Chapter Text
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The pale hand felt cool to touch as Lothíriel settled it gently onto her patient's chest and then pulled the blanket carefully over her, covering her almost up to her chin. The woman's face was almost the colour of the pale linen she had been clothed in to begin with, the only bit of warmth on her skin being the faint glow from the candles on the table beside the bed. Though arranging for her to have her own room granted her privacy, it would also get a bit chilly during the night, which admittedly made Lothíriel worry a little. She would have liked for her to have a healthier colour on her face, but tried to focus on thinking that a feverish heat would've been even worse at this point. A sign that inflammation was setting into the woman's body despite all their efforts to treat her. But as her skin didn't feel clammy, nor did she seem to shiver from cold either, perhaps it was so that she was just naturally very fair. She was called The White Lady of Rohan after all, so at least it would be fitting.
How someone like her had ended up at Pelennor, Lothíriel didn't know. They had had no chance to ask, since she had been only barely conscious when she had first been brought in, and after the calming herbs and concoctions they had given her, deep asleep.
Peacefully, she hoped.
Though, flailing in blind terror wouldn't have been an unreasonable reaction, based on what she had heard of the events on the battlefield. It had been only a hasty and disjointed recital telling of the Rohirrim charge, mûmakils and fell beasts and the Witch-king of Angmar, but it had been quite enough for her to understand the depth of chaos that had reigned just outside the city walls. If everything that she had been told was true and not just a bunch of misplaced hearsay, it felt like a string of miracles that Lady Éowyn had survived. First the duel with the most terrifying of all the nazgûl, and then laying wounded and unconscious amidst the raging battle. And that after all that, when they had finally found her from the fields, her father had happened to notice that she was still alive and had her brought into the healing houses instead of placing her among the bodies of the dead.
"It is alright, my friend. You are safe now, so rest as long you need," she said softly to the sleeping figure, and in part to herself, leaned back on her seat and drew in a long breath, rolled her shoulders briefly and unfastened her hairtie, undid her messy braid and then began redoing it again. There wasn't anything more to do at that point, but she thought to keep her company for a little while longer before she would go to see the other patients, and so she might as well use a moment to tidy herself up a little.
The patients would hardly care much about how she looked while she was patching their wounds, but it made herself feel a little better. Cleaner.
"I'll help you with yours once you've woken up. We didn't want to bother you any more than we had to tonight," she chatted idly, fingers swiftly twisting the long, dark locks back into order as she gazed at Lady Éowyn's own hair that laid in a miserable, dirty braid against the pillow. She had patted it with a damp cloth to get the blood and mud stains off to the best she could, though that hadn't done terribly much, but they couldn't bathe her properly yet, either. She was too weak, and they didn't really have the time for such frivolities like washing patient's hair at the moment. So that had had to do for now.
Tying the silken ribbon back in place at the end of her braid, Lothíriel stood up and moved to blow out the candles.
"I'll leave the lantern burning. Someone will come to check on you every now and then, so they'll have some light. And you don't need to be totally in the dark, either," she said reassuringly to the sleeping woman, thinking that she would've probably liked that, had she been aware of any of the things she was saying.
The sound of the door opening interrupted her before she had had time to snuff out any of the candles, and the small flames swayed lightly with the air of her movement as she turned around to see the comer.
A tall, broad figure of a man had appeared at the doorway, halting in place barely half a step into the room. His fair looks and the style of his intricate armour revealed him at a glance to be a man of Rohan, and she was now less surprised to see him seeking Lady Éowyn. There had to be many who were worried and curious about her condition after the story of what had happened would spread among the people. But the man himself seemed confused, as if he had accidentally wandered intoa wrong room. Or perhaps he had expected her to be alone and was just startled to see someone else there.
”Can I be of help to you, my lord?” she inquired softly after a moment when the man just kept lingering by the door in silence asif he’d been frozen in place, urging him to explain his presence in some way.
”I came to see my sister. Prince Imrahil told me that - …that she is alive,” the man replied then, his words slow and somehow hollow, as if speaking was some strange, long-forgotten skill that required him conscious effort.
A quiet, startled gasp left Lothíriel's lips as she realized who the man was.
