Imrahil's Daughters

Prologue

Minas Tirith, 15th March, 3019

He reeked of death. Éomer pushed open a window and stared out into the night. Below him, campfires dotted the Pelennor, mirroring the star-strewn sky above him. Acrid smoke hung in the air and the sickly sweet smell of carrion filled his nose. From below or from his clothes? He wondered if he would ever get rid of the stink. The harsh cawing of crows carried up from the battlefield, for not even the darkness put the birds off their feast.

Éomer was beyond exhaustion, yet he did not think he would be able to sleep. He cast a look over his shoulder. The old woman – Ioreth – who sat beside Éowyn's bed, watching over her, gave him a reassuring smile. At least Éowyn had finally slipped into much needed slumber and he felt confident about leaving her in good hands here at the Houses of Healing. Now he just had to wait for Prince Imrahil to find him a room in the Citadel, as he had promised earlier on.

Yet though he was bone weary, he could not calm his thoughts. Like the waters of a stream swollen with snowmelt, they churned through his mind. He could not shake the picture of Éowyn's still face as she lay amongst the trampled grass. Of the mad charge that had followed, only fragments remained in his mind: the rising sun glinting on a curved blade, a young Haradrim, his eyes wide with terror, blood flecking Firefoot's coat. Éomer shook his head. His mind had not become clear again until the black ships had sailed up the river.

And now his uncle lay in state in the Citadel and he was King of the Mark. The last one? Éomer sighed and turned his back on the view below. Time to find the Prince of Dol Amroth and take him up on his offer. Tomorrow would bring many decisions and he needed to get what rest he could.

After a last lingering glance at his sister's slumbering form and a nod to Ioreth, Éomer left the room and softly closed the door behind him, finding the hallway deserted and only lit by a few struggling lamps. It felt as if he was the only person left awake and the whole Houses of Healing had succumbed to the sleep of exhaustion. Now where had Prince Imrahil disappeared to?

Choosing the general direction of the exit, he walked along the corridor and turned a corner. Suddenly a muffled noise reached his ears. Éomer paused. Was that somebody crying? Yet the rooms on both sides all had their doors closed. He shrugged: probably a patient waking from a nightmare, hardly surprising after the events of the past day.

The sound came again. And then he noticed that one door stood slightly ajar. It was so small that he had taken it for a cupboard door, but when he took a step closer he definitely heard stifled sobs emanating from it.

Éomer hesitated. He was tired and had just fought from dawn to dusk – and that after riding over a hundred leagues in five days. His mind might still be wide awake, but his whole body ached and longed for rest. He only wanted a bath and a bed. No, make that simply a bed. It was none of his business if somebody had sought a quiet corner to cry. He began to walk down the corridor again.

Another sob.

Something in the choked off sound stopped him as if he had hit a wall. A note of desperation, of some poor creature reaching its breaking point. Éomer closed his eyes. He did not need this. Not now.

A smothered sniffle.

With a sigh Éomer turned back to the door and pulled it open. Ducking low under the lintel he stuck his head in. At first he could not make out anything, but as he pulled the door open wider, the light from one of the lamps in the corridor lit up the small space. He had been right; it was just an airing cupboard containing shelves of folded linen sheets. In one corner sat a huddled figure. One of the young lads assisting the healers? He perched on an overturned bucket, face buried in a crumpled sheet of linen, so that nothing showed but a few strands of black hair escaping from under the hood of his shapeless brown robe. The lad hadn't noticed Éomer's presence yet and his shoulders shook with suppressed sobs.