A/N: A mix of movie and book verse than deviates from canon. In other words, it's AU. Oh and I know nothing about medicine, so be smart and don't hold any credit to what I have here. Possible mpreg, depending on how the story unfolds

Disclaimer: Belongs to Tolkien, I'm just playing in his sandbox and not making a cent.

Chapter 1

"I have lived to see strange days," the old man whispered, wonder briefly overriding pain. He was laid out on one of the many tables in the main hall of Helm's Deep, as the beds were full of those more wounded than he. His head was turned toward the table at his right, watching a pair of elves work on a fellow warrior.

"Indeed," Eomer replied with a distracted air, his attention focused on the half-closed wound before him. An Uruk-hai sword had laid the man's leg open from hip to knee. He was lucky the Uruk had slipped in the mud. The stroke should have cleaved him open from shoulder to hip.

"Elves," the man continued, unaware that Eomer wasn't really listening to him. "I thought they were mere stories, superstitions to keep children in line. How wrong ... have you heard them speaking? Like music it is, rising and falling, yet somehow sad..."

The man rambled on and Eomer allowed him to do so. He had no herbs to numb the flesh around the wound and if talking about elves made the process easier for him to endure, then Eomer wasn't going to complain. The wound was too deep and wide to simply wrap and hope for the best.

The man shifted, uncomfortable, then glanced at Eomer. "Tables are made for eating, not beds for stitching up old men."

Eomer snorted in agreement as he rethreaded his needle. "You will not find argument here." Setting down the spool of thread he slid a little further down the bench, careful not to jostle his own leg. A direct blow from a sword hilt had left his knee swollen. Worried about damage to the joint, Aragorn had ordered him to stay off it and get some rest, lest he do it more damage.

Well, he was staying off it. Rest would come when he had time for it; too many needed help. He was no healer but he could stitch and bind wounds. Every set of able hands were needed as healers were too few. Eomer glanced up at the crowd of wounded along the walls that seemed to thicken every time he looked at it. He saw a young boy frantically ripping cloth to tie off a brother's leg wound, while beside him a small girl applied pressure to a large gash on the face of an unconscious elf. Wounded were everywhere and more elves and men were brought in every few minutes. The air in the hall stunk with the stench of blood, vomit and urine.

"How many more?" the old man asked suddenly, refocusing Eomer's attention.

Eomer studied the length of the wound. "Twenty more, maybe less."

"Ah," the man said, sitting up to briefly study the sutures on his leg. "You have a good hand, Eomer. I bet you've kept many a horse on the field." Eomer bowed his head at the high praise. In his time he had closed the leg wounds of many a horse, preventing the hard scarring that could ruin a mount's ability to move freely.

The man poked at one of the stitches. "That is good. Good hands, good horses" he whispered, talking more to himself than Eomer. Sighing, he laid back down and continued watching the elves. After a moment of silence his mindless prattle began again.

Eomer sighed and concentrated on the suturing; thus keeping the throbbing pain in his knee at bay.

Eomer was awkwardly helping the old man off the table when a commotion at the door caught his attention. Aragorn was conversing intently with two teenage girls who had an elf supported between them. Unlike the other elves, this one had a deep red cloak. Eomer assumed that he must have been some sort of commanding officer. The girls tried to bring the elf inside and Aragorn shook his head sharply, his face pained.

"He has passed," Aragorn insisted. Eomer wondered if the girls had been misdirected. The elf should have been piled with the rest of the dead.

One girl, a big boned lass with frizzy red hair, shook her head sharply. "Dead don't groan when you move them." The other girl, her sister by appearance, nodded in confirmation and struggled to shift the weight of the elf's arm across her shoulders.

Eomer watched as Aragorn's eyes widened and his face turned white. He lifted the elf's head and laid two fingers just below the jaw, checking for a heartbeat. "Valar!" he swore and spun around, his eyes immediately falling on Eomer's now empty table.

"Bring him here," Aragorn commanded, and the girls quickly complied, laying the elf out on the tabletop. Seeing that Aragorn was focused on the elf, Eomer dismissed the girls, and they left to continue their duty of moving the dead.

"I do not believe my eyes," Aragorn said, scrambling for buckles to the elf's armor. Eomer immediately joined in, unbuckling the breastplate from the other side.

"Do you know him?" Eomer asked, wondering who this elf was to invoke such astonishment from the normally reserved Aragorn.

Aragorn's head shot up, suddenly realizing who was helping him. "I told you to stay off that knee."

