The silence is hardly comfortable, but nothing has been in the tangled, rage-filled days since the Arena. Éowyn doesn't break it, striding up the stairs with only occasional glances at him, leading him all the way up to the tenth floor without a word. Even when they reach her District's rooms, she doesn't say anything, just steps aside to usher him in.

"Sit down," she suggests at last. "I shall fetch some herbs from my chambers, if you wait here. A tea for the pain, and a poultice for your bruises. There is nothing to be done for the rib, I suppose. Are there any other hurts?" She's already moving to put on the kettle (a thing that's still strange to her, a kettle without fire or obvious heat), looking back at him over her shoulder. As it boils, she fetches the first aid kit from under the counter, carrying it over to him. "There are bandages here, and some of the pills may help with pain and weariness. They have strong healing gifts here - though I am as yet unsure what can be most trusted, and cling to my own ways."

It's a relief to be able to bustle around, to have something real and tangible to do. Looking at it rationally, she suspects she's making mountains out of molehills, but it's a great improvement on standing about in the stables longing desperately for an escape, for home, for anything but this.