there holding a bowl of something. His hair was dark and long and he had a calm voice. She felt her heart slow down. She breathed her first real breath of the day. Lothíriel knew Sindarian, she recognized some words but not nearly enough to know what the man said. At times it was easy to hear him, then other times his words seemed only for Éowyn. His head was bowed towards hers and she seemed to respond to him. She moved her head side to side. Lothíriel waited. She carried a mug of tea and another damp washcloth. She knew the prophecies. The king had returned.

He went next to her cousin, Faramir. Lothíriel did not know he was here. She thought he was sent to battle and there had died. Kinship mattered less in wars. No one would have come to tell her cousin was killed. They did not know if their own cousins were killed. Some would wait days for news of who they mourned. Those they mourned would come back alive but broken. They mourned again. War was only a series of small tragedies, one after the other.

Lothíriel stood and watched her cousin be healed. She felt again the deep calm of kingship. She felt for the first time that the ship had righted. The Houses were quiet now, save for some murmurs, some sighs. She heard the name Aragorn. King Aragorn.

Faramir said something to the King. He nodded. The king turned away and went to move to the next man. The man was very small and looked as a child. Lothíriel had never seen a hobbit. She thought they might be fairy tales until one pledged himself to her uncle. This one looked very ill. Struggling through to see him was another hobbit.  She didn’t know which one was which. He slowly pushed himself through the throng of people. He did not look mad, he looked devastated. It was never the wounded who looked that way. It was always those made to watch them suffer. 

Lothíriel returned to Éomer. She handed him cold tea which he put aside. Then she handed him the linen. “You’ll not go to bed,” it was not a question. She already knew. 

He shook his head. 

“Take off your armour. I’ll bring you clean clothes if I can find them.”

He began to unclasp what he could reach. She helped with what he could not. She took the dirty rags and left him there for a few more hours until she was bone weary. It was hours later and the sun was up again. The wounded stopped flowing in. There were less than she hoped, it told her how many dead. 

Éomer was handed a clean tunic and rough breeches. He held them in his arms and nodded once. “I’ll sleep for a bit. I’ll be back-” ‘ tomorrow’, she meant to say. But this was tomorrow, a thing she did not expect to see, did not thought there would be people to heal. She had not thought that Faramir might live. She coughed, corrected herself. “I’ll be back. You’ll not sleep,” it was never a question. “At least lay down," she knew he wouldn’t. 

Then she left the Houses of Healing. 

She left to the healer’s quarters. It was raining heavily, the air felt heavy with it and the dank smoke of put out fires. The smell permeated her room but she had a soft mat to sleep on and a blanket, cold water to drink and clean herself with, clean clothes, only one set. The smell did not bother her. It was no worse than what she was used to. The single set of clothes concerned her. Usually someone would run the laundry for the houses every day. Some days the aprons and rags took longer to dry, some days the sun shone down. They would run out of linens soon. Things needed to be organised. Cities took only moments to knock down compared to the years to rebuild. They wasno time. If soldiers did not die that day then neither should they die while healing. Something must to be done. 

She still smelled of panic, a sour smell that lingered under the scent of soap and blood. She managed a few bites of stale bread and half an apple before retching the sweet flesh back up. The water she drank greedily. The sheets were clean enough and she quickly fell to sleep, exhausted beyond all measure. It was not a good sleep. In her dreams she saw fell beasts with their jaws open and ready to devour. She looked down the mouth of one while trying to drag a man to safety. It did not see her. It sensed a wounded soldier who was already screaming out his blood and dragged him away. The sounds of what she could not see made her vomit, it would ring in her head even now and she’d feel her stomach lurch. In her dreams she felt like she could not breathe, she felt a bloody hand holding her throat as she kicked and scratched him. He would not let her go. He screamed at her. His eerie blue eyes watched her. He opened his mouth to speak-

She woke herself by gasping and her fists and heels smacked the floor as if she were still fighting something. She was drenched in sweat and freezing but she slept a few hours and now the sky was turning red, then pink, then a bright light on to the horizon. She chewed the hard crust of the bread, drank water. She stopped before stepping back into the Houses of Healing. Her face tipped to the sun and she closed her eyes. The barest hint of warmth brushed her cheeks. Her jaw tightened and she opened her eyes. She re-entered the Houses of Healing. 

Novices, apprentices and younger boys and girls moved swiftly through the patients. They cleaned the floors and scrubbed the tables. Usually two or three would launder, some would distribute food, while others simply monitored patients, running to the healers if there was anything of concern. Lothíriel called out to one and asked if they found an unbroken well. She asked how their water stores were. The girl shook her head to both questions but offered to go find out. Lothíriel sent her with two guards and a message to her father or brothers, thought she doubted the girl would succeed in either task. 

After washing her hands she braced herself and entered the sick rooms. They looked more ordered than when she was last been there, but only slightly. There was noise and pain but no more screams, even nightmares were quiet, terror made no sound.

Lothíriel went to meet with Ioreth and The Warden, and with them Lothíriel recognized the King from before. Other healers wandered in to the conversion and drifted out. Ioreth was a respected healer, they were happy to follow her lead with the King though there were others more senior. The King nodded to her and she gave him a small bow. He seemed surprised. “This is Lothíriel.” Ioreth said. “She is one of those who run the Healing Houses, there were seven of us. We lost three in the battle.”

“I know the nobility of your father,” Aragon said, “It does not surprise me to find you here.”

“Does he live?”

He nodded to her. Her knees buckled but he caught her arm while she recovered. She confessed her embarrassment. She was certain that her father rode to his death with her three brothers riding behind him. Belfalas had done its battles but their borders to the sea made attacks harder and their ships could often resupply against the enemy’s clumsy counterparts. She had not eaten fruits for a year, but neither did her home faced such devastation. It seemed to her that they were living on borrowed time, all of them. Her father was too honourable to watch Gondor fall around him. 

“I saw you healing last night,” The king was older than he first seemed. He carried himself like a younger man but there was a depth of years to the way he considered and spoke, even now she barely saw his fatigue but she could feel it radiating off of him. He had not slept the night before. If Éomer was a warrior, this man was a true King. No one could see him and think anything otherwise. Lothíriel bowed her head again. “Will you take command today, as king?”

He looked into her. Deeper than he did before. The blood of Numenor was thick in him and thick in her family. She gazed at his with stormy grey eyes. “You see much, Princess. It is your father who takes command. I will leave Minas Tirith until I am accepted as king and can be anointed.” 

A princess understood ceremony but Lothíriel wished he could take the throne and heal her home the way he healed those people. They were all on borrowed time, a good leader could give them a few more precious hours to be with their families. She understood why he was given this advice, Gondor had just withstood one attack. They were wary of more attacks. They would be wary of spies and strangers. Not everyone saw what she saw. Her father would agree. He would safeguard the city until the King Aragorn could take it. And she would be grateful for any extra minutes she could get. 

Aragorn left her and Ioreth with another nod and some advice for those recovering from the Black Breath. Lothíriel left to make broth with what water and beef bones she could find. People worked through the night. Corpses were moved and with them any animals that could be salvaged were butchered. Bakers made flat bread, there had been no time to let it rise but it was bread and it would feed some people. She was brought a rack of large ribs and set the novices to boil the meat and then boil the bones. She sent out the food to those who could eat. In an hour the first of the broth would go out to those who could not. 

Someone found water. Three wells could be found that survived the attack. A message returned from her father. It said only that her brothers lived. There was no promise of when she might meet him. I’m losing my hours. She felt ashamed of that thought. Others lost all their time with their families. Whole families were been killed together. Half the city was rubble and there would never be enough time to mourn for everyone. If she had any more time with her family it was because someone else did not. 

Six hours after leaving her bed, she finally manage to see her cousin. Faramir seemed aware of her but barely lucid. His pale face tried to smile and managed a few words but even that seemed to tire him. He asked about his father, she didn’t have anything to say. He asked about his brother. “He’s dead.” she whispered, but he knew and he looked into her eyes as if she aaid something else, something secret and frightening. The must be words that would might sooth him but she couldn’t think of what. Eventually she sighed and fed him some tea to help him sleep. She loved her cousin, but she didn’t have enough time to sit with him. There wasn’t enough food. They were running low on medicine. Someone had to take care of it. 

Lothíriel was not a prolific healer. She stayed in the city because she was good at running things and was persistent in seeing things through. She was know for having a hard head and her brothers called her Mule for much of her childhood. Ioreth herself trained the girl when she was a young princess. Lothíriel was capable and efficient. Whatever drops of elf blood her family still held were powerful. She could see truths where others could not, she could dream futures and pasts. She was good at finding flowers and herbs for healing. She was a perfectly capable healer and hospitals needed many of those. Ioreth was a real healer. Someone who could bring people back from the brink. Lothíriel could just strengthen the tether of those who stayed here. She could stop them from slipping further to death, but she could not rescue them from it if they were too far gone. 

For this reason she did not return to Éowyn or Éomer for another day, there was nothing else she could do for them. She accomplished more elsewhere. Healers wore clean clothes that were still damp, rags were grey now and stunk of lye for it was the only soap she could find. She found three whole goats while looking for honey and wept when she saw they had died of a broken necks in panic. No inhuman jaws poisoned them. She managed another day’s meal. There was no bread now, just wheat porridge. She was grateful to have bowls of food to give at all. Three men left the Houses of Healing. Three men did not replace them. Lothíriel laid her head against a cool white wall and thanked the stars, the Valar, anyone who she thought might have a hand in this. 