”Lord Éomer." She hurried to him with quiet steps and bowed her head a little in a brief greeting, though he didn’t seem to pay attention to it. ”Your sister is sleeping now, my lord. She has some cuts and bruises and an injury to her arm, but she will heal,” she reassured. The man looked like he needed a bit of good news, so she decided that talking in depth about her condition, the Black Breath and everything else, could wait for later. She would live, and for now that was enough. ”You may come sit with her, if you wish. I was just about to leave, so you aren’t interrupting anything,” she offered, gesturing towards the chair where she herself had been sitting amoment ago.
”If she is asleep…” he muttered hesitantly, worried that he might disturb her rest, suddenly seeming almost scared to step closer.
”I doubt she’ll wake anytime soon, we’ve given her some herbs to ease her sleep, but I'm sure she’d be only happy to have her brother keep her company. A familiar face is the greatest comfort, if she does happen to wake up,” Lothíriel continued her persuasion, gazing at the man with assessive eyes. It wasn’t hard to tell that the Marshal - the King? - had been running on little more but plain determination for days, and she would prefer to have him sit down before the inevitable wall of exhaustion would hit him. Dragging a man of his size in full armour up from the floor would be beyond her abilities if he happened to collapse, despite that by that point in the war she had already grown quite accustomed with maneuvering patients around, even unconscious ones. ”Sit with her for a while, my lord. It won’t be a bother,” she suggested again, though this time gesturing at the wooden bench by the wall, just a couple steps to the side from the door.
This time the man took her offer and sank down to his seat, accompanied with the clinking of metal and creaking of leather of his gear, stared at the blanket-covered figure of his sister in helpless silence for a while, and then leaned his face into his palms with a long, trembling breath.
”I thought she was dead,” he spoke then in a choked, pained whisper, stopping to swallow in an attempt to steady his voice before continuing. ”I saw her laying in the field next to that damned beast and thought that she was dead, until we arrived here.”
Lothíriel’s eyes grew wide at his words.
”You heard of her only now?” A horrified gasp slipped from her lips as she imagined the kind of agony the man had been in. As if there wasn’t more than enough sorrow and torment even without such a terrible mistake. Even she herself had been tending to her already hours ago, and bringing her to the Houses had to have taken some time in the first place. ”I’m so, so sorry, my lord. I don’t understand why father didn’t send you a word right away. He must’ve gotten distracted by all the chaos and didn’t realize…” she hurried to say and crouched down before him, touching his knee lightly in a both apologizing and consoling gesture.
In the madness of the day it probably wasn’t that unbelievable that a message would end up unsent without anyone noticing, but it didn’t make the mistake feel any less horrible.
”You are Imrahil’s daughter?” the man asked in a thick voice, letting his other hand fall from his face and looked at her searchingly, as if to seek similarities between her and the Prince of Dol Amroth. Or perhaps he was just surprised that she wasn’t only some average servant maid from the city, like he may have assumed.
”Yes. Lothíriel, my lord,” she replied and inclined her head a little, to add at least a hint of proper formality into introducing herself.
”Ah, I should’ve realized.”
Lothíriel responded with a small confused smile, wondering why a Rohirrim lord would think he should know or care about who she was, since they had never met in person, and especially since she didn’t exactly bear a striking resemblance to her father, who was the epitome of the pale and stern men of Gondor. Maybe it had been just an absent minded, passing thought, as the rohanian’s attention seemed to have already wandered back to his sister. Suddenly his eyes were gleaming with tears again, like another wave of sadness had washed over him after a brief calm.
”I have to tell her about uncle. She doesn’t know yet …I think.”
”No, I don’t think she does, my lord. She hasn’t been awake much, but I got the impression that she wasn’t aware,” Lothíriel agreed gently and took his hand between her own, as if she was trying to warm someone suffering from cold fingers. In normal times it would've been way too daring and overly familiar to do so, but she was truly starting to worry that the man was at the brink of breaking down. ”But it can wait a little. Let her rest first,” she continued, stroking her thumb over the back of his large hand in hopes of offering him some comfort, or at least anchoring his agitated mind onto something. ”I’m so sorry about King Théoden,” she said quietly, giving him a somber smile. The man responded with a choked noise, but then was silent for a moment.
