The men of Rohan all stood proud in the rain, their hair plastered to their heads and their swords at the ready. Aragorn stood before the army of elves, a light to his eyes as he commanded them, he was a born leader, it could be seen in the way the elves and men alike looked at him. They trusted him, believed in him, they would follow him to the very end, no questions asked. Lothiriel sent a prayer up for him, he had escaped death once, she hoped that he would be so fortunate as to do it a second time.

The orcs stamped their feet and roared, shaking the foundations of rock around them and making each warrior tremble within himself. They were an army bred to destroy, no mercy, no hope, no greater purpose; they had nothing to live for, and therefore were the most dangerous type of warriors. Lothiriel watched Sheatha stand before the western flank, her armor glinting in the lights of the orc's torches. She looked frightened. The orcs got startling more organized, their stamping and roaring taking on a rhythm. Lothiriel gripped her sword tightly, her eyes searching out her queen, even if she was not supposed to be there, it was still her job to make sure that Arianna made it out alive. She would not neglect her duty because she might get in trouble; she had made a loyalty oath and would uphold it to her dying breath. Her dark eyes finally took hold of her queen, who looked just as shaken as Sheatha, having never seen an army like the one before them. With note on where her Queen was, Lothiriel stared back out at the growing dark, storm clouds gathering in the east, casting shadows, a foretelling of what was to come. The sun would rise red in the morning. For blood would be spilt this night.

It was a standoff. Neither army moving, a thickness to the air as they stared each other down. The storm clouds opened as the earth shook and the sky roared. Rain pattered across the armor and the archers stood at the ready, their arrows crossed, and their bows pulled. Aragorn held them, his arm raised, sword in hand, and his stance strong. Lothiriel watched with her warrior eyes, glancing for any tricks that the orcs might pull. Arianna's voice drifted over the rain as she called to her troops to stand strong, to pull their arrows and hold for the signal to fire.

An arrow was released, and an orc fell. The first move had been made and the orcs rushed upon the wall, their stomping and screaming scarring the air. A new barrage of arrows was thrown, and then another, then another, more and more orcs went down as more and more arrows rained upon them, but it wasn't enough. They weren't enough. The orcs had arrows of their own and several men went down. Then a nightmare. Ladders were raised to the wall and orcs started to climb, they would reach their prey any way that they knew how. Lothiriel watched in terror as they attacked her Queen and her troops. Ignoring the pain in her side and the fact that her sword arm was damaged as well, she ran along the break, cutting down anything in her path to get to her Queen. It was her job to protect her after all. She leapt in front of Arianna and beheaded the orc before her. Ignoring the calling of her name, she continued to swing, blood spraying all around her, the loud voice of Gimli in the back of her mind as he called his number of victims aloud to Legolas.

Her tenth orc fell before her, but gripped her armor, almost pulling her back over the wall with him and into the tens of thousands of his comrades below. She screamed, her sword falling from her hand as her now bleeding side hit the stone beneath her and almost caused her to black out from the pain. A hand gripped the back of her armor and hauled her to her feet, spinning her back and through the troops, who closed in around her, effectively blocking her from the fight.

Then disaster.

An explosion that she would never be sure exactly how it had come about erupted and took with it a large quantity of the rock wall that protected the people of Rohan and her own troops. Men and rocks went flying into the hoards of orcs. Aragorn and his men were now down on the earth below. Fighting as hard as they could to destroy the enemy that had no intention of surrender. They were breaking through the Keep, the gate exploding in splinters of wood. Everything was happening so fast, things were going so vastly wrong that it all seemed to slow as she watched it. The troops before her were still fighting, still swinging their swords, some of them in vain. More ladders and more orcs came up onto the wall, and more of the Lady Riders of the Barazinbar fell to their broadswords. Ladders were cut down, swords were swung, arrows shot, but they were losing, they were falling prey to the orcs surrounding them, and trapped against a wall of stone.

"Fall back!"

"Retreat!"

The sounds fell deaf on Lothiriel's ears as she attempted to get back to the front lines, but someone gripped her wrist, dragged her back and away from the wall. She went unwillingly with them, but in no condition to truly fight their grip. She was pulled inside the Keep, blood spurting from her wound.