Éowyn was given broth every day, which she was able to swallow now. She sometimes opened her eyes for a few minutes and she recognized her brother, Lothíriel did not exist for her. Éowyn’s brother looked cleaner and he still wore the clothes Lothíriel brought him two days before. His hair was still streaked with red and there was grime under his neck, on his forehead and in his fingernails and palms. His eyes were still bloodshot but the madness receded. He accepted a bowl of goat and porridge gratefully. It was finished in only a minute, before she even finished checking Éowyn’s wounds. They were healing slowly. She would have to clean and re-bandage everything. 

“There might be more food, when did you last eat?” she glanced over her shoulder. He shook his head. Dank gold hair hung limply around his face. It did not make him any less imposing. There was strength now in his spine and he gave the distinct impression of someone who could strike swiftly but she was too lowly a prey to be bothered. The chair was too small for his frame.

“I’ll not take more of your food, Princess.” 

This was the first time it sounded like he was there in the room with her. He knew who she was and that came as a surprise. Éowyn opened her eyes and stared into Lothíriel’s face. Her bright gaze was disconcerting and Lothíriel fought the urge to look away, “Can you keep down some food?” 

As soon as she was there, Éowyn was gone but Éomer helped her raise the woman’s head and she accepted some water and even a bit of tea. When they finished he sat heavily down. She battled fiercely not to do the same. She had slept a full day and two nights ago now. She lost the war and slid down to the floor. She buried her face in her dirty hands and felt her eyes burn with tears. She didn’t think the Warrior King saw. 

“Have you eaten?” he asked. There was a roughness born of screaming grief and rallying cries. No tenderness lived there. 

She did not remember eating anything. The goat and the butchering made her vomit until she had only livid yellow bile. At least the goat did not yell for his mother. He did not feel himself torn apart. She wanted to look up and assure him she was only spent. That she needed her bed and a couple of hours. Her face felt inflamed and hot. Her nose was dripping. His waiting felt heavy. His eyes dug into her until eventually she sighed and mopped up her face as best she could. He was standing next to her. She did not expect such a big man could move so silently. His hand hovered above her shoulder then he moved to lift her to standing. He more than half carried her and dropped her into the seat he just left, his cloak and an old curtain used as a pillow were beside the chair. He must have slept there. Of course he slept there. He pulled the blanket over her shoulders and gave her the water Éowyn had not drunk. There was a bowl of cold gruel and he passed her that too. The spoon was half broken and she fought back nausea as she took a mouthful. Then two. She stopped at the third one. That was enough. It was all her stomach could handle though it groaned its discontent. 

“Thank you,” she said and made to stand. His hand was heavy as it pushed her back down. 

“No. Rest longer.” 

The commander was in his voice, someone used to being obeyed. She would have once fought him, for he was in her domain. She was used to being obeyed too but she had no spirit for it. She was overwhelmed and meek. This time she did not cry but she folded in half and sunk her head into her hands. His heavy hand rested between her shoulder blades. It did not move. It just waited there. 

“You’ve heard from your family?” 

She had and she hadn’t. They sent her quick notes with their survival scrawled. She had not seen them for days. So she didn’t reply. She could not see his nod but he understood and did not speak again for a long while. Lothíriel sighed deeply after what felt like hours. She smelled awful and he smelled worse. At her movement he lifted his hand. It left a cold spot on her back. 

“I’ll see to my men. I’ll return tonight.” 

Lothíriel nodded and stood. She went to speak but her voice would not come out. Finally she whispered “I’ll watch her,” because that was all she could do. 

“Yes, and you should sleep,” he said. 

She stared at the floor. He did not know if she would. The armies had finished their battle for now, but her battle was only just beginning. 

The next morning. The fourth day since Pelennor Fields ended. 

The Houses of Healing were busy. Finally minor wounds could be managed. Many of the men bathed but their wounds were dirty and filled with splinters and stones. Lothíriel was laying on the floor with the cloak round her shoulders and the curtain half out from under her head. She was shaking too much to stitch wounds and Ioreth did not allowed her to continue. She slept so deeply that she looked like a doll made of rags. She dreamed of a wave of black bodies. The white tree burned in front of her. She did not make a sound. Éomer stepped over her and checked on Éowyn. His sister looked at him and met his eyes. “Éomer,” she said, “I’ve been very tired.”

He sat beside his sister for a few hours. She spoke a few more times and took gruel and a bit of meat. When he went to leave he lifted Lothíriel’s head and rolled the curtain better. She sighed harshly but didn’t wake. He went back to his men. 

The next time he was able to return it was far past midnight and it was Ioreth’s turn to rest. The Warden too looked exhausted and Lothíriel relieved him of the blankets he held. He left soon after. 

Éomer had washed properly and it looked like Lothíriel had as well. She had more energy and her face held some colour again. She inclined her head to the smallest bow he had ever seen and then turned away, three novices, like ducks, followed behind her holding trays of draughts. She moved with certainty again and her face was as set as he first saw it. At some bedsides she only checked wounds and conferred with other healers. Some wounded were able to leave now with their families or brother-in-arms supporting them. Others still lingered on the precipice of survival. Burns were difficult to keep clean and there was only so much pain bodies could handle. There were enough burns and not enough salves. Some men bore it bravely, gritting their teeth and breathing quickly to bite down the feel of flesh peeling as dressings were removed and fresh ones applied. Other men wailed. Their screams filled the rooms with a hard edge. The war was not over. For many of these men it could not end.

Some soldiers were catatonic. Whatever theysaw or suffered took their senses from them. These were the men Éomer avoided, his own madness fresh in his mind. The men would sometimes grow violent. Guards came to help the healers but sometimes they did not come quick enough to prevent bruises or breaks. Lothíriel picked only two novices and one apprentice to work with these men today. The two women were quiet and never complained. Éomer did not think he ever even heard them speak. The apprentice was a tall and rangy boy on the cusp of adulthood. He had a severe club foot but managed to keep up with the others. 

Éomer would stay with Éowyn for the rest of the night and into the morning. She was lucid today and aware of him. Though she was only barely back into the world of the living she had already become restless. She tired herself out and then woke, got tired and woke. A tiny woman composed mostly of wrinkles and stooped shoulders brought him meat, chicken this time, and wilted greens. Hidden under the stringy meat was some barley. He stood and tried to find someone, but no one had time for him. He wished to return the plate for someone else to eat but it was growing cold and no one seemed to be without. Grudgingly he stood and finished it. He saw Pippin sitting in another part of the room and came to sit with him. Merry was more awake and in a better mood than Éowyn, though he would sometimes drift to sleep in the middle of a sentence. Pippin managed to sneak in ale in his waterskin and tried to tempt him. Éomer knew it would be taken if any of the healers saw and they drank it because Merry could not. He left an arm band with Merry so he would know he visited and he promised Pippin that he would try to bring in more ale. Pippin jerked his chin to Lothíriel and her pack of apprentices. “Do not let her see,” he said, “She took my last two. I think some healers drank it in the back but I can’t be sure,” Éomer doubted this, but it was not impossible. He would, if he was stuck in this dark place all day. 

Some of his men would never ride again. Their legs were crushed or already amputated. Their hands had fingers burned together or they could not move at all for their broken spines. Despite their own fortunes they all lamented the death of his uncle and pledged him their loyalty. He wasn’t sure how to get these men home to their families. He wondered when they might be hale enough to see Rohan. There was a little whisper in the back of his mind that said ‘What if there is no Rohan left?’ 

At daybreak Éomer said goodbye to Éowyn and went out into the light of Minas Tirith. His days were spent rebuilding and recalculating. He lost more men than he could even comprehend. He knew so many of the dead. The bravest and the brightest. They charged with only fury and honour in their hearts and many of them died for it. Many more lived because of them. He did not think as they rode over the plains to the join the battle that he would survive, but hoped he might die a good death and take many down with him. He had not thought to live and was immensely grateful that any of his men survived. 

At the centre of the efforts to rebuild Minas Tirith were Gandalf, Aragorn, and Imrahil. Imrahil’s three massive sons stood a little ways away and conferred between themselves, mirroring Aragorn and his group. Éomer joined the first three. Aragorn and Imrahil each clasped his hand in greeting. He bowed to Gandalf.

Rebuilding was going as well as could be expected. Most of Éomer’s men were lodged in houses without tenants and missing big pieces of the roofs. This was less important than trying to strengthen the walls against another attack. The hard shining stones that protected the city were shattered, some pieces still large and others small enough for children to move to the side. What builders remained were directing men to move the larger stones, some had to be placed on logs and rolled down, horses pulled the loads as well. He grimaced as good war horses did the work of farm animals but said nothing. Good horses would mean nothing if they could not create something to keep the enemy out. Still, he ached to unhitch the ropes, he could pull those stones himself. 

Imrahil was a man who matched his own height. The elf blood in him made him handsome in his older age and he fought like a man half his age. His daughter’s immovable nature was reflected in him too. Or perhaps it was his nature in her. Even in the deepest parts of battle Imrahil stayed calm and ever focused. He was a man who stood steady in a storm so others could find their way back to him. All his children had his grey eyes, heavy lidded and wide apart. His eyes could not be avoided, the impression he made was of one who missed nothing and disconcertingly saw everything. Artifice shattered under his attention. He ruled the city in the interim until Aragorn would take the throne. 

Both were counselled by Gandalf who examined the city critically. He pointed to parts of the walls, noting where the circles of the city were still intact and where people could be moved to provide more protection if another attack should come. Here, Aragorn saw a part of the wall that could be mended quickly enough. There, Imrahil pointed out the vulnerable holes that should take most of their focus. 

Éomer considered his men, even well rested they were weary and dreamed of returning home. Already they risked their lives for people they did not know. They wanted to rebuild Rohan, not Minas Tirith. It was his duty now to stand for them and equally to band together with Gondor, neither land could survive alone for long. 