”Has she said anything? About …Why..?” he spoke again, but his voice quickly faltered back into a whisper-thin sob. ”She wasn’t even supposed to be there,” he muttered, blinking quickly before covering his face again with his free hand. ”She was supposed to stay back.”
”We were more focused on her injuries rather than the reasons behind her actions, so…” Lothíriel said apologetically. For them it was more important to know how and if they could treat their patients, at least in the immediate moment they were brought in their care, so she didn’t really have the answers the man was longing for. ”Apparently the hobbit Meriadoc was with her during the battle and your ride here before that, so maybe he can – ”
”He was?” Éomer drew a sharp breath like he had been surprised to hear that name and straightened in his seat, as if about to go and find the hobbit in question right away.
” – so maybe he can tell you more. Later."
"The halfling is an esquire of Rohan, so I would like to - "
"Later, my lord. As for now he is sleeping, the same as your sister, recovering from his own injuries,” Lothíriel stopped him, as gently but firmly as she could and squeezed his hand a little harder, silently advising him to stay put. ”But by then you’ll likely already be able to speak with your sister anyway,” she added in a more encouraging tone, hoping to keep him from slipping back into the darkest pit of his distress. ”For now, all there is to do is wait.”
He responded with a quiet grumble, a sign of reluctant agreement, and with another deep sigh leaving his lips he fell silent again, worried eyes fixing onto the sleeping woman on the bed. Like a fire that had been invigorated by a sudden gust of wind, but was already dimming down again.
Lothíriel gazed at him a little warily, as if at some half-tame animal one couldn’t completely trust, still trying to predict when and in what form the inevitable breakdown would come. For some it took much longer than others, but it always came, once the mad rush of battle simmered down and all that had happened truly started to sink into one's mind. Some would wail and cry, shake and even tear at their clothing and hair in their distress, some would turn to violent rage, and some others would go completely numb to everything around them, as if frozen still by the horrors filling their thoughts.
If it would be anger, she would have to call for the guards, and then the Warden to come give him something calming. But in other cases she could stay with him, or leave him be, whichever would seem more fruitful, and hope that he would eventually find some peace of mind.
”Have you gotten any rest yourself, my lord? Have you eaten anything?” she inquired after a short silence. She knew that the man surely hadn’t gotten any actual sleep for a day or a few, but was cautiously hoping that he might've at least had time to sit down for a while and have some food since entering the City.
The look in his dark eyes gave away that the answer to both of her questions would be no, though he gallantly tried to come up with some excuse to downplay the need for concern. She had seen the same expression on her brothers’ faces enough times to easily recognize an attempt to put up a nonchalant front, though in much less serious circumstances.
She let go of his hand and stood up, feeling her legs tingling from crouching down for so long, dug her hand inside the pocket in her skirts and pulled a small bundle out of it.
”Please,”she offered, unwrapping the cloth around about a half of a somewhat small and flat loaf of bread she’d been sparing for later and moved her hand closer to the man. "Eat."
He stared at her offering, clearly reluctant to accept it.
”And what are you going to eat if I have this, my lady?” he asked then, looking up at her face with a doubting look in his eyes, but in the end lifted his hand and took the bread, not knowing how he could’ve politely refused it either.
”I can find more.”
”Because you’ve all just been happily baking bread in here all this time,” he noted in a dry, tired hum, pointing out that he knew how likely it would be that she’d go without food at least until morning if he took the loaf.
"Preparing food is the last thing to go," she replied with a faint smile. Though there was little happiness to the task these days, people needed to eat even during a war. But of course the man knew that. He just didn't seem to apply that knowledge to himself.
They had prepared for the battle to the best they could – to some extent, MinasTirith was always prepared – trying to store as much of everything in case the attack would turn into a long siege. But at the moment, no one knew for sure how much had been lost and ruined during the battle. There had been fires and collapses all over the lower levels, dead people and beasts lying everywhere. And now there was also the added strain of needing to feed their allies who would stay in the City. It was clear that all the food would be strictly rationed for the time being, and very few could say that they knew when they’d get their next meal. There would be no second rounds for someone who handed away their own share, even if people might feel more sympathy towards her, a princess and a healer, than many others.
