Work Text:
A fever had come unlooked-for to the White City, and though it was not one of much peril, still the healers found themselves with much work and little rest; and among these was Éowyn.
The beds of the Houses of Healing seemed to dim before her eyes; but surely it was nothing more than weariness. Éowyn continued to labour, fetching herbs and speaking softly to the ill, though she felt a new ache in her head, and with it the withheld desire for rest.
Someone touched her shoulder, and she turned, thinking it one of the other healers. But it was not so.
“Éowyn,” said Faramir gently.
She wavered as she turned to face him, feeling a sudden chill deep within her. “Why have you come here? There are many ill,” she said vaguely.
“I do not doubt that there are many ill,” replied Faramir; “and you, I think, are among them.”
“I am not—” But Éowyn stopped; for that would indeed give a reason for the chill, and the aches, and the dimming of her vision.
Faramir took her hand. “There are many others here who will tend the sick, Éowyn. Come home, and allow me to tend you.”