The conversation ended and the four separated, each on his own task. His business took him elsewhere but he slowed to walk alongside Prince Imrahil. The Prince liked King Éomer and respected him deeply. A future led by Aragorn and Éomer, guided by the likes of Gandalf and what remained of the elves seemed to him a future worth dying for. For this reason he stopped when Éomer laid a hand on his arm. “You should see your daughter,” he said. 

Imrahil stiffened, his face shifted the smallest fraction. He looked back at Éomer with eyes that softened. “She knows her duty. She knows mine,” Éomer had to accept this answer, he was not familiar enough with Lothíriel or her father to say otherwise. He went to take his leave but Imrahil spoke again, “I’ll send Amrothos to her when I can.”

The son in question was the shortest of them, his hair slightly longer than the others and he did not wear any weapons barring a knife. Both his brothers carried swords and were leaner. Éomer struggled telling those two apart, but for a scar on Elphir’s temple that he earned in battle. 

Amrothos did not seem bothered by being singled out to comfort his sister. He even had the look of someone relieved from duty. He was younger than Éomer by a few years but carried himself with the same gravity, if slightly lighter, than his impressive father. He bowed to Éomer before following his father in a different direction. All four with their heads down, their conversation too low to be heard. 

There was only work from there. Children and old men cleared the paths of the city. They recovered corpses and burned them on the fields. At first there was wailing through the whole city but now people went about their work grimly. Women with grey faces and fussing infants accepted their rations from the granary and teenagers worked to fix the wells. They pulled all the stinking things from them and several days later would pull up the water and boil it. Pots and pots of hot water, those were rationed out too. Little novices scurried all over the city taking water where they could and tending to gardens. Half of their yield, sad as it was, was retired to the Houses of Healing, the rest was handed out to the people. Éomer noticed that no one fought over the food. They were still too devastated to be divided. Soup pots all over the city were shared between neighbours. The air felt clean again. 

The strong men he could spare reinforced the circles of Minas Tirith: the smaller gates and stables. Where there was a fast repair for buildings they managed it. These men were warriors, but now they wielded hammers and nails. They spread white mortar and stacked it with white stones. Éomer had never seen so much white in his entire life. He missed green. 

The sun began to set and he was exhausted. He spent the last night with Éowyn and worked the whole day. He did know there were chambers assigned to him but the city was a maze and he had no sense where they might be. A blanket and a curtain on the floor did not appeal to him, but it might be best to see Éowyn again and get some sleep. Even the Houses of Healing were daunting to find. He was not sure which circle he stood in and he had not followed these streets before. He dismissed his men but briefly considered following them and taking whatever quarters he could. He thought better of it and began the slow climb uphill. He began to regret this decision and felt like he  climbed ten tiers, though there was only seven. Eventually he saw the same tall youth as before, his club foot dragging behind him. Éomer offered to help him with his two bags of potatoes and followed him to the hospital. Outside the doors Amrothos and Lothíriel conspired. Amrothos was dirty and bloody, Lothíriel the same. Their dark heads were almost pressed together. Lothíriel’s kerchief was limp in her lap and her hair had come loose and stuck to her damp forehead. The two almost didn’t mark him but for his heavy, tired steps alerting them. They looked up simultaneous like children who were caught plotting pranks. 

“My lord,” Lothíriel stood straight up. She looked guilty and blushed fiercely. Amrothos followed much more languidly, amused by his sister. 

Éomer’s fatigue took him over to them slowly. Lothíriel opened her kerchief and he saw inside a small pile of dark berries. Amrothos looked from the berries to Lothíriel and then to Éomer. “We found a bramble,” he explained, “They’re sweet.” 

Lothíriel offered the kerchief to him, he hadn’t seen her eyes so bright in the entire time he knew her. Amrothos watched this with an impish expression. There was some pink about his mouth that betrayed he already partook of this gift. Éomer picked one, he felt there should be some ceremony but he simply bit down. It was more juice than berry. The seeds were rough against his tongue. He understood their excitement. It was sweet and sour and it was the best thing he tasted, the brightest thing he experienced for weeks. Lothíriel picked out one more and then wiped her pink fingers on her apron. Amrothos took three more and then another three, promising to take them straight to their brothers. 

She turned her attention to Éomer, “Please take another. Some for your hobbit friends, maybe Éowyn would eat some. It’ll be good for her to have something fresh.”

The Lothíriel who offered him the berries faded in front of him, though she moved still with the energy of someone who was given a very good gift. The brightness in her face shuttered away and she was reasonable and solid again. Her eyes grew concerned and she tucked away her berries and reached for his arm. He wasn’t sure how she intended to support him but he realised he was starting to sag to the left. She was deceptively strong, and though she stumbled under his weight, she was able to get him to the healer’s quarters. She put him in her rooms. 

“You cannot sleep on bare floor,” she disappeared for a moment and returned with another mat. She stacked it on the first and then reached for his bracers to take them off. He tried to protest but she worked with the same brisk efficiency as the sickroom and finished the first and went for the second one. He blinked and his weapons and boots were in the corner. He blinked again and found his doublet and shoulder guard on the floor beside him. He tasted that he had drunk water. Two blankets pulled him down without further complaint. “Where are your quarters?” Lothíriel held the now empty jug in her arms. He could barely hear her but grunted some kind of answer, “I’ll find them. Healers cannot quarter with Kings. Kings need to rest,” he was already asleep. 

He woke all at once, though he did not feel any shock. One moment he was asleep and suddenly he was awake. The jug was back with cold water and well made clothes were folded beside him. His boots were clean. His bracers were not been polished but they looked better than before. He turned around expecting to see grey eyes watching him but there were none there. The room gave no indication of its usual inhabitant. It might as well have been his, his things at least were there. Something bright caught his eye. Next to the jug and behind a small bowl of cheese and flat bread were three little berries. He ate them first. 

Lothíriel was not there when he returned to the Houses of Healing. He asked the time and found it l was later than he wanted. He was frustrated. He could only kiss Éowyn’s cheek and promise to visit her that night. Then he moed on. 

At night he returned to the houses. Lothíriel was still not found. Ioreth told him she was at council meetings all morning. It was time for every branch of the city to talk to each other. A Warden of the Fields would speak, then the Warden of the stables. The Warden of the Houses should be the one to do so but he brought Lothíriel instead. That was her role anyway, she knew the numbers, he did not. It was almost midnight when she returned. Éomer took a moment to recognize her. The grey kerchief was replaced by a band of green linen that bound her long hair back. She was truly clean for the first time that he knew her. Her hem was dusty but otherwise the dress was clean as well. It was a softer green, and lacked all embroidery but for the neckline where bright thread rubbed red marks into her collarbones. Around her neck was a chain of silver upon which hung a ring. She did not look a princess but she did not look like a healer either. 

“Stop it,” whe said after he looked too long, “Where will you sleep tonight?” he could not seem to avoid her sharp gaze. “Do you want to know where your quarters are?”

He didn’t. He wanted to sleep where he slept the night before. He wanted that same deep sleep again. Éowyn looked at Lothíriel too, she held Éomer’s hand tightly. He did not think Éowyn knew who Lothíriel was. She was just another strange face. Lothíriel’s eyes flicked from one to the other. He knew she was thinking, it would be easier if he slept there, he could stay as long as he wanted with his sister and friends and then walk ten metres and find a good bed. She should not allow it. How were the apprentices and novices to feel safe knowing their quarters were open to anyone? “Tomorrow then. Tomorrow you go to your own rooms,” Éomer nodded his consent. Even Éowyn smiled at Lothíriel. Lothíriel smiled back. Then she left them to sit in the back and note down sums.

Ioreth came over and then three other older healers. Lothíriel pointed to something and one of them shook their heads. Another pointed to something and Lothíriel coolly explained a figure again. The chattering among them started to get louder, and more people gathered. Someone tried to take the papers from her hands to show her something and Lothíriel stood. She towered over most of them and she looked dangerously calm. She was unshakeable. Éomer couldn’t hear what was said but everyone around her quieted immediately. She looked like her father and like a princess. He could hear now as her soft voice rose, so everyone could hear, “-I cannot keep them all here. The fields need ploughing, the city needs rebuilding. We needed everyone for the battle. Now I have too many hands and not enough work. What else can I do?” no one answered, “There will be nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat. No horses to ride, the weapons will rust, and we will have nothing to defend ourselves with if there is no smithy.” 

The houses of healing were a protectorate to many. Silent girls and orphans, those disfigured or unable to bear arms. Those who had been brutalised before and could not survive it again. Éomer saw it settle heavily on her shoulders. She stepped back from the table, moving firmly. A few tried to tuck in behind her and she moved them out of her way. She placed the papers on the table neatly, “Read it over. Find me another option,” then she left. Éomer could see the start of colour high on her cheeks. It was the only crack. A shocked silence remained before people fell to talking. Éowyn looked at Éomer and he looked back. Never had the peace in this place been disrupted like this. The healers never fought amongst themselves where anyone else could hear. They were all been too busy to fight before. Éomer saw Faramir struggle to his feet. Two healers flocked to him but he continued to follow his cousin. Éomer rose to intercept him, “I’ll do it,” he told him. Faramir looked to protest but he was winded. He allowed himself to be led back to bed and watched Éomer leave. 

He wandered the quiet place where healers lived. He didn’t remember much of the night before and only knew his way from the morning. Occasionally a soft snore or a little murmur disrupted the peace of this space but mostly it was silent. He found his way to Lothíriel’s quarters from one solitary crash, she had thrown her jug against the wall. He was not welcome, he could see it from the start. Her body was wound tight. The dress lay on the floor and she was only in her shift, her hair was loose and wild. 

