I had learned to fight, but I had also learned to heal. The tight grip of the sword, the hard stroke of a swing, the anger inside that poured itself through my body…all of who I was seemed unfitting for hands that needed to heal. I soon learned that healing had nothing to do with the hands; the hands were simply the instrument of the knowledge I had learned.

I would never tell them the immense power that coursed through my body when I laid my hands on the sick, or the pricking of my fingers as I brushed them against gushing wounds. I had nothing to hide, but I knew how the world looked on things that were unexplainable or different. I decided to let them think it was my knowledge of herbs that brought the wounded "back from the dead."

I had never healed more than a few severely wounded at a time. I now looked over the balcony toward Pelennor Fields; bodies were strewn across the battlefield and were being picked over and brought inside. I wondered where the men would be brought; the Houses of Healing could hold no more. All the beds were moved out to accommodate more soldiers. Now, every inch seemed to be covered with bloody, broken bodies. When I retired at night to my bed, I often wondered how uncomfortable sleeping on the floor would be, with only straw to support my aching body. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, pushing the depressing thoughts from my mind. My soul already felt overwhelmed with grief, and I needed to focus or I wouldn't be able to heal those who needed me. I tucked a few loose strands back into my hair and turned to walk inside.

I placed my fingers in a bowl of water and caressed the face of a man who was sweating feverishly: A sword wound had barely missed his heart. I crunched a few leaves, which emitted a spicy aroma, and settled them into his wound. I whispered in his ear to relax. The creases in his forehead disappeared, but his body was still tense.

"Have a rest," the soft spoken voice of the elderly man who tended to the linen cleaning came from behind. It was distracting, and I tried to focus my attentions back on the wounded body before me. I closed my eyes and placed my hands on his wound. I thought of his pain until it became my own, then I placed one hand over my chest and the other on his. I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing…

"Child, will you not take a rest-"

"No!" came a rough voice. I opened my eyes, confused that the voice had come from me. I looked over my shoulder at the elderly man bending over his cane. "I apologize," I said, bending slightly into a bow. "I am troubled and weary."

When I stood up, I saw that the old man was smiling. "Do not apologize. I find working here as difficult as fighting on the battlefield. But listen at me, I'm just an old man who scrubs the linens." He chuckled to himself and picked up a bundle of dirty bandages and blankets that had been thrown in the corner for cleaning. "There are other healers and, my lady, you do look exhausted. Why not let the others take over? They wish to help but cannot be admitted until others leave."

So many bodies needed tended to, and yet because of the overcrowded compartment only a few were allowed in at a time. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and dripped more water on the forehead of the man I was tending. I had been asked so many times to be relieved so that others may take over. I knew my exhaustion was making me slow – but they do not understand that the soldiers need me. The other healers will be helping to only relieve pain or stop further infection; they will not be healing the soldiers.

"I will leave as soon as I finish tending this man."

The man walked out quickly, leaving me to assume that he must have been sent in here, like the countless others, by the other healers to relieve me of my duty. After I finished healing the soldier-not just his wound, but his broken spirit and mind-I slowly raised up. I picked up the herbs and placed them accordingly into my bag. When the door opened, I began to raise my herbs in surrender to signal I was leaving. However, a man was urgently being carried inside – accompanied by a few worried faces. The men stayed at the door unsure where to step to make it over to the fallen man who was being settled near me.

"Do not worry, my lady. The Lord Aragorn will tend this man." As the man finished his sentence, Aragorn pushed through the doors urgently. I wondered why he had not taken the time to clean and prepare himself before tending to the wounded, then I recalled my own appearance. His arms were smeared with dirt and his shirt was stained with blood. He hastily walked over to the man who had been brought in and asked for a number of herbs. I tossed my bag over to him, and when he looked up his face seemed to change. "My lady," he said tilting his head slightly foreword.

My heart was cold and hollow as I stood watching Aragorn tend to the soldier. I do not know if it was my exhaustion, or the feelings of injustice for the countless men I had tended who had to suffer unbearable pain, or a mix of both. Aragorn had left me hopeless and desolate. Moreover, he left me weak. With the broken pieces he had shattered from leaving me crying and in pain, I rebuilt myself into something strong. Here, the soldiers needed me. With the ability to heal, I had a purpose in life. And I would continue becoming stronger.

"Who is this man?" I asked with a tone that must have been as icy as I felt, for everyone stood silently. After a minute, one of the men standing at the door cleared his throat. "It is the steward of Gondor, my lord Faramir."

"You heal but royalty, my lord?" I turned my eyes back to Aragorn.

There was silence for a minute.

"I heal others," said Aragorn quietly.

I imagine Aragorn must have thought I was instigating a fight because of the anger I fostered from his rejection. I was not really sure why I felt so angry. I restrained myself, however, and walked outside. I asked the men standing at the gate to leave because the compartment was too crowded and the wounded needed air.

I sat down on some steps not far from the Houses of Healing. I breathed deeply the cold night air. It felt refreshing in my lungs and against my skin. I do not know how long I sat there looking at the moon, too tired to move, but I was stirred by a voice that sent my heart racing.

"I was searching for you." The voice belonged to Aragorn. It was quiet and soft as if he were still talking to one of the wounded. I felt tired, but my voice came out strong. I would not be pitied.