"Hold fast, milady, there are Healers here."

It was Aragorn. He had saved her. Pulled her back from the edge. Her ears were ringing; she could hear voices, but couldn't make out the proper words. She felt herself drift, Aragorn's steady grip on her wrist the only thing anchoring her to the world of the living. She was losing blood that she could not afford to lose.

The orcs were attempting to breach the Keep, the men of Rohan defending it to the best of their ability, but the strength of Théoden was fading, and fast.

"Will you not fight?" questioned Lothiriel, knowing her voice was loud and harsh, and not caring.

"So much death. What can men do against such reckless hate?" Théoden replied, his voice and eyes dead.

"You must defend your people, be a King!" Lothiriel shouted, her anger welling up. Women that she knew, women that she respected and cared for were dead, and it was as if he was giving up.

"Ride out with me." Aragorn stated, his voice almost cautious, "Ride out and meet them."

"For death and glory." Théoden almost questioned.

"For Rohan. For your people."

Gimli sighed, "The sun is rising."

Aragorn looked up to the window as Théoden thought.

"Yes. Yes. The Horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep one last time."

"Yes!" cheered Gimli and Arianna. Théoden stepped closer to Aragorn.

"Let this be the hour where we draw swords together."

Lothiriel looked down at her side, she had no sword, she had lost it in the battle. Then, something hard and something familiar. The hilt of a sword.

"Do us proud, Milady."

Aragorn was handing her a sword, asking her to ride out and meet the orcs with them, he knew she was injured, but he knew she would fight. She smiled and nodded, taking a better grip on the hilt. She swung it twice to get the feel, and then stood behind the King of Rohan and the man that had saved them all as they swung onto their steeds. She left Breiseius back in the caves; she knew he had had enough of war. She ran out behind them, her Queen in her vision and together they started to clear the pathway of the darkness and the shadow. The sun shone brightly down upon them, almost as if to say that the shadow really had passed, that the goodness that they were, was defeating the evil that had threatened them.

The sword she had been given by Aragorn was sturdy, strong wrought steel, but nothing to the one she had lost, she was clumsy with it, missing her target more often than not, and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her worst fear brought to startling life in brilliant Technicolor. Arianna fell, a stray arrow piercing her leg, and a broadsword in her hip. Blood poured; her eyes wide and staring open as she fell.

A terrible scream erupted from Lothiriel's throat and she charged forward, cutting down the orc that had dared to attack a queen, and then more, and more as they circled around her, she, refusing to leave her queen's side, she didn't know if Arianna was dead or not, but she would not leave her to be sport of the creatures around them. The men continued forward, charging down orc, but leaving some in their wake, leaving them to Lothiriel's new sword and old anger. She was surrounded, and unaware of what was happening behind her, after all, the onyx eyes of her dragons didn't really see the world before them.

She didn't really feel it; that broadsword piercing her side, then her back, ripping her skin as though it were the thinnest of paper, spilling red blood – her life – all over the wet, muddy ground. She didn't feel it, not really.

But she could see the satisfied smirk on the curled grey lips of the orc who had desecrated her body. She swung out, her borrowed sword clanging against heavy armor, sending vibrations up and down her arm. She fell. All of it happening in slow motion. Her back hit first, mud spraying up around her as the rain soaked sky smiled down on her, the sun appearing overhead to mock her. Her shoulders bounced, pain shot through her neck, her hands numb and icy, the sword that had protected her for what seemed like so long, drenched in mud, stuck, useless. Just like her.

She crumpled next to her fallen queen, whose life she would give her own to save. Maybe she already had. For what did she know of dying? She was wounded, in pain, bloody. She could be dying, she probably was.