“Leave,” she said. Her eyes were fixed to the shattered pottery. She couldn’t even look at him. He made to take a step inside, she rounded on him, “Leave,” she said again. Her hands were fixed into claws, red splotches crept from her chest to her throat. She was barely breathing, just holding all those feelings high in her chest. She paced like a wounded animal. A third time she snapped, “Leave.”

He left.

She dreamed of a volcano. She dreamed of screaming and the smell of blood and charred flesh. She slept deeply and could not crawl her way out from her dreams. 

He slept that night in the rooms that were his by right. A bed lay on a bed frame, there was a bath, even a mirror. He woke many times and hated the strange room around him. Before dawn he made his way back to Éowyn and slept with his head on her bed and an old bench underneath him. He woke up with a blanket on his shoulders. 

Lothíriel walking the sick room like a wraith. Her eyes were bright and vigilant. When she spoke it was as efficient as her work. Short sentences. Crisp words. She didn’t seem angry but she hid it so neatly, he could see it burning inside her. She didn’t really seem to be there. A least not in the rooms that the rest of them were in. The other healers greeted her carefully and she nodded back, equally civil. Eventually she made her way to those men whose minds were sacrificed to the battle. She spoon fed a soldier who ate obediently but twice he attempted to flip the plate from her hand. She scolded him mildly then wiped his mouth and put him to a table of rope to make knots. She checked in with the guards to be extra wary of his mood. The next man was restrained though he spoke to her pleasantly. She replied to him in kind and took the next plate of food from the apprentice behind her. The man courteously told her he did not wish to eat. She asked him when he might prefer his meals. He told her he could not be sure but the maggots in his stomach would not allow it. She nodded her assent and told him they would try again later. Perhaps the maggots would be more amenable then. 

The last man lunged at her but he too had been restrained. Lothíriel stared him down. “I’m sorry,” she said, “will you eat today?” He growled at her like a wolf, tried to snap at her fingers when she showed him the bowl. She was still as stone. He would be killed, she knew, if he could not be healed. They were running out of time. The Houses had to move on. They all must to shift their thoughts from surviving to living again. He snarled and snapped at her. She recognized her own anger from the night before. She almost wanted to offer him her arm. If he bit her hard enough would that purge the animal inside him? She took a step closer and felt her apprentice yank her back. She shook her head, surprised at herself. Then she took another step back so she would not be tempted. 

The encounter cut the tight cord of her anger and left her empty. She felt lost without the power of her indignity. Faramir was disapproving when she came by and sat with him, “He was going to ravage you. I saw it.” 

Lothíriel didn’t deny it. She didn’t even know how to explain it. “I’ve seen the animal in more dangerous eyes than his. He couldn’t get close enough to properly hurt me.”

Faramir narrowed his eyes. “So he could get close enough to hurt you, just not properly.” 

She had almost given in. She couldn’t give anyone else what they really wanted. That was the problem. The healers were right, the council was right. No one was wrong so she had to be wrong because she spoke for both. She struggled to manage what one group wanted when it was the exact thing the other group could not have happen. She knew she was losing time. She wanted to tell him that she understood his father now. She understood her uncle and she pitied him. He held off the wolf for much longer than she ever could. Instead she said, “We have gardens, you know. I think it’s time you start walking.”

When breakfast was ready for the rest of the Houses Lothíriel delivered it to Éowyn. She handed a bowl to Éomer who was too slow to excuse himself. She offered to walk him out and he could not refuse with Éowyn watching expectantly. So they walked outside together. They both blinked in the sun, Lothíriel closed her eyes and turned her face to it. He shielded his until they adjusted. 

“May I ask you something?”

Éomer squinted. Her eyes were still shut. He made a sound. She took it for assent. 

“How much longer… in the sum of all the minutes and hours together, do you think we still have with the people we love?” she kept her eyes closed. 

He stopped, “I must go, Lothíriel.”

She opened her eyes and dragged her hands down her face. “I don’t think there’s much time left. I don’t want to spend it like this,” she waved her hand vaguely to the Houses of Healing but he knew specifically she meant the night before. He did not respond and her face closed before him, “But that’s none of your concern,” she tried to smile at him but it looked sad and tight. Then she bowed her head and turned back to the darkness. 

He said, louder than he needed to; “My room is too far from here.” 

She paused and cocked her head to the side. 

“I need quarters closer. Like I had before.”

She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes were soft, “I can arrange that, my lord.” 

“Yes. Thank you,” she bowed a second time. He held out a hand to stop her, “Will you work in a smithy now?”

“Yes,” ahe was blunt, “Or a granary, or the fields.”

“They need you here.” 

Lothíriel cast her eyes to the building she lived in for almost a month now. Once she helped build it. She helped reinforce it. In this place she was been mentored and fostered. “They don’t.” There was no self pity, “It would be easier if they did. But-“ here she stumbled, thought, started again, “I don’t think these are meant to be easy times. Nothing will be easy. I dreamt it.” 

He had to go, he would have to ask her about her dreams. He had nightmares too, they all did, but the men he knew did not talk as if their dreams were fact. 

She was right though. 

She walked Faramir through the gardens very slowly. They stopped often. He told her he thought something big was about to happen. She told him she knew, or she thought she did. He said, “They might make you regent, while the men are gone. You rank higher than most anyone here.”

“They will not,” she laughed, helped him sit down again, “By the time they march. If they march, you will be well recovered.” 

“If I am recovered then I will march too.” 

“Then who will be regent?” Lothíriel pushed his hair back and off his face. His injuries were healing. The minor ones all but gone, his shoulder lingered painfully but soldiers were good at dismissing their pain. 

Faramir smiled wearily. She took him back up, started to walk him to his sick bed. He stopped her, “The Lady Éowyn?” 

“She also recovers slowly. Of your wounds as well. The Black Breath, her arm will pain her as yours will. Perhaps for the rest of her life. I don’t think she is a stranger to pain. She bears it well.” 

He drank in the information. Lothíriel did not say; ‘You might have better luck pulling affection from a dry fountain. She is hard and unyielding.’ She did not say that, she said, “I think it is time for her to start walking as well.” 

That evening her father called her to his rooms. The lines of his face seemed deeper. His hair more grey. He pulled her in his arms and greeted her. He rested his chin on her head and held her tightly. She had not seen him since before the assault on Minas Tirith began. She came to the city weeks before to provision the hospital and bring to order what she could, now she refused herself any tears. Her face was hot and she worked hard to compose it. She was her father’s daughter after all. It took a long while. She counted three minutes. Three minutes was good. Then he sat her down and broke her heart. 

“I’m sending you back to Dol Amroth."

She jumped up from her chair, he pushed her back down and knelt to her level, he had not done that since she was a child. 

“The city is well garrisoned. You’ll be safe there and you’ll take command.”

She heard her own voice and it was much higher that she wanted it to be. “The city is well garrisoned, people you trust act out your orders. I do not need safety. You will be offered none of it!” 

“We march on Mordor. In three days time,” his voice was grave, “You’ll ride in the morning, before we march. You’ll have a small guard. You must ride quickly. As quickly as you can.” 

“You’ll need a battle camp. Healers, provisions, fresh weapons and armour. I’m more use to you there. I know how to do it!” she tried to stand again. Again he drew her back down to her seat. 

“No battle camp, daughter. No provisions.” 

“So you will go there expecting to die,” she looked at the sky, guessed at the time. Three days. Ten hours. That was all the time she had left. “You will leave us behind. Their numbers and our numbers... You will die. All of you. I saw it. The mountain will bellow and spit forth fire,” her hands shook but her voice was steady. “What will we do when they come back? I suppose the best hope is a quick death. If not our people will know only pain, until they finally tire of us.” The Fell Beast flashed before her eyes. She paled and her stomach lurched. 

His warm hands reached for her cold ones. She grasped him so hard that it would have hurt another. 

His voice was low. This was information she was never supposed to have. “There is a hobbit, he has the One Ring but the eye of Sauron does not relent. We must draw his gaze away and free the halfling to destroy the evil.”

“The Ring is a myth. You barter on a fairytale.” 

“You may be right,” ahe could see the fear in his eyes. Imrahil was not a fearful man. The only time she saw uncertainty in him before was at the death of her mother. The fear wasn’t for himself. It was for her. 

“When was this decided?” she wouldn’t have been there. Of course she wouldn’t have been there. Warriors got to decide the fate of those they left behind. The injustice stung but disappointing her father would hurt more. Whatever she felt, there would be no lapse in her strict obedience. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“No,” she said, “I don’t suppose it does. Faramir will take Stewardship of the city?” 

Her father nodded. He pulled off his ring and gave it to her. It was heavy and would never fit. She took the silver chain from around her neck and added her father’s signet ring to her mother’s marriage band. Then she slipped this back over head and under her dress. The ring pressed heavy into her sternum. She put a hand over it. It was still warm. 

“You have been a good daughter,” he rested his hand on the top of her head. She began to weep, “The best among women, do you understand?” 

“Stop it,” she buried her face in his chest. She had not done that since she was a child either. He held her close, hard enough to hurt. That was how she knew his pain. She could feel it in every way it came. He held her tightly. 

“Burn those words into your heart, Lothíriel,” He pulled away and she did not grasp him and pull him back, “The best of women. Let it give you strength, no more bad dreams. I know you’ll fight until the last.”

She stood, she could not do otherwise. There was nothing else for him to say, “See me before you leave,” she hated the way her voice broke. She touched his ring. “Promise me.”

He promised. 

Her brothers and their guard waited outside the door. Amrothos reached to touch her shoulder. So he knew. They all did. She expected her temper to force its way to the surface. Nothing came. She was just sad. 

