The wind was sharp that morning, slicing through the plains of the Westfold like a blade honed on stone. You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the linen bags of herbs clinking softly at your side, each vial and bundle a small hope against the shadow Saruman’s forces had left behind.

The earth still bore the wounds of war—scorched grass, scattered splinters of ruined wagons, and the heavy silence of grief that no salve could touch. There was no proper infirmary, only a stretch of makeshift tents and canvas draped between broken fences. You worked from the ground, mixing poultices on a flat stone and boiling water over open flame. Every day, the wounded came from shattered farms and burned villages, carried on litters or horseback, clinging to life by a thread of breath.

You were bent over a crate, sorting bandages and dried kingsfoil, when you heard hoofbeats.

Your hand moved to the small dagger at your belt—not out of fear, but habit. You looked up just as the horse crested the hill, its rider tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair catching what little light the overcast sky offered.

Éomer. Marshal of the Riddermark and Heir of Rohan.

He reined in his mount with practiced ease and dismounted in a single fluid motion. Dust clung to the hem of his cloak, and his face bore the weariness of one who had seen too many battles in too few days. But his eyes were sharp, and when they found you, there was a flicker of recognition.

“You are the healer sent from Edoras,” he said, voice low but steady. His gaze moved across the camp, taking in the wounded under crude shelters. “You were not meant to come alone.” Éomer studied you a moment longer, then without a word, stepped forward and took one of the heavier crates from your arms. He carried it with ease to the center of the camp, setting it down beside the others.

The wind shifted. A sudden gust caught the edge of a canvas and flung it into the air. You squinted up toward the darkening sky. Thick clouds churned on the horizon, rolling in fast from the White Mountains.

“Storm’s coming,” Éomer said, following your gaze. “Too fast for comfort.”

A heavy drop of rain landed on your cheek. Another followed. Then came the roll of thunder in the distance.

“There’s a tower not far from here,” he said, already moving toward his horse. “One of the old watchposts. Abandoned, but still standing. Come.”

You hesitated, but the sky cracked open with a flash of lightning, and that made the decision for you.

He helped you onto the saddle behind him, and the two of you rode hard through the rising wind. The grasses bent low, the world suddenly blurred by rain. The tower came into view just as the worst of the storm hit—stone and moss-covered, a remnant of another age. Éomer kicked the door open with a booted foot, and you both stumbled inside, soaked and breathless.