Disclaimer: J.R.R.T. owns everything except my village and the people in it, so on and so forth.

Danmarr and I spent the night out on the open plains. I made our meager camp in a hollow near the river. I couldn't sleep at all, so while Danmarr slept fitfully, plagued by bad dreams, I kept watch and occasionally soothed him back into slumber. Both of us were curled up next to the horses. Luckily Elise had packed several large blankets that were large enough to cover all four of us. I briefly considered starting a fire to stave off the freezing winter but then remembered what a stupid idea that was; having a campfire on the plains is like putting up a giant sign saying Hey, Predators, Come and Get Me While I'm Hot!. So instead I just pulled the blanket even higher and concentrated on every single fighting tip I'd ever gotten.

Before I knew it, the sky was growing lighter. I got out some cold meat and cheese for a meager breakfast. Danmarr quickly devoured it as I apologized for the poor fare and warmed up the horses for the day's trek. Once he had eaten and I had checked his injuries, we mounted up and set off.

It was well-nigh noontime—the sun was directly overhead—when we heard it: men's shouts, orcs' snarls, horses' screams, the clash of metal against metal, all mingling together. It was the sound of fear and pain, horror and madness, of death ruling supreme. Danmarr's face, which had just started to regain a healthy hue, lost all color and resumed yesterday's frozen pallor.

He slid off his horse unevenly and dropped to the ground. He staggered forward a few steps and then stopped. He looked back at me helplessly. "Saffi, we're too late!"

"What do you mean?" Suddenly I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think of anything except whether or not Théodred was still alive. I dismounted and somehow ended up next to Danmarr.

The battle was raging. A torrent of orcs poured across the calm waters of the Isen. It seemed at first as though our bank would be overrun, but then arrows sprouted forth in the orcs' chests, seemingly from multiple directions, causing them to stagger into one another. Some fell, joining an ever-growing pile of bodies, but others, which looked to be a different breed of orc, merely shook it off and kept advancing. A wave of orcs would cross; some would fall, pierced by arrows; others, either missed by the barrage or of the sturdy new kind, would reach the opposite bank, whereupon a band of warriors would chop them down. Just when it looked as though our side was gaining the upper hand, a fresh new wave of orcs would come anew. Danmarr wept at the sight of fallen horses and men.

"The battle's already started! We're too late," he repeated wetly. The look of strong determination wavered and threatened to crumble completely.

Watching, I glimpsed a familiar face, bloodstained and careworn. In an instant, I had made up my mind.

"Stay here and mind the horses," I told Danmarr. "I'm going in."

I went down and slipped behind the archers who hid among the reeds lining each bank. None noticed my silent presence, intent on their duty—not that they would have heard me, anyway; my ears rang with the twangs of strings snapping, the whistles of arrows slicing toward the foe, the roars of men and fiends clashing, and the groans of dying creatures. I crawled on through bodies of monsters and men until I reached the group of defending warriors. I realized with a jolt that for the first time in my life I would have to kill: not bring my dagger to the edge of someone's throat and end a competition, but complete the motion, curbed for so long, and actually stab. My stomach clenched. Then the next wave rolled in, and I was immersed in the onrush.

Something in my mind switched. My body now operated on pure instinct, while my mind went into complete sensory mode. I saw everything, heard everything, smelled everything, felt it all, and could distinguish between minute details I would never even have noticed in everyday life. I cut and slashed, stabbing and slicing through flesh, the flesh of otherworldly monsters. I can still recall this, my first battle. I remember how the wind whipped against my cheeks, how one orc who grabbed at my braid yelped in startled surprise when he encountered the spiked strap I put in there, how just as an orc was about to stab me I managed to stab him in the throat. I remember at one point tasting blood that wasn't human, ducking and rolling under a giant Warg to avoid another's bloodthirsty snaps at my legs, and barely avoiding being crushed by said Warg sustaining a blow meant for me. I remember how time disappeared, not slowing, not stopping, but simply not existing; all that existed was the battle, going on forever and forever through eternity, yet somehow lasting but a single moment at the same time. I don't think even today I fully comprehend how often I nearly died that day. On the battlefield, it wasn't about defending an idea or a country or anything. It was about living or dying, nothing more.

But what I remember most is how suddenly my heart clenched, I glanced to my left, and through a clear hole in the line of orcs I caught a glimpse of him I had sought for so long. I remember how his clear blue eyes met mine for that brief piece of a moment. And how in the next piece of time the ranks shifted and I saw another I knew wielding a knife that I recognized from a child's description.

Then time returned with a jolt.