The walk to her quarters was slow and heavy. It felt pointless to make her way back. The council didn’t matter. The Houses could not save her family. She wrapped her hands around her parent’s rings and sat down on rubble. She didn’t expect to get anything from them but they felt very solid in her hands. She held them tighter until they left an imprint on her palm. She sat there counting down the hours. Three days and nine hours. Three days and eight hours. The time was ticking away and she could not bring herself to move. If she didn’t then maybe nothing else would. The rings lay heavy against her breast bone. She forced herself to stand. She forced herself to walk. She forced herself to change into her healer’s clothes and take on her shift. 

The rooms were quiet and cool. Her father’s ring hit her sternum with every step. It told her to keep moving. If she stopped she would never start again. Tinctures went out, the draughts, the teas and waters. Heavier medicines went out. Those brewed or blended by healers. The senior ones mostly. She was sure now that everyone could see on her face that she knew. She felt like they must. She began to make rounds, Faramir was in the gardens, Merry joined him. From the lingering smell of ale on the bedsheets she could tell Pippin was here or had been recently. 

Other patients slept soundly and many of those wounded in battle, though not all, were starting to leave their beds. Their wounds would need longer to heal completely and longer still to regain their strength and feel like themselves again. Would they all have gone to battle knowing that they would die? 

She saw Éowyn sitting upright. She accepted her medicine and caught Lothíriel’s eye. Lothíriel didn’t think that Éowyn liked her very much but she did think that Éowyn liked her better than she liked most people. She made her way over there. Éowyn’s arm was in a supported sling, she barely moved it and worked around it gingerly. Lothíriel sat down. She held up a hairbrush but Éowyn shook her head. “I’d like to walk,” There was no question in her eyes. 

Her bluntness suited Lothíriel well enough and she stood to help her. Despite Éowyn’s obvious discomfort with her being so close it was easy to help her to her feet. Lothíriel had a hand around her waist, “Take a few steps,” Éowyn did not step. 

“I’ll go to the garden,' there was something haughty in her tone that made Lothíriel grin. She thought the smile might crack her wide open and all the things would come pouring out. It didn’t. 

“No,” Lothíriel shifted her grip on Éowyn’s middle, “Now take three steps.” She could have pointed out that Éowyn would need those three steps and then about a hundred more to get to the gardens but they were already locked in a battle of wills. Lothíriel won. A moment later Éowyn took a tentative step. Her knees threatened to buckle but Lothíriel didn’t get her strength from carrying books and quills. She set her hip under Éowyn’s and forced her upright. In the end Éowyn managed ten steps heavily assisted. She looked grim and pale. Lothíriel should have asked someone to help her walk Éowyn back but she saw Éowyn’s pride break a bit more with each step. It took them a long time but eventually they got her back to her bed. Éowyn was grey faced and trembling. She looked furious. Lothíriel showed her no pity. “You’ll do better tomorrow.” She expected the woman to lash out at her but Éowyn didn’t. She lay back into her sheet, she let Lothíriel wrap her blankets around her. She accepted a plate of food and Lothíriel left her there to manage it herself. It seemed they had an agreement. 

Lothíriel knew he was there before he said anything. She glanced at Éowyn who wasn’t looking yet. She knew though. Éomer. He was too close to her and she hadn’t heard him. Big men should make noise. He only did when he was tired. She saw from his stern face that Éowyn was about to learn what Lothíriel had. Lothíriel felt real pity then. She moved to give them privacy but Éomer caught her arm before she could. He guided her all the way to the hallway outside her quarters. She was starting to wish she never showed him where they were.

“Your father has told you,” a fact. She could only nod, there was little else to say. “Éowyn will stay here, you’ll keep an eye on her. Make sure she cannot get to armour.”

Lothíriel touched his arm. She could feel the heat of him from under the fabric, “Your sister can barely walk. She cannot dress herself, she cannot cook her own food.” she lifted her hand, tucked it away into her apron. She could feel his skin burning still. “Despite that, I think she’ll murder you when she finds out. When you tell her.”

“Did you murder your father?” he was amused. By her. She tried to take it in the spirit it was meant though she felt like he was making fun of her. She clenched her hand in her apron. Once, then twice, then folded her arms over her chest like a suit of armour. 

“I won’t be able to look after Éowyn,” His amusement faded as fast as it came. She felt torn over having hated it and then having robbed him of it. He already had hard things to do. He frowned, his hands settled gracelessly on her shoulders and made her stumble. He scanned her face. She could not meet his eyes. Now that she said it out loud it would be real and she thought her heart would break. “I’m being sent to Dol Amroth. Father needs me to do my duty,” her eyes were fixed on the floor, she was surprised she did not shatter. She was still in one piece. “I’ll leave when you march,” three days. Four hours. 

“You cannot leave,” his took her chin, meant to force her to meet his gaze. She shoved the hand away. He commanded her enough for one day. She reached into her shift and pulled out the chain. The signet ring dangled. It was unmistakable. 

“Your father is wise-” Éomer tried to justify it but he knew it was not wisdom that sent her away. Her father wanted her to survive as long as possible if the battle should fail. 

“My father is very wise,” she repeated him with a hard stop, “Why have you chosen to ride off and die?” in any other women this would have felt cruel. She could not even look at him. There was no malice there. 

“If we do not, we will be destroyed slowly. Over years maybe. Over months more likely,” his voice was coarse. He did not sound as sure as her father, “Aragorn and Gandalf counsel it. They ask for me to ride with them and they have never failed in their loyalty. I owe them my life and the lives of many good people.”

“It is a mistake,” Lothíriel was much younger and so much less wise than any of those men. She looked past him. There were only fell beasts and fire there. She saw the fire on the horizon every day and every night. It would be more distant in Dol Amroth. 

“If we would die anyway, then the honour of battle is the best way to die.” 

Then why did Éowyn's death break him? She did not say it but she thought it. Her anger began to boil. She wanted to throw his remaining hand off her shoulder. What would that accomplish? She had three days and four hours. Nothing mattered beyond savouring this time. She pushed the injustice down. She pressed the rage into the small of her back and kept it there. “You’re a great warrior. There’s no doubt you’ll die with honour,” she gritted her teeth against saying ‘And I’ll slice my own throat when they come get me. We are not the same.’ Her anger flared up her spine. Her jaw hurt from the pressure. 

“What?” now his hands were firm, he tipped her head to him. It was rougher than he meant it and he could see her shock for a moment before she finally met his eyes, “Say it.”

“Stop it,” she tried to command him. Her will was as strong as his. Now that he had her eyes he almost regretted it. It was not comfortable being under her whole attention. Grey and light and clear. She gave the impression she saw everything.

“No,” his grip stayed firm on her jaw. He almost expected her to shake him off and bite like an unbroken mare. She could not command him. He could not be commanded, “Say it to me, so you will not have to say it to anyone else.”

“You’ll die in battle.” Eyes locked. Only the truth. “I’ll die choking on my own blood at best, screaming at worst. Where is my honour? Where is my glory?” his touch grew slack, she pushed his hands down where they hung heavy by his sides. “A hard death frightens me and it is the only future I can see,” she swallowed, he had no right to her thoughts if she did not want to give them. He should not see what others could not. She was brisk, “I can only look to the living or I will be dead before my body is.” 

He now looked at the floor. “It is not a crime to want to live.”

She offered him her sad tight smile but he did not see it, “But it is, isn’t it? I would not march to Mordor to fight, even if I could. I was not born in the right years to be a coward,” she touched his shoulder and left him there. She did not want to hear Éowyn when she was told the news.

Éomer’s new quarters were old quarters. It was bigger than Lothíriel’s room but half the size of his room with a bed. This one had a cracked mirror, and a crack in the wall. A small trunk held his clothes. There was a window to the right of two sleeping mats, and his boots could rest on the window sill. 

Éowyn did not say much. She didn’t seem angry. She knew this was coming in some way or another. They sat in silence for a long time, her good hand held in between his own. They did not speak about where she would go if they were defeated. She tried to walk three steps for Éomer and he foolishly let her. Quickly he realised that it would take months before she could mount a horse. She told him that Faramir and Merry often kept her company when he was not here to talk to her. Faramir, she said, was healing much faster than her. He would be Steward of the city, it only made sense. He should talk to him, Éomer to Faramir. Make provisions for Gordon to flee to Rohan if it came to that. 

Éomer knew he should, he promised to do it in the morning. It was always so late now when he came to see her. He went to bed too late. Three days was not very much time to plan a full assault. His sleep was dreamless. 

The fifth bell woke him, in the dark he dressed and walked down to the fields where his army gathered. Ceorl was there waiting for him. He rallied the men and divided them into their companies. The men were been told last night. Some were still drunk, but almost all of them were here. Éomer started them on laps with their horse so the animals could warm up. Companies separated to ride with their spears and swords against logs and rubble and deep ditches and mud. Éomer had them ride for a few hours. He called it short when he saw his men starting to fight the weight of their spears. They would go and have their midday meal then be back that night. Today they trained twice. The days that followed they would only train mornings so they would not tire before they rode. Éomer was satisfied with what he saw but he wished he had more men, The army was the smallest it had been in his lifetime. Their numbers would be bolstered by Imrahil’s men, the men of Gondor, Rangers and Elves. Éomer knew it was not enough. Men could come join them as they walked, but he did not think that many more would willingly join. Already he knew the soldiers who would be garrisoned along the way lest they desert before they got there. He shared food with Ceorl and Elfhelm, they waited out the day conferring with their men, and then again with each other. There were no doubts, everyone seemed ready for this battle. Perhaps it was because they survived the Pelennor Fields and felt they could survive once again. If this was death then it was death with a sword in hand. Thoughts of this city began to die away. For them there was only battle. 