The way Lord Éomer stared at her told that he was well aware of that, too.
”I have my stashes,” she assured again. She didn't care to elaborate that the small pouch of nuts and bit of dried fruit she was thinking of, currently carefully stored away in the drawer in her own chambers, was rather just a handful of treats. A sweet memory from happier days that she had used sparingly to cheer herself up, not really anything to keep hunger away. ”Please, eat,” she urged again and stepped away before the man could think of pushing the bread back into her hands, moving to pour him a cup of water. It was there waiting for Lady Éowyn, but she probably wouldn’t mind sharing with her brother.
Lord Éomer was staring at him with the reluctant look still lingering in his eyes, the piece of bread still untouched in his grasp. The thought of eating while leaving a lady to go hungry seemed to really rub the wrong way at his sense of propriety.
Lothíriel smiled a little at his resistance. It was showing that the man had been a king only for some hours, as he would've been well within his rights to demand to have the bread. It didn't seem like he had been a person who expected others to serve him even before his abrupt rise in rank, either.
”My lord, I don’t mean to be rude, but it wasn’t a request,” she clarified, placing the cup of water on the bench next to him, straightened up again and folded her hands together against her apron, trying to exude patient but firm authority with her presence to the best she could. She had stared reluctant soldiers down into co-operation before, but never someone of his rank as her opponent. ”I am a healer in this house, and thus you are under my care while you are here. And I would see you eat that before I leave.”
The man stared at her for a little longer, but then let out a surrendering sigh, seeming to give up on his resistance.
”Sit with me at least. I do not like people staring at me while I eat,” he asked then and tore the bread in half in his hands, in turn offering the other piece to her.
”As you wish, my lord,” she accepted with a brief smile and nodded politely, considering it a reasonable bargain if it would get him to eat something. Though she didn’t believe at all that a Rohirrim lord would truly care if someone watched over him having a meal.
She could see from the way he held his hands that he was secretly trying to make her pick the bigger piece of the loaf, conveniently lifting it just slightly closer to her. She reached to take the smaller one, as if completely oblivious to the wordless attempt at chivalry and sat down on the bench, unable to help a tired sigh from leaving her lips before she bit into her humble meal.
”And when will you rest, then?” the rohanian questioned, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as he soaked the dry bread in the cup and chewed the softened crust off of it.
”I’m afraid that this is my rest, my lord,” she replied with a small wave of hand around the room. Looking after the patients who had already been treated and comfortable enough to sleep calmly was almost a leisure, compared to the blood and gore and desperate hurry to fix broken bodies that was definitely still going on elsewhere in the Houses. ”It’ll get easier by the morning. Those who have made it that far will likely recover, and others …will have succumbed to their injuries by then,” she trailed off, remembering that she wasn’t speaking with a fellow healer who would be used to such blunt statements and focused on nibbling her bread, deciding that that wasn’t a good topic to talk about with the man when he had just managed to calm a little.
”The battle just doesn’t end. Only changes form,” he let out a long, grim sigh.
”One could say so, my lord,” she replied. ”…Is it true that there will be another battle?” she continued after a short pause, knowing that she really should’ve steered the discussion towards some softer, cheerier matters. But she wanted to know what the truth behind the rumors was and knew that he as the leader of the Rohirrim would be aware of any such plans. And maybe focusing on the coming days would be at least slightly easier for him, instead of dwelling in the horrors of the day.
She was half-expecting the man to avert her question, as men often were almost absurdly shocked when they heard a lady talk about war and death and suffering, even a healer. Even a daughter of a Captain and a sister to three brothers in the military. But with a sister like Lady Éowyn, someone who had fought and slain the Witch-king, surely Lord Éomer couldn’t be that unfamiliar with talking to a woman about such matters.
And indeed he did respond, after a moment of silent consideration.
”Aye,” he confirmed somberly. ”Nothing concrete has been decided yet. But regardless of the details, this will be just a short respite.”
”I see,” Lothíriel sighed, feeling her heart sink as she got confirmation for what she had been dreading. ”I saw it from my father’s face. I know the look in his eyes when he is preparing for battle.”
He gazed at her for a moment, but then went back to eating his bread with a brief hum.