I could think again with frightening clarity. My mind was once again at the helm. No longer did instinct guide me; I had to consider my every move. My mind whirled. I dodged a swinging axe and mauled the orcish owner in the chest, but I was focused on the figure holding the very same knife that had gotten me here. He was near Théodred, too near. I had to get over there somehow. But how? I ducked and narrowly escaped a sword; dropping and rolling, I was up and moving. Luckily, the wave had just lessened for a moment; I weaved and ducked and dodged my way through fighters. I was on a mission.

Somehow I maneuvered my stance and position so that I could see Théodred easily. Near him was the spy. I noticed Lord Éomer, between Théodred and me, glance at the spy suddenly out of the corner of his eye; obviously the spy hadn't originally been positioned so close to the prince. The spy's companion was close by as well. I realized that the two traitors were in perfect formation to kill both men in line for the throne.

The next minute my attention was wrenched away by a particularly large and vicious-looking orc who tried to chop me to shreds. I barely avoided his swords (he had one in each hand) and found to my dismay that my various knife-blows had no effect but to focus all his attention on killing me. Instinct refused to come to my aid; I was too worried to hand everything over to my body. My limbs instead took precious seconds to process each command before acting. It felt as though I was trapped in thick, slow-moving sludge dragging me down to the choking riverbed of corpses strewn across both banks.

Just as I thought I was about to join the ranks of the dead, the orc gave a grunt of surprise. A sword had suddenly sprouted forth from his intestines. As I watched in mute shock it sliced cleanly upwards to pierce the orc's heart. The monster swayed for a moment and then fell over dully, already gone. My savior was Éomer; our eyes met, and his flickered with recognition. But before he could say anything, the next onslaught was upon us, and we each turned back to our separate foes.

Again the fighting: slash, stab, duck and dodge, battling onward blindly, not advancing, not retreating, but just holding my own against what seemed a constant flow of orcs that seemed to have no end. I saved several Riders' lives that day; several likewise returned the favor. I remember noticing, in a hazy part of my mind that seemed separated and distant from the action, that the sky had darkened as clouds the color of death rolled in.

And then that small piece of my mind which had previously not been paying that much attention to anything looked up and saw what I had been dreading for so long. And without thought, without pause, without hardly even looking, I threw my dagger, and the years of training, the weeks of dreading, the nights of waiting—what seemed my entire existence—all boiled down to this one moment, this one motion. I watched as my best dagger, my lucky dagger, flew through the air and buried itself into one man's chest. He dropped the dagger he himself had been clutching, inches from another's back, and looked down at his pierced breast in disbelief. Éomer had been shouting something frantically. At the sound of his voice Théodred had turned; he, too, could only stare as my dagger finished its journey and the traitorous knife fell to cold ground from colder fingers.

When the knife hit the ground, I finally released the breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. Relief swept through me. He was safe. They were both safe. Except—

Except we were still in the middle of a battle, and right now a giant orc was making his way through the sea of fighters right towards us. Uh-oh.

The orc radiated menace and power. He gave one contemptuous look to the dead spy and looked up again at Théodred, who stood tall and strong amid the corpses. The orc spat out a guttural snarl that sounded something like "so that pitiful traitor failed to kill you?" A tense moment—and then the giant orc attacked. Théodred and Éomer together could barely hold off the onslaught; it looked as though my recent act was about to be in vain. The three circled around, running and dodging through the ongoing battle, intent only on each other.

I sought frantically a way to help. I looked down the river back to where I had last seen Danmarr. His eyes were huge. As I watched he shouted something. I couldn't hear him. He tried again, mouthing the words with elaborate slowness. With a flash of realization I understood. And then I launched myself onto the orc's back.

It was probably one of the stupidest things I've ever done. My weight alone didn't give the orc pause; rather, it staggered a bit from the impact and carried on trying to kill Éomer and Théodred like before. I took the dagger clenched in my teeth in one hand and tried to stab the orc. That got its attention. It reached up and tried to grab me; I dodged the attempt and clung on desperately.

Théodred used the orc's preoccupation with the crazed girl on its shoulders to get in a deadly blow. The orc was still trying to shake me off. My left hand slipped off, and I swung about hanging by one arm. My eyes widened as Théodred's sword slid right through the orc's chest, exiting its back just where I had been clinging a few seconds ago. The orc ignored the wound, floundering as he tried to attack me and also crush his original targets. Éomer stabbed the orc in the throat mercilessly, sweeping downwards to cut through the orc's chest a second time.

The combined injuries were enough: the orc staggered, swayed, and crumpled into a heap, killed at last. I let go as he fell and rolled out of the way of his heavy body.