In the evening Aragorn and the Gondor army came to join them, along with Imrahil and his men. The men must to learn to march together, learn to part for the Rohirrim that still had horses and could ride through to break the enemy line and then ride back around to begin again. All battles turned to chaos if they went on long enough. Each man needed to stay with his company when order broke down but they must know how to stay out of the way of the next soldier who fought differently. They would have to keep the line ordered for as long as they could. They could not train for what happened when a horde of orcs crashed like a wave against your shield. Most of these men knew that already, they lived through it once. They had to hope they would be as lucky the second time. Near the end Gandalf came. He would lead the battle. He put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. He spoke quietly but he commended their men. They all heard the reports, tens of thousands gathering to fight in the east. They reminded themselves grimly that it was not for victory they battled.

That same night Lothíriel went to bed planning. There were so few days to leave her role at the Houses, to manage the soldiers that would return with her. The horses, the food. Her father’s things. Her brother’s things. A plan. Anything at all that would guide her for the next few days.

She pored over maps. Her cheeks were stained blue from the quill she put against her skin when she thought. She didn’t let her thoughts wander. She was ordered. She was precise. The map followed the main road to Dol Amroth, then she traced over the hard packed earthen paths that branched out and then when they went back in. She marked the lakes and and rivers and tried to find anything that could help her with terrain. Where could they camp? Where should they hide? 

In the darkness she found her bed and was rewarded with a swift drop to sleep. In her dream she could see only smoke for leagues in each direction. She was there for a while, the smoke spread but did not dissipate, then lightning burned bright. From a distance she could see riders. The path started to grow light. She saw a horselord, a king with a star on his brow, a tall figure with a staff. She lost the dream. The rest of the night was dark. The first bell called the hour, the dredges of an image stayed in her head. She tried to hold it there tighter but only small pieces of it remained.

She had run to her rounds and done most of the cleaning, three other girls worked with her and they washed everything they could and packed it up for storage. They struggled through the battle with makeshift bandages and splints made of branches. Now unless there was an attack that could rival that size, they should not run out of this at least. She set the healers to their mortars and pestles. They would need an equal stock of medicine.

The rider who came for King Éomer was breathless, his horse hated the cobblestones of Minas Tirith and then been ridden hard. Lothíriel sent the man to their stable to fetch a horse and then ran to Éomer’s room and knocked. She heard a sound but it was not the distinctive sounds of waking. She opened the door and knocked hard on the doorway. He woke up all at once. He saw her, then really saw her.

She ignored the state of undress studiously. Her face got hot. “My father wants you,” her hands were wet as if she had been caught mid task. It was early in her rounds. He turned to get dressed and she turned around. He took a few handfuls of water and washed his face. There was no food there, he didn’t picked anything up from the kitchen the night before. He’d miss breakfast. A rag dried him. He put on his shirt, then he searched for his belt. 

“I know the way to your father’s house,” he found the belt and then looked for his scabbard. She turned back around and was there beside him and picked it up, “I don’t think you should be in here alone.” While he worked on the scabbard she was rustling around the room. Once he finished she handed him his knife and reached for a bracer. He could see the other one near his feet. “What does your father want?” Lothíriel followed close behind him. He shot her a look over his shoulder but she looked back. She didn’t know.

She heard the clatter of hooves and he was gone. 

Midday Lothíriel took off her apron and kerchief and traded her dress for rough breeches. She went to meet the head of her father’s guard. He introduced her to her retinue. Three men who proven themselves in orc hunting parties and in Pelennor. All three were young. They would ride very quickly without tiring and now they would not die in the final battle. The other two were good soldiers who had family in Dol Amroth and requested to ride with the Princess. Halec called her over. He had commanded her father’s troops since she was a babe. He threw her a dull sword in its scabbard, he followed it with a knife, “Quickly.”

She tied her belt around her waist, the knife she kept in its sheath ready to grab. The sword needed two arms and she feel immediately that it was unbalanced. She glowered at Halec “Please don’t give this sword when it’s time to ride.”

His scarred face grinned at her. He went very slowly, drew down his sword on her. She blocked it and stepped back. Even at his slowest, his blows were incredibly heavy.  His grin didn’t leave but he suddenly brought down a massive blow on her. She didn’t even try to parry him, she jumped out of his way and held the sword awkwardly, the heavy tip dropping and slipping out from under his blade. 

He roared with laughter. He was a man who loved battle, loved fighting. He often told her she was the worst of his students, but he had seen her through the basics proudly and when she was younger, better, and too shy to speak, he even told her she might be the third most terrible of his students and she was very happy for the faint praise. Here he looked at her sword point in the ground and how she slipped away from him, “Did I teach you that?” 

Lothíriel shook her head, “No. I don’t remember that in our lessons,” she tried to slip in under his reach and he lazily shoved her away with the hilt of his sword.

“You’re not breaking my guard, Princess. You’re going to tire yourself out.” 

She was already tired. The sword was too heavy and his arms were too long. She suspected he gave her a sword that was unbalanced and too big. She tried again and he smashed her back six paces for her troubles. He followed her, she was weighed down and her arms were already shaking. If he attacked- if someone real attacked- she was about to die. He tried to close the gap between them. She was a little too quick. The tip of her sword was on the ground and there it stayed. The next time he went for her she threw the sword at his feet. He got tangled in it and she pulled out the knife and dived under his arm, aiming for his shoulder. He caught her wrist a few fingers breadths from his mail. He nodded at her and then pushed her back into the grass. She hit hard. 

“You’re not tired, Princess, surely.”

“No,” she said as she obviously mopped the sweat from her forehead and eyes, “Can I have my real sword now?”

He grinned and helped her to her feet. In a bundle on the floor was a leather roll, each sword protected by the wrap on the one before. She took her time, caught her breath. He called to her to hurry. The Rohirrim were done and coming off the field. 

She sulked and came back to him with a more appropriate weapon,“That’s a dirty trick.” 

“You know better than to fall for it,” he handed her the knife and she tucked it in again. 

She was back to basic forms. The men of Rohan passed her without pausing to look. She was grateful for that. Every noble woman should know how to use a knife but she could not fight men who trained on the field and would look ridiculous to them. Halec tried to buy her time. She could manage the castle defenses if needed, she learned to do it when her brothers went to hunt the the orc parties that managed to slip into their lands. She could even lead an attack if strictly required. She could do those things but she would not fight. She would stay at the rear.

She asked Halec for water and he waved his hand to a waterskin. She drank deeply and then gave the rest to him. He put a hand on her sweating back, “If things go badly Lothíriel, you run. At the first sign of trouble, you run and you don’t stop. You don’t look back. Do you understand?” 

She nodded. She fiddled with the hilt of her knife. Her arms ached. She’d do this again tomorrow when they would feel even heavier. They were running out of time. 

“One more?” 

She did not protest and let herself be guided back to their spot. Halec would go from here back to working with his Swan Knights. It was generous of him to take this time with her. 

He let her drop the sword and offered her a long knife to go with her short one. She eyed the weapon suspiciously but he didn’t have time for more tricks. She set up her stance and he used his heel to fix her position. 

She was humiliated to see Éomer and his marshals approaching and stopping to watch. They all wore their jerkins untied and their shirts were soaked through. She ignored them but shot Éomer a look of thorough displeasure. He slid from his horse and brought his knives with him. Halec moved aside. 

“Tired?” he asked. He looked her over.

“Yes,” she said pointedly, “Very tired.”

He moved towards her. At first very quickly then checked himself and slowed. He pulled back on his blows but they still made her arms numb. She gave up on trying to defend herself. It was pure survival. She dropped her longer blade and just tried to keep out of his way. The knife was long and it wasn’t heavy for him but he was announcing his every movement for her benefit. Once and only once he went slowly enough that she could get in and slice her dull knife across his wrist. He grinned at her. She was breathing so heavily she thought her heart was about to give out. He dropped his small knife and changed the longer knife to his opposite hand, playing fair. She managed one more time to get barely outside the end of his sword. It caught her shoulder and she stumbled to the ground. Scrambled back. Her knife was somewhere on the grass but she couldn’t look away to find it. As he got closer she kicked out at his shins but didn’t connect once. He looked like an animal, one of the ones that played with their food. And then he offered her his hand. She examined it but he held up his other hand as if to say ‘no tricks.’ She got pulled up to watery legs and he clapped a hand on her back. He even picked up her weapons for her. 

“I hope you lose your favourite knife,” she muttered under her breath, “and you have to use one with a bent blade.” 

Éomer laughed his harsh barking laugh. He never heard her say anything like that before. This was the first time she showed anything but friendship to him, even when they spoke about the battle. He enjoyed her malice. 

“Go wash, Lothíriel,” his grin was obvious and she could hear it even though she kept her eyes down. She didn’t move at his command. She looked over at Halec and he nodded his agreement and accepted the weapons. Halec looked at Éomer with deep respect. Lothíriel remembered he was a warrior before he was a king. She shot him another dirty look and went to struggle her way to a bathhouse where she planned on wallowing for half an hour. 

Éomer was starving when he went back to see Éowyn. He had some cheese and bread and dried meat on the way up but it was barely enought. To his surprise Éowyn was halfway through the room with an orderly on each side. She saw him and started to turn back. She looked better. 

While he waited he went over to Merry, the hobbit was devouring a bowl of mushrooms, rabbit and peas. Éomer’s stomach growled loudly. Merry grinned, “Did you know Pippin will go to battle with you?” Éomer nodded. He thought it was a mistake but then his uncle had not given Merry leave to fight and he had been there and saved his sister. Merry was still talking, “I cannot but I would. Pippin needs to have someone watching him.” 

“He’ll be in good company. Gandalf will lead the campaign but Aragorn is a good commander. He’ll watch your friend,” Éomer accepted a bowl of food and wished he had been handed about three more. 

