Author's Note:

Hello, and happy late Holidays and happy New Year, everyone! I hope you had a wonderful holiday! Admittedly, I took a 'break' from my writing over the holidays - Hey, don't roll your eyes; even an author can take advantage of the holidays ;) - but I am very much ready and excited to return to writing and to share it with you all! This next bit is a mere thank you to particular people who left feedback and addressing an issue that has been made known to me, and yadda yadda yadda. Unless you're simply curious and want to continue to read my author's note to those readers, then feel free to just skip to the chapter! ;)

Alice-Ann Wonderland, Kat7CA, WargishBoromirFan - Where would I be without you three? I am very grateful for your feedback, especially you pointing out an issue you have noticed within the context of my chapters. I am now aware the dialogue comes across as awkward or hard to read, and I will run it through with my beta-reader to hear her thoughts on it. She is very well versed with Tolkien writing style and knows quite a bit; you should read some of her stories, really, they are fantastic! Even so we may have missed something, or I may have tried to reword a sentence and forgot to send it to her. Thank you for letting me know, and thank you for your support. It really does mean a lot to me!

Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped. Please let me know your thoughts!

"Argh!"

Thump.

The last archer was slain. However, Duvaineth did not celebrate. The arrow buried deep in her shoulder distracted her from even the thought of breathing in relief. Celebrating would be far too dangerous while her victory and fate remained unknown to her. She knew it was only a matter of time before either her horse would tire out or the Wargs would catch up to her. It would be the end of Gilroch, a horrifying fate, and one certainly not deserved. Not when Gilroch had always remained faithful to her. No. It would not happen. Duvaineth would not allow it. She would have her flee. At least her life would be spared and she would find safety, and mayhap someone to care for her. It was a sacrifice Duvaineth was more than willing to make.

Duvaineth would fight her enemies and their pets to either her victory or death. She only hoped Gilroch would be safe.

"Flee, melui nín!" Duvaineth spoke to her horse. "Leave me be! Find safety!"

Duvaineth hoped, as she pulled her legs over to the side, that her horse would abide by her words. Gilroch was a faithful one, a steed never willing to leave her mistress. It was only in the most perilous of times the horse obeyed her mistress' commands for her to leave her, and even then there came many a time when she did not do so. This time, Gilroch did heed her words, much to Duvaineth's relief. The mare did not slow her gate when her mistress threw herself from the saddle and onto the ground, and soon Gilroch was but a small dot in the distance, soon disappearing within the body of knolls. Duvaineth was given no time to watch after her horse, for as soon as she dropped to the ground she heard a loud snarl and howls followed after.

The first nock of her arrow was ineptly aimed due to a trembling grip. It missed her target, but it grazed a leg of the Warg. It slowed the Orc-rider, yet it was not enough. It all happened in a blur for Duvaineth. She remembered only leaping out of the way, nocking arrows and slaying as many Wargs as she could. When her arrows became ineffective, the Elf drew her sword and quickly made her attack on them. Their riders fought back, and the Wargs attempted to as well. Duvaineth did well dodging and parrying the attacks, and managing to kill a small number of Orcs and their mounts, but not all. And then there came a searing pain shooting through her abdomen and all became but a very distant memory to her, so distant she could recall little as she fell to her knees. She remembered the sword striking her abdomen, staying in its place, and a great pain shooting through her entire body as she fell back. Defeated, darkness took her.

It was brief and when she awoke, a snarling Warg baring its teeth hovered over her face. The remainder of the Orcs sneered at her, but she did not hear them, her heart pounding heavily in her ears. "Leave her. She will be dead before we can have our fun," one Orc laughed wickedly. And then they were gone, certain her wounds would take hold of her.

And Duvaineth was certain, too.

"My Lord Éomer, ahead! A horse!"

The Third Marshall lifted his head and looked ahead among the dry heaths. Indeed, it was a horse, and galloping at a speed he had never seen one ride before. "It is frightened." He meant to speak quietly to himself, but instead he spoke in a loud voice. He mustered an ungainly apology for who he was speaking with before their interruption and spurring into a gallop, riding towards the frightened, fleeing white horse, and calling behind him for someone to follow.

