Title: Halla the Huntress (may change later if I make up a better name...)

Author: ontuva

Beta: xXxAralasxXx (my dear Sarah-hime, what would I do without you...)

Rating: M/NC-17, due to the later chapters.

Pairing: Éomer/OC

Genre: adventure, romance, hurt and a bit of humour.

Warnings: Actually I have no idea what to put here. Warning, there might be dying orcs? … See the rating.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's characters or Middle-Earth. I don't get any money from writing this, I'm just doing this for my own fun. :) Everything you recognise is from the hand of mr. Tolkien. I only own my OC.

A/N: I know, I know, I haven't updated my other stories, but I just couldn't keep this in my head. I just had to start writing (I'm having a Tolkien season again...). Reviews are very much appreciated. What else can I say? Enjoy! … Or then don't.

Prologue: A Lonely Rider

You cannot sleep

For they come in dreams

You cannot leave

For you are called

You cannot escape

For you have purpose

You cannot stop

For you are the Hunter

You cannot rest

For you are cursed

A lonely rider trotted forward on the plains of Rohan. First the rider had been only a single black spot in the distance, but now clearly visible. The cloak had been wrapped securely around the body, to keep it warm against the sudden winds of the grass desert. The winter had come early this year- too early, if you asked the rider.

But the pony didn't seem to mind the weather. In fact it seemed to enjoy the harshness of the air, its eyes gleaming of enthusiasm. But then again, the mare had been raised in the north, where snow sometimes covered the lands even in summer. The rider shivered at the thought.

On and on they ventured, the odd pair of ruffled grey coat and black wool cloak, which sometimes groaned and cursed. Every step was pain yet staying still wouldn't do any good either. The feverish eyes had spotted scouts in the distance earlier on. Surely they would come to investigate sooner or later? Riders of Mark usually were curious about visitors traveling in their land, especially during these times when orcs seemed to be found everywhere.

The rider came to a halt, when suddenly hill ahead was full of horsemen. The pony stayed still and waved its ears in interest, when the men in armour came and surrounded the lonely wanderer. Greyish-green eyes looked cautiously at the spears directed towards them. They had to be joking. What threat could possibly five foot and three inches tall frame posses? None whatsoever.

One of the horsemen – where they called Rohirrim? - rode forth with authority that screamed leadership. And the white horsetail in his helmet was a good hint too.

"What is a child like yourself doing alone here?" he asked with voice that would've carried far even on a battlefield. "It is not safe, not when there are orcs roaming around." The question didn't get the answer it had sought but made the small figure shook with silent laughter. They thought they faced a child yet held spears ready? What a delightful country!

"I am not a child" was the answer and it made the rohirrim come one step closer. With their spears.

"Then who are you? Speak!" The look on the man's eyes made it clear that he was tired of playing around. And so was she; the rider decided and dropped her hood down to reveal her face. Now they should have realized they were facing a woman, although her short-cropped hair fooled people sometimes.

"I am Halla the Huntress," she said locking eyes with the horsemaster. He didn't back away from her icy glare, much to her disappointment.

"And what does Halla the Huntress want from Rohan?" he continued his interrogation. It seemed that they didn't believe her nickname to be true.

"That depends on who asks," she shot back without thinking. The fever was humming in her ears, she didn't have time for this! Her hand felt warm and sticky. Had the wound opened?

"I am Éomer son of Éomund, the third Marshal of the Riddermark and you are trespassing our territory! Now state your business!" This man was used to order around. And his men looked like they were able and willing to do whatever he asked. She decided to give up and lifted her left hand, which all this time had been hidden under the cloak, clutching to her side. The blood was dripping from her fingertips and palm indicating the wound had indeed opened again, most likely when she had laughed. She knew she shouldn't have.

"You are wounded." There was a hint of surprise and even worry in the Marshal's voice. She felt like laughing again, but didn't have the strength to do so. Why on Arda would she otherwise be holding her side if not because of a wound?

She didn't have the time to point that out, when the world again started tilting. Or was she tilting? Her last thought before losing consciousness was that maybe she should've acted more ladylike in front of the Marshal. Ladies didn't fall of their horses. Ponies. Whatever. Or maybe it was just the fever talking. Then again - she had never been very ladylike.