“If they have more, the kitchen will let you have it. It might be cold but it’s good,” For the first time Éomer was tempted, “If they do, bring some back,” The appetites of such small creatures always surprised him. Their capacity for drink did too. 

Now that Éowyn was settled, he and Merry made their way over. She sat up now more often than not, her back was proudly straight. She was always happy to see Merry and her mood was the brightest it had been for days. Éowyn explained that one of flowers they used for her pain if used too much could make someone crave it. She explained how the seeds were scored and the liquid inside was dried and that men used it sometimes to sleep and to experience something akin to drunkenness but different entirely. She said no one could describe to her what it felt like. She showed him a notebook she’d been given about herbs and plants and their properties. She pointed to one, “That is what  Aragorn used to heal me. It’s a weed,” her eyes shone and she showed Merry another plant. A root that he knew as flavouring for teas and cakes.

Éomer sat back and watched her. Éowyn had not cared for much, especially at the depths of her despair in Rohan. She nursed her uncle and been followed around corners by Grima Wormtongue. Then she was plagued by love, her heart was broken. She loved horses and swords when she was younger, and then she stopped riding completely when Theodred died. She only practised with her swords in secret. He had never seen her weave, she mended clothes when she had to. All her life she had no love of music or stories. She loved the plains and freedom. Now she buried herself in plant lore. She found it interesting enough to keep her from her despair. Faramir gave her the book at Ioreth’s suggestion. 

Éomer looked for Faramir to thank him but Merry touched his elbow, the highest he could reach, “He’s gone to another meeting.”

Éomer shook his head, “I do not envy him. I do not envy him at all.” 

Preparation were at a fever pitch since they voted to ride out, now it seemed every spare moment was devoted to talking, if not talking then they were sharpening and polishing. They were scavenging for rations and equipment and horses who would ride to battle. Many of his horses had gone lame or been injured beyond use. Some were killed, others would make good training horses for the young men who would become soldiers. He realised with dread that the next generation might never grow old enough to replace him. He had only a day left. He battled with himself. He should get back to the duties of a King but he wanted to sit, talk with friends. Take a rest. Remember why they fought this battle. 

He decided he could afford a few hours of sleep. His path led him past Lothíriel’s door. He went to knock but thought better of it. Her door was half ajar and he could see her lying on her mat, her blankets were tangled on the floor and he couldn’t tell whether she was asleep or simply thinking. He tried to close the door so she wouldn’t be disturbed but she rolled to one side and sleepily opened one eye at the door scraping. Her breeches lay in a pile on the floor. Her shift and shirt lay on top. She was wearing a fresh linen shift, her hair was wet and mussed around her sleepy face. Pillow creases lined her cheeks, “Are you very proud of yourself?” whe pushed herself to sitting. Her words were sleep-slurred and he regretted waking her up. 

When he didn’t respond beyond crossed arms, she rubbed at her eyes. She made the face of someone who just remembered something important. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes again. Her forearms were mottled with bruises, her bare legs were too. He took a step inside and closed the door behind him. He doubted Lothíriel would want anyone peeking in to her room. She watched him close the door with an expression that was entirely unreadable. She flicked her eyes up at him, 'I don’t think you should be in here alone.’” His words from earlier didn’t fluster him. 

“You should not have been.” 

“What is this then?” she glanced over at the closed door pointedly and then directed her gaze at him. He went to sit next to her, coming heavily to her mat. He was already forgiven. She was past caring if he was in her room alone. There was no sense of what was appropriate anymore, it simply didn’t matter with only one more day to live freely before everything changed. She laid her shoulder heavily against his. 

“I have something to tell you,” she looked forward, into a horizon he could not see. He nodded and hoped she felt it, “I have dreams. My cousins did too, sometimes. Dreams that aren’t really dreams at all.” He remembered her talk of fire erupting. He didn’t say anything. Perhaps she was right and her dreams foretold their battle. He didn’t believe in fate. Not as a solid thing that only made one path, “I don’t mind if you don’t believe me.” 

“I think perhaps the darkness in your mind colours your sleep,” the pressure of her shoulder against his made him think he should tread carefully. One day and he didn’t want to upset her. 

She replied as if he never spoke, “I dreamt figures last night,” her face was serious and her voice stayed low. She looked sharp and wide awake now, “It was a group of riders. One was a horselord. His men behind him. Wherever they went the smoke faded to nothing. It was bright. It is never bright when I sleep. I saw-” She turned and his face was blank, so she cut herself off. “It is a good omen. That is all.”

“What did you see?” he meant: what she had not said. The part she bit back. He was blunt and it sounded cruel. She pulled away from him. He gripped her wrist before she could stand, “Tell me what you saw,” he would have no artifice. He saw the words she put back into herself.

“I saw your son,” she pried his hand from her wrist, “It was a different dream. I only got threads of it.” 

“My son?” he stood up close behind her. He had no sons, not even bastards like other lords. 

“I can’t tell you anything else. I don’t know. I don’t know what I saw,” he saw she was lying, it was clear in the set of her mouth. He let her keep it. He didn’t know how to feel about the part of it she’d given him. 

He didn’t believe in her dreams but the more he looked at her, the more she shrunk from him. He took a step forward and she did too but she moved to his left and went to grab a dress off the floor. She pulled it on slowly. It was clear she wasn’t leaving her rooms, but she felt exposed and that was one thing too many things to feel. She shrugged and tied the sides of her dress. Soft eyes and a tight smile, she looked to the door.

“I’m sorry. I have some papers to sort through. I’ll bid you goodnight.” 

Éomer nodded, as he passed Lothíriel he put a hand on her shoulder. “I hope I do have a son.” 

“And I hope you skip my lesson tomorrow," she looked determinedly anywhere but him but he squeezed her shoulder and she laughed a little bit. 

Their final day was a blur. Lothíriel organised and re-organized her saddle bags. She made all her guards show her what they packed and when she was done confirming everything was where she needed it, she dismissed them, each receiving a silver coin as she passed. She thanked them for coming with her and told them to eat well, drink, and get to bed at a decent hour. She waited until they left to look out the window into the livid horizon of Mordor. There was a sour taste in her mouth when she looked at it, it gave her the sense of dark wicked things crawling all over her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned around, on the entire other side of the room she looked to the west.

Dol Amroth was not visible but she knew exactly where it was. She remained in Minas Tirith for so long, she felt she should be allowed to stay here if that’s what she wanted but she did miss the sea. She missed swimming and sitting quietly on the shore while the waved rolled in and out. She thought of her mother who had been half-sea herself. Her Aunt Finduilas, her father’s beautiful sister, came to Minas Tirith and stayed too long. She had to, she had Faramir and Boromir and Denethor. They say she wasted away dreaming of the sea. Minas Tirith was not for sea-women. Not for too long. She laid her head against the cool window. She missed Dol Amroth. She missed licking salt off her lips. She refused to think of how much longer she might have it for. What would happen to the sea if darkness won?

In punishment for having sat too long and thought too hard, she spent the next hour being hit many times with a sword. 

Halec was kinder than he had been the day before and no horse lords came to tease her. Her body was aching and Halec hesitated before eventually bringing their lesson to an early finish. He sat down with her and they drank from the same skin. Their silence was comfortable, there was much he said without saying it; ‘We should have started this earlier’ and ‘I’m sorry I cannot protect you anymore’. She bumped her head hard against his

“Come on old man. Once more so I can avenge my pride,” she took every last ounce of energy and managed twice to wack his shoulders and then to trip him when she ran out of other dirty tricks. They smelled as bad as the other but she hugged him fiercely before going. The sword and knife he picked for her would be put with her things, bright, shiny and sharp. 

She came back to the Houses of Healing and kissed Faramir on the head. He wrinkled his nose at her smell and pushed her away with his good arm. She walked slowly to the baths. She could ask someone to help her fill them with water but the work continued here. The kitchens were busy, most of the wounded would stay but they could eat well. Some of the men who walked out days ago came back for a last look over before marching. They would take bandages and some medicines with them and hope it would see them through the campaign. No one had free hands. As she took her third bucket of hot water from the kitchen to the baths, Éowyn spoke to her and was determined to walk there and take one herself. Lothíriel resigned herself to many more trips and many more buckets. Éowyn’s look of gratitude softened the work. It was nice to feel human again. 

Being careful of puddles, Lothíriel helped Éowyn walk up a few steps and then down the hall to where the bath house stood. It once housed natural springs but they dried up long ago. She tried to be as respectful as possible but Éowyn needed help taking her dress and shift off. Her shoes she could kick off herself and then Lothíriel braided her hair up and helped her into the bath. Her own hair she left loose and when she had undressed she immediately sank into the water all the way to her chin. Éowyn evaluated her. 

“You are not a warrior,” she said in the end, pushing her chin towards the whole of Lothíriel’s body. 

“No, I’m not,” Lothíriel dunked her head under the water and then waited there a few seconds before coming back out. Her sore muscles felt just a little less sore, “I don’t think I was made for a battlefield.” 

She met Éowyn’s eyes and to her credit Éowyn looked slightly abashed at her examination but didn’t look away. Instead she said; “What were you made for?” Éowyn reached for soap and Lothíriel looked away to give her some privacy. The woman’s scar was still dark and angry, the skin was raised and would probably never fully heal. Her bruises seemed very small in comparison. 

“I can’t be certain. I don’t think most of us are made to be only one thing,” the movement of the water stilled and Éowyn handed her the soap. She didn’t look away as Lothíriel scrubbed, “I think I’m made to be of use.”

Éowyn stilled completely, “If you are only of use to others, then what are you of yourself?” 

Lothíriel sunk back under the water and rinsed the soap from her hair and shoulders, “You think my life is very small.”