Still mounted, Éomer reached the frightened horse and hastily but gently reached over and grasped its reins before it could be out of touching distance. "Whoa! Whoa, there! Easy, little one….Be not afraid." He gently stroked the steed's mane as he softly spoke in the Rohirric tongue. It eased the horse, but not much and not for long either. Soon, the horse was neighing loudly and rising on her hind legs, forcing Éomer to tighten his grip on the reins and gently pull her back towards him. She did not obey, however, and continued to fight.

Éomer again reared the horse back and continued to stroke its mane. As gentle as the touches were and the attempt to soothe its nerves, the effect was little. Déor, the rider that had followed, wondered out loud, speaking in a curious tone, "What could have brought it in such distress?"

Upon the question, the horse reacted as if she were answering. She reared back again, but this time her head turned towards the east. Éomer followed the horse's gaze, and immediately an ill feeling fell upon this heart. The mare had not come alone, the Horse-lord was certain of. "It tries to tell us something. I fear it may have a master and they are in trouble."

Quickly, Éomer dismounted his horse and moved to the other one, murmuring soft words as he carefully mounted. The horse allowed him, stopping its rough movements and standing still to allow him to settle in the saddle without rearing him off. "Gather half of the éored. We ride east."

"My lord! What if there is a large army whence the stallion came? We shall need more than half of them."

"We will soon learn the truth of the matter, no?" Éomer smirked. Without another word, the Horse-lord held onto the reins and turned the mare towards where she had gestured earlier. But before he could urge her forward, she let out a loud neigh and charged in a swift, almost alarming gallop. He had ridden across many plains in his life, and swiftly so, but never before had he ridden a horse with so much speed, against the wind itself no less.

There was little to see upon arrival at the sight, for it was almost barren save for the several bodies of Orcs, and a lesser number of Wargs. But there in the center of the field underneath a tree lay a lithe body. As Éomer dismounted, he noticed the person's breathing was shallow. He was alive. Relieved, but not slowing in haste, he quickly rushed to their side and knelt at the ground, but he stopped as astonishment swept over him. This was no Man. Nay, it was a woman, and no mere sword-bearer indeed. The carcasses of the Orcs and Wargs proved otherwise. But then Éomer noticed something, something rather strange, poking from the side of her hair. Carefully, he moved a few strands from their face and found the answer to his curiosities.

This was neither man nor woman, but an Elf.

Before he could dwell on the discovery, Éomer noticed the sword imbedded in her abdomen. Blood seeped from the wound, but it was the only wound that appeared to be the most severe out of the rest. He also took notice of the arrow in her shoulder, and one in each leg. Cuts and scratches adorned her cheeks and hands, and the sleeves of her tunic were partially ripped, revealing fresh, but smaller wounds. It was when he lifted his gaze to the injured Elf's face that he saw the deepest, most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen staring at him. So she is conscious, Éomer thought as relief washed over him. He inwardly sighed.

She was looking at him, but her focus was scarce, and it was doubtful she knew of her surroundings. But he needed to know if she could hear him, and more importantly, if she could speak.

"Can you hear me?" he asked her, and received a slight nod in response. "Good," he said. "Do not move, my lady. Your wound will worsen should the blade move any further."

As he slowly, and very carefully, lifted the Elf in his arms to lay her half up right, he could not stop himself from wincing at both the painful sight and the gentle gasps and whimpers coming from her mouth. Her lips parted slightly as she attempted to speak, and it took several tries before she was able to force them out. "How…." She stopped and took a respite from speaking to gather her breath, finding it difficult to speak, but only a soft moan came instead of her words. But he knew what she was trying to ask.

Her voice was hoarse and sounded weak. Weariness was heavy in her tone. Éomer paused, his fingers now brushing against the hilt of the sword to grab it. He looked at her. "Your stallion is a very persistent companion, my lady," he answered her, forcing what he thought was a smile.