"Yes?" I said, looking up.

He seemed to avert my gaze. Looking at the trees from beyond the ledge he asked, "I hear you haven't slept for a few days. What ails you?"

"You wish to cure me?" I asked in disbelief.

"I wish to listen," he said simply.

"Do not trouble yourself. I can sleep, but I have not only because my duty requires that I heal all I can. Should I let them die, so I can take a rest?"

"But there are other healers," said Aragorn taking a seat next to me on the step.

"Yes," I said unsure how to phrase my response. I did not want to seem arrogant. I could tell from the looks of the other healers that they fancied I imagined myself the best healer. I decided to remain silent.

After a few moments, he stood up and walked away.

...

I was pained to see the defeat in her eyes. She seemed but a ghost now, a white entity, walking between worlds feeling a death and sadness in the air that no one else could see. I wanted to help her, but she would not let me in. I do not think she will ever let me in again.

I was surprised at how energized I became after a bath and a fresh change of clothes. I had been thinking of Eowyn's words: "Do you heal but royalty, my lord?" the voice reverberated in my head and struck my heart. Do I heal only royalty? I was always called on to heal the important. I had never been called on to heal any others. Were the royalty more important? Or did they think I needn't be interrupted unless royalty were dying? I felt a sad at the truthfulness of her words. I felt shameful about my priorities. I had seen the compartment full of wounded and yet retired after I had healed Faramir.

...

I walked to the Houses of Healing to check in on Faramir. I knew I would be healing more. I was not driven by guilt, but a sudden urge to help the men who had wives, children, and many years to live; men who needn't be saved just for having royal blood.

I do not know how long I slept. I quickly dressed in my lightest gown. I knew the compartments were hot, so I clipped my hair back. When I approached the Houses of Healing, I began rolling up my sleeves, ready to face the oncoming heat.

It was early morning, so I did not expect many to be attending the sick. Usually, healers leave to let the sick rest through the night and return in the morning. I was surprised to see Aragorn bent over a man, speaking softly to him. I walked past him and looked over the sleeping bodies for anyone that needed tended to. They all seemed to be sleeping, and I did not wish to disturb any. I felt odd standing in the middle of the floor with nothing to do. Aragorn must have noticed my hesitation.

"I have taken care of those who were awake," he said quietly, standing up. "My lady, your arm," he said nodding toward me.

I look down at the bloody bandage on my arm. I had not changed the bandages of my wound made by Witch-King since I was dismissed from the Houses of Healing.

"Allow me," he said picking up a few bottle and bandages. I followed him outside.

We sat on a bench, and I offered my arm to him. "Amongst all your concern for others, you haven't tended to yourself."

I felt unsure how to speak with him. The only thing I felt for Aragorn was coldness. I had built a stone wall between me and him. My words always came out hollow and indignant. Now, as he took my arm gently and began smoothing ointment on my wound, I could not bring myself to be harsh. I wanted to look away, but I did not want him to think I resented his refusal to be with me. I wanted him to know I was stronger than that—and that I no longer hoped for a dream he had once crushed.

"Yes, I have been busy."

Aragorn nodded his head. "You have healed more than any other healer. I never knew your knowledge in herbs was so extensive." When he finished, he placed my arm on my lap.

"What use am I when all the men are off to war? I study night and day when so that I may put use to these hands."

A woman quickly burst through the door with a worried expression on her face. "My lord, Aragorn…it's Faramir…he's…he's just past on." She bowed her head.

Aragorn quickly stood up and walked into the Houses of Healing. I did not know Faramir, except that he had a wound similar to mine; it was his spirit that needed healing as well as his body. Aragorn saw the stillness of Faramir's body and fell to his knees in defeat. Aragorn placed his hand over Faramir's heart and sigh heavily.

"He was groaning. I tried to help and he went still…" the trembling voice of the healer came from outside the door. She had not moved. I wondered if this was her first experience with death.

"My lord," I said with a determination in my voice. "May I?"

Aragorn stood up and I knew I hadn't much time. I pulled a few leaves from my herb bag, placed them across Faramir's forehead and pressed on them. With another hand on Faramir's pierced shoulder, I closed my eyes and focused. Despite the heat in the room, I felt a shiver run down my spine. Warm tears dropped freely down my cheeks and my breathing became ragged. I had to focus and set my resolve to not fail: I knew I was feeling Faramir's pain and now that I felt it, I tried to heal it. I pushed the darkness away and focused on the light. I was only interrupted when a deep gasp brought me out of my reverie. I opened my eyes to see Faramir's chest rise and fall heavily. I knew he would need constant healing or he would suffer the fate he had experienced only moments ago. Right now, I had to focus on the physical infliction.

"He needs new bandages," I said. I noticed the woman was beside me now, and she quickly bent down to tend Faramir. "Steam this in hot water and make him drink."

I tried to raise myself, but Aragorn offered his hand. I placed mine shakily in his, and he lifted me up. I felt weary from Faramir's pain, which had been more intense than any I had felt. I looked up and blinked away my tears. I saw Aragorn's shocked face, his mouth slightly open in astonishment.

"Eowyn…"