Théodred offered me a hand wordlessly. I was reminded forcibly of the last time he had offered to help me up. "I would ask what you are doing here," he murmured gently, "but since you have already saved my life twice, I can't really complain, can I?"

I grinned. Suddenly the air seemed lighter. It felt like ages since the last time I had smiled. "Well, you could complain, but I'm sure my lord Éomer would hit you for me."

I hadn't realized that Théodred was still holding my hand until he reddened slightly and let go belatedly. I hurriedly looked away from him to his cousin instead.

Éomer chuckled at my comment and added, "Don't worry, Miss Saffi; I hit him every chance I get." I caught him eyeing me curiously when he thought I wasn't looking, though. He was obviously wondering what on Arda I was doing on a blood-soaked battlefield. But now was not the time for long conversation and confession. Instead the three of us stood together uncomfortably for a moment, trying to collect ourselves (or at least I was). Then Théodred heaved a sigh, and we each reentered the fray.

The battle had finally ended. After the giant orc had been slain, what was left of the host took one look at the Eorlingas assembled—for those shooting from the marshes had arose, still (relatively) fresh, and had mustered to attack—and had fled. Théodred and his lieutenant led the men in a brief attack that soundly defeated the rest of the monsters. A few escaped, but only a few, and they were intent on running away, not regrouping for another fight. It looked to be a great victory until I turned and realized how many of our own were casualties as well.

As men bustled about setting up camp and healing tents, taking care of our dead, and disposing of the enemy dead, I staggered upstream to where the water would definitely be clean. As I kneeled at the edge of the river, splashing my face with the ice-cold water, watching the river sweep by in its endless dash to the sea, the magnitude of the day's events finally caught up to me. I felt dizzy and slightly nauseous—not at the sight of blood, or even death—but the fact that I had had a hand in this senseless destruction. I had killed, had entered battle with the sole intent of doing so.

I got up and went over to a patch of bushes about ten feet away; here I could throw up without worries of spoiling the waters. I promptly did so. I went to wipe my mouth off with my sleeve and realized that there were Warg entrails smeared all over it. I changed my mind and went back to the river to wash up.

Once I felt better, I went back to the camp and busied myself attending to the Éored's wounds alongside the company healers. As I cleaned a deep gash in one man's arm, a shriek resounded through the camp, and the next thing I knew, a small body had collided with my own.

"Saffi, you're alive!"

"Always the tone of surprise," I teased. Danmarr let go of me and stepped back. "Would you like to help?"

Danmarr nodded and set to work. We moved from person to person. I made a point to joke with and tease each one to distract them from the pain. Several asked what a village girl like myself was doing out here on the battlefield; I demurred and said merely that I had always dreamed of partaking in the glorious aftermath of battle. Bad joke though it was, it seemed to do the job.

The only hard part was when I stooped to tend a man's leg, which had been badly ravaged by a Warg, and identified him to be the spy's helper. Danmarr was by my side, and he froze in recognition. The man turned his head to look at us and recognized Danmarr. Both seemed unable to speak for a minute; then Danmarr stood and ran away. I bit my lip to control the impulse to do the same—or worse. At last I said tightly, "Do you really deserve to be healed?"

He closed his eyes in shame. "No," he admitted in barely a whisper. "I should have stopped him… I should have known he would hurt the boy, but I didn't stop him. He just told me to go, that he would take care of it…" He took a shaky breath. "I pretended that I, at least was doing nothing wrong, despite being constantly plagued with guilt. But I am just as complicit in such crimes! My lady, I committed treason—I—"

I stopped him midsentence. "I know all that you are guilty of."

He winced. "You?—how? No, don't tell me. I don't…" He tried again. "Miss, if you would just leave me here to die, I would be much in debt to you. I don't deserve life, I think." He closed his eyes and looked away. "Just go."

I looked to my left, catching movement, and saw that Éomer was standing nearby. I gave him a questioning glance. Éomer's gaze hardened as he looked on the face of his (former) personal attendant. "Tend to him, please, Miss Saffi," he said quietly. "I would have him live with such pain and guilt rather than escape this life and its woes so easily." He paused, and then whispered, more to himself than either of us, "I owed him my life; now I pay back the debt." Before I could reply, he moved away as quietly as he had come.

I got to work.

A/N: By casualties, I mean the dictionary definition, which encompasses those injured as well as the dead. Also, I got the whole jumping-on-your-opponent's-back thing from J.K. Rowling, specifically when Harry jumps onto the troll's back in a fit of crazed heroics.