"Duvaineth," the Elf gasped. "You may call me Duvaineth…Horse-lord." Her breathing was becoming ragged.

"Duvaineth." Éomer nodded. "Your horse led me here. He was in great distressed, and no matter my attempts he would not be calmed. Then he led me east, and such is how I found you."

"She. Her name is Gilroch."" Despite the severity of the situation, she still managed to find humor in it and smiled.

"My apologies. Stay still." Éomer grasped the hilt of the sword. He looked at her, his eyebrows raised and eyes apologetic. "This will hurt." And slowly he pulled the blade from her body. It was not painless as he had said, but Duvaineth had felt worse, and despite this, she could not hold back the groans as her body burned with a torturous pain. At last, the blade was withdrawn from her and Duvaineth was left gulping for breath, and for a short time her heart pounded in her chest.

Éomer stared at the Orc blade with a dark look in his eyes, but his gaze was soon drawn to the injured Elf in his arms. He smiled at her, a soft light in his brown eyes. "I am Éomer, and you will not die this day. I give you my word."

Duvaineth managed a small smile before the weariness was too heavy on her. The pain had caused great strain on her body, and slowly she slipped into a deep slumber. Éomer's gaze was no longer on the Elf in his arms, but on the blade that had been imbedded in her. He held it tightly in his hand. The mere look at it both angered and disgusted him. The vile smell coming from the blade did not ease his revulsion. However, he soon realized the blade did not smell of only Orc and blood. This was a different smell. Looking more closely at the blade, Éomer saw a strange liquid intermixed with the Elven maiden's blood. It was thick and dark looking. He immediately knew what it was.

It was the loud neigh of a horse that broke him from his reverie and he looked behind him, startled but only briefly. It was his éored, having come as instructed by the command of their Marshall. Déor was the only one to dismount and came rushing to his lord, too kneeling at his side. The expression on his face upon realizing the warrior in Éomer's arms was in fact a woman, and an Elf at that, would have been more amusing to the Horse-lord were the situation not grave. "A…A…" He could not even utter the words out.

"An Elf," Éomer finished for him, a light hint of amusement in his tone, though he knew that was not what he was astonished by. Before another word could be spoken, Éomer's face quickly hardened and creased into a deep frown, and his eyes turning dark. "The blade used upon her had been coated in a lethal liquid. She has been poisoned. We must take her to Edoras – now."

Gilroch showed to be less agreeable with Éomer. She refused to allow the Horse-lord to come anywhere near her without her mistress within sight, and nearly kicked Éomer in the face. He successfully dodged the near attack and, despite wishing to not submit the Elf with too much movement that the journey would certainly provide, was forced to carry the Elf over to the stallion in fear of nearly being kicked in the face again, causality he wished to avoid. She was a stout mare, Éomer would say that much. The ride to Edoras was brief, but he doubted it was near comfortable for Duvaineth. She drifted in and out of consciousness several times, and was awake to feel a very uncomfortable jolt as they passed over the plains. She certainly felt it and, though her noises of pain were quiet, Éomer heard them. And so did Gilroch, who did not take the painful sounds coming from her mistress lightly, and so sped faster.

At last, the small mound that was Edoras was within sight and hastily Éomer rode through the gate. He paid little mind to the stationed guards and did not perform his custom to acknowledge them. Éomer's eyes were affixed elsewhere; a tall and majestic building that he looked upon with pride. Meduseld, his home. If only he returned with good tidings. Éomer did not waste another moment when he arrived to the flight of stairs leading to the great home. He swiftly dismounted and took the Elf in his arms, hastily climbing the stairs as he shouted orders to those about him. "Send for the Lady Éowyn, and be swift! Tell her I bring a guest in need of immediate healing, lest her death be upon our hands!"

Éomer rushed in Meduseld and sought an empty room, ignoring the puzzled looks and questions he received. He entered the nearest room and brought her to the bed, gently laying her down. The room was not much; it was small, but provided the necessities needed. He went about the room, fetching supplies that his sister would need. As Éomer brought the supplies to the bedside table, the door to the room flew open and a woman with golden hair and bright eyes rushed inside, stopping near the bedside of Duvaineth. Her eyes lifted to the Horse-lord without more ado. "Éomer!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "What has happened?"