“Yes,” said Éowyn, “I do not know do you stand it.” 

“Because you could not?” Lothíriel touched a bubble and it popped. She tapped another, “But I can. I am a healer, a daughter, a scholar. My father is a leader, I learn so I might continue his legacy."

“But you won’t rule your lands,” The water was cooling but Éowyn wasn’t in a rush.

“I will. Until my father comes home. I can, I know how, and that is its own freedom. If I have a husband, I’ll manage our household, help rule our lands. As long as there are people, they will need other people. My title makes that need a responsibility, not a choice.”

“Do you think I abandoned my people?” Éowyn looked very small for a second. She looked younger and softer.

“I don’t know,” Lothíriel stood first and wrapped herself in linen, “I don’t know you. And pain is a loud thing.” She pulled on her shift then her dress. She wrung out her hair. 

“I like it here," Éowyn reached for Lothíriel and put her good arm around her shoulders. Lothíriel got soaked but they managed to sit her on a bench and Éowyn dried herself. 

“The baths or the Houses of Healing?” Lothíriel went back to drying her curls. Her front was wet from Éowyn, her back was soaked by her hair. 

“The Houses. I finished the book Faramir gave me.”

Lothíriel smiled. She helped Éowyn into her clean clothes. Helped her slip her shoes back on, “And?”

“When I am healed, can I remain?” 

Lothíriel wouldn’t be there. She wouldn’t get to decide. Still… “While the men are at battle, Faramir holds the Stewardship. He will allow it. You can remain as long as you wish.” Éowyn nodded and came to standing. She needed less help to walk back, she only leaned heavier as they managed the the stairs. Lothíriel left her at her bed and came back with another book. She handed it to Éowyn, “You should know the ailments of your people. Especially if you have the plants to heal them. I’ll be back.”

She cleaned the bath house, then back to her rooms for dry clothes. She bound her hair up and then slid down the wall. She sat there for a minute. Then another. Then she rallied her strength and walked back out. 

When Éomer return to the Houses of Healing it was getting late and he had been drinking. Pippin followed closely behind him. Elfhelm carried a cask of ale and Ceorl brought another and three of their men held wine bottles. Faramir soon joined them and Merry. Éowyn accepted a small mug of the ale. They were quiet enough but no one was sleeping. It didn’t take long for those who could take cups to have them filled. The appearance of his cousin made Faramir stop and the men around him paused. Pippin turned to Merry as if to say ‘Now we’re in trouble.’ Pippin had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing and Merry hit him, told him to shut up. More than one person looked at her with pitiful eyes. 

“I don’t care what you do,” She relented, putting up her hands, “Just don’t bother anyone. “

“Get her a drink,” Amrothos barged through the door, disrupting everyone. Erchirion who was indistinguishable from his older brother followed more slowly behind. “She’ll have to enjoy herself eventually.”

“Get me a drink,” repeated Lothíriel dryly, her chin resting on her hand, “I’ll enjoy myself eventually.” Amrothos brought her a cup of wine. He kissed the top of her head then went back down to the group that gathered. She came down more sedately and her older brother knocked his head against hers in greeting.

Faramir leaned over to Éomer, “Are you ready for tomorrow?” 

Éomer took his cup and filled it to the brim, his own mug too, “As prepared as we can be. It’s too few men, but they’re good men.”

He could see Faramir wanted to go. His eyes looked past Éomer for a moment through the wall, at the line where Mordor’s light burned, day and night. Éomer handed Faramir his ale and the two sat in silence. He looked at Merry who gulped down a tankard. Éowyn sat beside him and laughed at his speed. She handed him a cloth to wipe the foam from his mouth when he finished, before he could ask for another. 

“Thank you. For your kindness to my sister,” he didn’t want her to hear. 

“Few of us can say we survived the Black Breath. We must lament our absence in this last march together,” Éomer knew all three of them would march tomorrow if they’d been granted permission. Faramir looked at Éowyn like she set the sun in the sky. He was disappointed but he found something else he cared for. 

Pippin talked animatedly to Lothíriel. He explained his immense height and told her the ent-draught caused it and assured her it was better than the ale Gondor had to offer, but it didn’t compare to the ale back in the Shire, his home. She told him he still looked very small to her and then he insisted that Merry stand too and they showed, with fingers that fell lower by the second, how tall a normal hobbit was. Lothíriel sipped her wine slowly and when she finished, Elfhelm refilled her cup. She remembered his amusement when she tried to fight Éomer but he nodded his regards and looked back at his cup. He was an older man. Quiet where the rest were loud. Temperate in his drink and tone and his Rohirric accent was very strong when he spoke Westron. He left their group early. Lothíriel started to think she should make the rest of them do the same but she didn’t want this to end so soon. 

She looked over her shoulder and caught Echirion’s eye, “Where is Elphir?”

“He is still awake with Father.”

“Hasn’t drunk a drop?”

“Perhaps a glass of wine. They’ll be there all night.” 

Lothíriel frowned but she chose to believe her father would visit her soon. She was meant to be up from the third bell, well before daybreak. He had a few hours to get to her. A rider tomorrow would be sent to make sure she did not delay. 

Amrothos wrapped an arm around her, she lay her head on his shoulder. Merry slept but Pippin was recounting something about Gimli, who Lothíriel did not know but the story was very funny, she had never met a dwarf. She did not realise the women had beards. The bell announced the last hour. She whispered to Elphirion, “He is not coming.” and wished them a good night. Amrothos stood to walk her to her room but she shook her head. The cool air would mend her. Half their group was asleep but the rest slowly came to their feet. Pippin slept by Merry, Éomer carried them to bed. Éowyn had gone to bed earlier and Faramir bid them goodnight. Lothíriel’s brothers took their leave with the men who didn’t drifted away already.

Éomer began the walk to his rooms. This time Lothíriel’s door was closed tight but he knocked anyway. She had three hours before she rode. He didn’t hear anything but he opened the door anyway. She sat against the wall, her legs bent in front of her. She looked to the wall opposite but didn’t seem to be seeing anything, then she glanced over to him and offered a quick flickering smile, “They do not have doors in Rohan?”

He stepped in without invitation, closed the door behind him. He slid down beside her, shoulder to shoulder. She leaned into him. They looked to the opposite wall together silence. The minutes ticked by. She wouldn’t sleep that night. He felt her start to drift into despair beside him and touched her hand to get her attention. 

“Tell me about my son.”

“Stop it,” she instinctively went to pull her hand away but she thought about tomorrow and then left it there. 

“How do you know he’s mine?” he barely slurred but she could tell the heaviness of the drink was in his mind and his body. 

“You’re there. You put him on a horse. The horse is so large and grey and old but the boy has no fear. He has a chain of silver around his neck-” she came to a hard stop. 

“What is it?” 

“That’s it. That’s all I saw. It’s a fraying tapestry. I miss things.” 

“Tell me the truth, I know what it looks like-” he was the one to stop now. He knew her face and how it changed when she lied. He knew her face. Well enough to remember it.

Lothíriel took this to be frustration and made herself certain, “Some things are not ready yet to be said. They are hazy, or on the wrong side of the tapestry.”

“You should let me decide," there was no edge behind his words, it sounded like trust, not anger. He wanted to say goodbye kindly.

She laughed, “You decide many things already. This is my domain. My battlefield. A foot soldier does not ask the Horselord why they attack from here, not there.” 

“You are not a Horselord.”

“You have not yet seen me ride a horse,” she looked away from the wall and he saw her grin. The first bell rang and she yawned. He pressed his shoulder against her, hard, then went to stand. She stayed down. Her eyes followed him to the door. It was utterly silent.

Finally she crawled over to her mat and looked at the ceiling, until the second bell struck. She must have drifted to some form of sleep because rough hands shook her awake. She hadn’t heard the third bell, did she miss it? 

Her father pulled her to her feet. He pushed her clothes into her hands. There was a grim set to his face but they were both very quiet as they half ran through the halls. The air outside was very cold even against her breeches and doublet. She wanted a cloak desperately but kept up with her father. She heard the third bell ring. 

Her horse was there and already packed. Her guard were moving quickly around her to finish buckling and setting their own weapons in position. Her sword was in a scabbard and her belt was pushed towards her. Her knife slipped into a strap against her leg. She left the ties undone so she could grab it faster. 

“Orcs were sighted heading west. It’s a raiding party. You must outrun them. Take the side roads.” Her father boosted her into the saddle. He pushed a map into her hands and pointed to the path where the Orcs were sighted and the track he wanted her to take. He marked three spots where they would find provisions and fresh mounts. He took off his cloak and clasped it around her. His hands held her shoulders for only a moment, “Ride hard Lothíriel, ride fast. Do not stop until you are inside the gates of Dol Amroth.”

She nodded and touched her hand to his. Then the touch was gone and she took her reins in her hands. Her heels spurred the horse forward and her guard fell in around her. The cobblestones made their progress slower than she wanted but she could not afford to injure her horse now. The moment they left the side gate and were on open field she pushed her heels hard into the flank of her horse, gave him his head and held on. 

Éomer had been walking the walls, he wanted his head clear and the cold air woke him up. A few of the men gathered together. The gates were open and a clatter drew their notice.  They tried to see who commanded it and who left with such urgency. Six figures shot out like dark arrows. Éomer didn’t recognize Lothíriel at first. The only thing that drew his eye was the white swan on the back of her cloak. 

She shifted back, drew her chest down until she was level with the gaze of the beast. She let the reins go slack in her hands and said something into the ear of her horse. The creature galloped hard, she streamed forward, the princess disappeared into the movement of her mount. Éomer watched after them until they disappeared into the trees. He let himself agree with her. She couldn’t fight but she could ride.