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A short trip with a surveying party to the Southeastern most edge of Ithilien was what you had told her. “No battle, no bloodshed, nothing like the old days. Just establishing where else we may graze our livestock,” was your promise. That promise had sounded reasonable. Few battles, if any, took place anymore. The last orc or warg sighting had been several years ago. Eleven years of peace made the years of constant war feel like a nightmare that existed only at the very edges of one’s memory once they woke. The memories of you riding out with Éomer faded from Éowyn’s mind more with each day, and with them so did the fear.
For the children of Ithilien, those years existed only in tales and legends. They were stories of heroes and valor most often told to memorialize the fallen members of their family. Battle and its carnage was not a sight with which the young had any familiarity these days. Those who had lived through it were too young at the time to remember it now.
A cool spring breeze carried shouts and commotion through the open window in Éowyn’s store room, which stood atop a hill overlooking the city's main entrance. A loud shout went up - that of a panicked teenager - followed by “Healer! Grab a healer!” screamed by a young boy. There was a panic in the voices that set her nerves on edge. Calls for a healer were common enough, but even the most squeamish young lads didn’t scream like that for farming injuries, which could be exceptionally gruesome. There was fear in that shrill scream, fear of something worse than blood, guts, and bone. That scream sounded like boys facing a threat out of fireside tales, one which was not supposed to exist anymore. The glass bottle Éowyn had been labeling clattered to the counter, rolled off the edge, and shattered on the stone floor. By the time it hit the floor, Éowyn was already through the door. She never heard the crash.
The sight of your horse, struggling and faltering on the gravel path under the weight of your slumped form brought Éowyn up short just outside her store room and watched the slow procession of bloodied forms march into the city. Her sudden stop made the very same gravel making your horse’s progress treacherous shift beneath her and nearly send her sprawling. Rivulets of dark red blood ran down your arms, bare where your sleeves should be. A rip down the side of your shirt showed hastily made, saturated bandages wrapped around your midsection. The scream ripped from her lungs unbidden failed to rouse you, failed to make you look in her direction, and Éowyn felt bile rise in her throat. Your promise played on repeat in her mind, yet the evidence of its falsehood lay before her.
Her legs carried her to your side without any conscious thought. She knelt beside you as you were placed on the ground. Your blood began to soak the earth beneath you. Éowyn had long since become used to the sight of blood. None were spared such sights during her youth - be it because of tending livestock or from returning warriors. Then, as Durnhelm, she saw the brutality of war firsthand. Serving as the head healer of Ithilien had quickly disabused her of any lingering discomfort at the sight of red blossoming across clothing. However, battle was no longer meant to be a part of her life. Venturing to the outer bounds of Gondor’s territories should not result in bloodshed, yet your surveying party returned several members short. In theory, you - and thereby she - were one of the lucky ones. You were alive. The thought was cold comfort to Éowyn, as cold as your fingers in her hand, as she took in the state of you up close.
You looked no better up close than from afar. If anything, you looked worse. From here she could see the ashen gray hue of your skin. From afar you had only looked pale. From here she could see how your breaths came in shallow puffs. From afar she could only tell you were breathing quickly. Each item of her assessment made the blood run colder in her veins. “To the infirmary. Now.” The words sounded distant. As though they were spoken by another, yet they could only have been spoken by her. Éowyn moved mechanically towards her supply room to gather all that she would need to heal the kinds of wounds she intended, and failed, to sustain eleven years ago on the one person she prayed she would never have to do so. She walked by the shattered bottle, which had seemed so important before, without a second glance.
How cruel the fates were to always inflict such wounds on those she intended to protect. She only hoped she could do more as a healer than a soldier to save the one who mattered most. With trembling hands, she laid out her instruments and poultices. Her bandages and ointments. And then you were placed before her. Covered in blood and staring blankly ahead, unseeing and unknowing. Blessedly, still breathing.
Her commands came sharp and clear. As unthinking and automatic as a soldier’s swordstrokes. Each was carried out with the obedience of infantrymen heeding the word of a General. Éowyn did not know who did her bidding. She did not know if they were her assistants or the nameless and faceless citizens who bore you to her. It mattered little. There would be time for thanks and recognition when all else was done. When she had succeeded or failed. Failure felt most likely.
The wounds slashed down your sides and ran deep. You wore little armor - nothing more than a leather jerkin over your cotton shirt and leather gauntlets on your arms - for none wore mail in these days of peace. Whatever blade pierced you did so with deadly accuracy. The blood soaked earth caked onto your breeches bordering the red stains upon them, coupled with the sticky, deep red bandages wrapped around your abdomen told the tale of great blood loss before the bindings were applied. Many things Éowyn could do, but putting blood back in a body was not one of them.
What felt like hours, but what was in truth no more than thirty minutes later, Éowyn stepped back from your side with a world weary sigh. Unthinkingly, she pushed loose hairs from her face, which smeared your blood across her cheek; her fingers painted stripes across the strands of her golden hair she had moved aside. None said anything, and she did not notice. “That is all that can be done. Now, all we can do is wait. Only time will tell - ” Éowyn fell silent. Her hands began to tremble, and for the first time since she screamed on the hill, her composure broke. “- if my love shall live. Leave me now,” she continued in a whisper that hung in the air.