"At least it will be away from here, most likely."
"Hm?"
"The battle. We'll try to lure the enemy into another fight before they have time to recoup properly, but we do not want to bring them back here. So that, if nothing else, the city still has some chance to evacuate."
"Ah. That is good," she replied politely.
Like standing up to your ears in rising water was good, in comparison to being completely underwater. There would be no true safety for any living being if the Dark Lord's forces would go undefeated.
Their conversation trailed into silence, and for a while they just sat on the bench, lost in their own thoughts.
Or, at least he seemed to be. She was mostly just observing him from the corner of her eye, trying to figure out whether his quietness was a sign of him calming down or falling into some dark abyss of his mind. But it was very hard to tell about him, with all that beard and hair. And especially when she was trying to be discreet about staring at him. A sliver of tanned cheek and temple didn't tell her much, other than that he had spent a lot of time outdoors, and also that he wasn't actively bleeding to death.
So nothing she hadn't already known at a glance when he had first stepped into the room.
"Are you alright, my lord? I mean, you weren't injured in the battle? I didn't even ask," she blurted out then, realizing that even though the man clearly wasn't mortally wounded, he might still have some lesser injuries that would need tending. Which would be her responsibility.
"Nay, my lady. Just some bruises and scratches, nothing serious," he reassured, seeming a little startled by hearing her suddenly speak again.
"You swear? It won't do you any good to hide it if you are hurt, and I assure that it isn't a bother for me. It literally is why I am here."
"Aye, you don't need to worry about me. A wash and some rest is all I need, and others are already seeing to that," he said. She was pleased to see a hint of a smile wavering on his face for a moment, even though it had to be just a polite gesture. But regardless, it was still an improvement to his mood that he had energy to care about manners.
"Well, then, I think I dare to leave you alone, my lord. I have a few more patients to see," she concluded and stood up, wrapping the rest of her bread in the cloth and shoving it back into her pocket. She had already tarried quite enough. "If you promise that you will go and get some rest soon," she added with a small smile and leaned to grasp his hand lightly. As a farewell, but also in hopes of coaxing him to take her demand more seriously.
"Will you then promise the same?" he replied, staring back at her like he already knew that she wouldn't be getting anywhere near her own bed anytime soon.
"I shall try," she still agreed, though a little guiltily.
"Then I shall try, too," he agreed with a solemn hum. "Please do relay my gratitude to your father for helping my sister, if you see him. I'm ...not sure that I had my wits about me to really thank him before I left."
"I'm sure that my father understands. But I shall tell him," she promised and squeezed his hand a little.
Besides, if he had really forgotten to send the message about Lady Éowyn, it might actually be his father who ought to apologize to him, if anyone. But he would never think badly of someone not being perfectly polished in their actions after such shocking news.
”And- ...my condolences about your uncle, too,” he said then, now with a sympathetic look in his eyes. ”I heard from your father.”
Lothíriel struggled a little to keep her smile unchanged on her face, and she hoped that the man didn't think anything about the surprised twitch of her hand, though he had to have felt it.
”Thank you, my lord,” she replied politely, feeling her expression to be awfully tense and her voice strangely flat, but hoped that that too was just a feeling and not something actually noticeable.
Maybe with some time she would feel true sadness over the Steward's demise. But for now, all she felt was mostly just anger and horror.
”How is your cousin? Lord Faramir?”
At that her face tensed even more, though for a different reason now, and she had to blink her eyes briefly to hold back the prickling tears. That matter pained her much worse, even though rationally thinking Faramir was the one they hadn't actually lost.
”He will recover,” she replied shortly, forcing her voice to remain steady. ”I shall go see him in a little while.”
”That is good to hear,” the man replied, smiling back somberly. "I shall go offer him my condolences in person, if I get the chance, but tell him that I wish for him to have a speedy recovery."
"I shall do that, too," she promised, and he nodded silently. The way he squeezed her hand told her that he had definitely noticed her sadness.
She was thankful for the consolation, but was also thankful that he didn't say anything. She probably wouldn't have been able to hold her own composure if he had.
"Good night then, my lord," she said, squeezing his hand in turn a little tighter before she stepped back, curtsied briefly, and quietly left the room.
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