"I will tell you later," Éomer promised. "She needs to be healed." He looked at the injured Elf beside him and then at his sister, his eyes conveying the urgency. "Immediately, Éowyn."

Éowyn only nodded. She leaned over and sought the wounds their guest bore, grimacing when she saw the long and deep gash on her abdomen. "This looks not to be a simple wound. Verily, Éomer, never do your returns lack surprises."

"It is becoming a regular occurrence, to be sure," Éomer scowled.

Éowyn did not answer him. She dipped the washcloth in the water and held it to the wound. "Have you any further surprises for me?" It was a murmur, spoken as a bitter jest. But as Éomer gazed at the pale, sleeping Elf, he hoped he would not again come across these 'surprises' for a long while.

"To be honest, sister," Éomer sighed, "I think I would prefer to have been pitted against a score of Orcs than to have found a dying Elf."

"I will do what I can, though little assurance can I grant you," she said quietly. "You must leave. It is not proper."

Éomer smiled to himself and slowly rose to his feet. "I know when my services are needed no longer," he said with a chuckle, and turned to the door. But he stopped and looked at his sister. "She is in good hands, Éowyn. This I know with great certainty." With a smile, Éomer turned and left.

"I hope," Éowyn murmured. She returned her attention to the septic wound and cringed at the sight, immediately searching her parcel for a particular herb.

Healing the wound was no easy task. The gash was long and deep, and much blood was already lost. Éowyn soon discovered the poison's attack on the Elf's body was slow. It brought little relief to Éowyn, however, and she wondered about the strangeness of it. Although luck was with her this day, Éowyn remained wary and concerned. She did not know for how long their injured friend had been bearing the wound, and Éomer spoke little of her. How long had the Elf been suffering the wound? Éowyn could not say, but she knew something for certain – she would heal from the wound, a lengthy time though it would take. Éowyn took joy in that at the very least, even if it was small.

Éowyn then tended to the smaller, less threatening wounds and cleaned away the blood and dirt that still remained. She then rose to her feet, finished, and let out a long sigh she did not know she had been holding. It was done. She would live. Now she needed rest – much rest.

Éowyn glanced at the door. She wondered where her brother was. It would be some time before their guest would rouse from her sleep – Éowyn wagered a good half day or so, and went in search of Éomer. She did not search for very long, for she soon found him in the hall nearby the room. He was in heavy discussion with someone, but when the door opened and Éowyn emerged from it, Éomer tore himself away from his company and went to her. His concern was evident in the depths of his hazelnut eyes. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Éowyn spoke, answering his unspoken question. "She will live and now rests. And of rest she will need plenty. To say she is well is difficult to speak. Come the time she awakens she will feel pain, and to heal her from the poison I used all my herbs. I need more if I am to ease the pain when she needs it."

"I will obtain more for you," Éomer said with a nod. His eyes shifted behind her to the door, then back to his sister. He smiled, but it fell when he saw the grey look in her eyes. "Look not so forlorn, my sister. You healed her! So smile for it."

Éowyn ignored him. "The poison was slow. It was meant to torture her until her last breath."

"Such is the way of Orcs," Éomer replied grimly. A thin thread of sarcasm hung in his tone, his hopeful attempt to remedy his sister of her bleakness rendered only a fruitless one.

Her brother's dry sense of humor often incited laughter from her. There was no man other than her brother who knew how to turn her frown into a smile, and keep it that way so that she would not fall into a bleak face. This time, however, Éowyn was not amused. "What happened?"

Éomer sighed and again looked at the door leading into the room their guest occupied. "If I knew, my dear sister, I would tell you."

Author's Note:

For those who may be wondering: No, Gilroch is not a Mearas. Although the appearance of her speed indicates it, I assure you she is not one of the Mearas breed. It would be very unlikely for Duvaineth to ride her if she was, or even Éomer himself. Not to worry - you will know soon! :)