Eomer waved a hand at the bench he was seated on. "I have not stood from this spot."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed, but a groan from the elf quickly redirected his attention.

"Haldir," Aragorn said, leaning over the table so he was within the elf's line of sight. "Can you hear me?"

The elf's eyes seemed to focus briefly and Eomer could see a hint of recognition before they clouded over again, then fluttered shut.

Muttering a curse, Aragorn carefully lifted the breastplate then used a knife to slice through the elf's padding and tunic. He peeled the blood soaked and muddy material aside, revealing a wound probably caused from a sword thrust to the lower part of the elf's chest.

Eomer suddenly became aware of the elf's ragged breathing; he had broken ribs.

"A grievous wound," Eomer said. "No wonder he was thought dead."

Aragorn briefly glanced at him but did not respond. He undid the elf's cloak, unbuckled the last of the armor, then cut off the rest of the elf's tunic. "Help me turn him over."

Using the table as a brace, Eomer stood and did as he was bid. The elf was heavier than he looked. His breathing immediately became more labored as he was settled on his front and more pressure was placed on his broken ribs.

Eomer stared at the wound on the elf's back. It ran parallel to the spinal column, just inside the right shoulder blade and was obviously caused by an orc ax. He could clearly see fragments of bone and sliced muscle. Eomer sputtered, "This is impossible! Such a wound would have felled any man!"

"Or elf," Aragorn added. "I caught him as he fell and felt his fea leave him. I do not understand how it is that he breathes still."

"Trickery?" Eomer asked, suddenly wary. "Elf sorcery?"

Aragorn shook his head, carefully probing the wound. "This is no elf magic."

"And how do you know?" Eomer demanded. This man might be the Heir of Isildur, but what would he know of elves?

Aragorn did not look up. "I was raised by elves in Rivendell and taught by Lord Elrond, a master healer. Elves possess no such power over death. He should have gone to Mandos' Halls."

The elf began gasping, unable to get enough air. Aragorn's face darkened. "Let's turn him back, his body cannot handle the pressure of being laid on his chest."

Eomer obeyed and helped Aragorn turn the elf back over before sinking back down onto the bench, his knee throbbing.

"This will not work," Aragorn said, speaking to himself. "I need to tend the wound on his back. But he cannot be laid on his stomach long enough for me to treat the wound properly."

The elves from the nearby table finished with their own patient and quickly joined them, seeing that Aragorn needed assistance. All three began speaking rapid elvish, their faces grave with worry. Eomer felt a stirring of irritation at suddenly being outside the conversation; but he had come to understand that few of the elves fluently spoke the Common Speech, let alone the language of the Rohirrim. He wondered why, surely with such immortal lives they could bother with learning a few languages. Aragorn and the elf, Legolas, had been acting as translators in-between their attempts to care for the wounded, as hand gestures and common sense weren't always enough for the elves and men to get basic ideas across. This situation worried Eomer. He knew that it was only a matter of time before battle shock wore off and grief sent tempers soaring. A few misunderstood words could easily encourage a brawl.

Aragorn paused in his discussion with the elves, his eyes falling on Eomer. "I have an idea." He grabbed an empty chair and set it beside Eomer, gesturing for him to move.

Unsure of what Aragorn was planning, Eomer hesitantly slid into the chair.

"Do you think you can support Haldir's weight? I will need the assistance of the others," Aragorn gestured at the two elves, "if we are to insure that he does not remain a cripple for the rest of his immortal life."

Eomer took a deep breath, considering his own injuries, then nodded. "Just try not to bump my knee."

Aragorn smiled grimly. He briefly clasped Eomer's shoulder in thanks, then turned to give directions to the two elves. Haldir was gently lifted and positioned so he was straddling Eomer's lap, chest pressed to chest. Eomer wrapped one arm around the elf's hips and the other around the top of the elf's shoulders, bracing Haldir against his body.

Eomer looked up at Aragorn. "Will this do?"

Aragorn nodded. Within moments, he had a herb burning in a small bowl which he waved under Haldir's nose to keep him unconscious. Eomer also got a few good whiffs of it and the world around him began blurring pleasantly. He was dimly aware of Aragorn beginning surgery on Haldir's back, the other elves aiding.

He did his best to stay awake, but the long hours riding to Helm's Deep, fighting then helping the wounded, combined with Aragorn's herb, took their toll. And Haldir's warmth was soothing. Eomer tumbled into dreams; his last thoughts focused on the comforting huff of the elf's breath against his neck.

tbc