Work Text:
Eowyn had little memory of the days following the slaying of the Witch King. She saw things in sharp flashes; the glint of a silver ring on a strong hand, dripping water, cool air stinging her wounds. In the holes without memory, there was darkness, a haze between sleep and… elsewhere. Hissing whispers, white shadows, luring her as much as they repelled. But each time she felt herself drifting closer to the veil, she was anchored by warmth, a shelter. It was physical… her hand? Yes, someone touching her hand. She focused on the sensation (for minutes, for days) and it rarely left, always swiftly returning. The hand was small, a child’s perhaps? Occasionally they gripped her hand, tight to the edge of discomfort. Often their open palm simply laid in hers, as if they too were drifting in and out of consciousness. Their skin was rough, but their touch was not. In the near-constant foggy smell of sweat and herb in the Houses, her company cut through with a foreign scent, natural, from the woods, earthy. Their hand was bandaged, like her’s. A child on the battlefield? Eowyn hoped it wasn’t so. Wait. Oh. Not a child. He was alive. Her knight had survived. Yes, he would be a knight. Eowyn squeezed his hand back. She didn’t know she had the strength.