The battle continued to echo around her as the pain from her side intensified, her back searing red hot beneath her armor. But there were new sounds, hooves, more horses. More horses meant more soldiers. She knew that should be significant, but her muddled mind couldn't grasp the name on the tip of her tongue or why new soldiers should mean something to her. The sun shone brighter, blinding her and then familiar dark shadows echoed on the edge of her vision. She tried her best to blink them away. She had to fight; it wasn't in her nature to just give in. But it was out of her hands. The darkness grew as hands gripped her, lifting her up, putting her astride on a horse, someone's sturdy chest behind her, their arm wrapped tightly around her to keep her from falling. She groaned, her body slumping forward on reflex, but the arm shifted her, and her back hit the sturdy wall of muscle; her head lolling back in her helmet as pain and exhaustion took over. She tried to stay awake, to learn her savior's name, but the darkness claimed her.

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She drifted for what seemed like days, but was most likely hours. Dreams and reality wove together until she could not decipher the difference. Eomer's worried face hovered over her most often, his strong features gone soft with fatigue. Then hands, strong but trembling, fumbling over the clasps of her armor, attempting to remove it. She was lifted, her back and chest plate removed, then her leggings, her arm plates, her helmet, and finally her chain mail. Almost every piece stained sickly red with blood. She was exposed to the world and her healers now, left in nothing but soft jerk skin leggings and her scarlet tunic; the color deepened by her own blood. She whimpered, her arms heavy as she tried to lift them, sweat pouring down her back, the gash that resided there screaming in protest as she did her best to understand what was happening to her.

"Shh, milady, you mustn't move."

The voice was familiar but she was unsure to classify it friend or foe. She attempted to move again.

"No milady, no, please, do not move. You are hurt badly."

Hands gripped her wrists and ankles, then a third pair started to lift her tunic to reach her wounds. She panicked. Twisting and turning, every muscle and fiber of her being exploding in white-hot fire, screams tearing her throat raw. She couldn't understand, her fever was raging much too strong.

"Milady…"

"Stop!" the command was roared and all three pairs of hands stilled, their grips loosening, allowing Lothiriel to relax.

"She's fevering my lord. We need to seal her wounds, we cannot let them fester."

The commanding voice became soothing and soft.

"She's frightened."

The hands all relinquished their hold. A new pair descended upon her shoulders, lifting her into a sitting position.

"Lothiriel, I need you to stay calm."

His voice registered in her fever-addled brain and his name fell from her lips.

"Eomer…" it was meant to be a question, but she was much too tired to put any inflection into it.

One arm wrapped around the front of her shoulders, pinning her arms down. She struggled a bit, but his calming voice murmured in her ear.

"Do not be afraid, milady," his strong hand stroked her hair, "You have been wounded badly and need healing."

She whimpered, understanding healing for what it really was, pain.

"My men need to seal your wounds."

There was a faint hiss of steaming metal and Lothiriel put all of her strength and energy into struggling to get away.

"Lothiriel, please, stay calm."

Not even Eomer could soothe her. She was already in pain and not looking for any more.

"Milady, I do not want to have to restrain you." His voice was sharp, commanding, and Lothiriel knew the tone and understood instantly that he really would bind her to heal the wound. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out as the scent of fire reached her. She knew what was to come, had seen it, and had done it, many times before.

A salty piece of leather was forced between her teeth to protect her tongue. Her body wrapped tightly by Eomer's strong arms and the festering wound in her side exposed to the room. She trembled. Eomer whispered soothing words but none of them made any sense to her. Then blinding pain erupted. Fire burned through her wound, tears streamed from her eyes and muffled screams from her throat. She shook, no longer able to control her actions. She twisted and turned, her body buckling as her muscles tightened, attempting in vain to stop the fire exploding through them. And in the recesses of her mind she knew that the same experience was about to be played on her back. Then relief. The fire eased. Acrid smells weaved through her nose and somewhere it registered that the scent was her own flesh burning. Her tunic was pulled upwards again; the wound in her back exposed this time. The relief that had appeared was obliterated as that same fire exploded across her spine.

She lost all sense of time then. Never knowing if it was sleep or death where she existed. Sometimes her mother appeared beside her bed, and she would realize with a start that they had been talking and it was her turn to speak, but she wasn't holding up her end. Then her mother would smile and say in the most offhanded manner that they'd both died. Her father never came, but Arianna's did. The elderly king who was feeble no more. He didn't speak but an ice blue line rose from his fingertips through the air. Weaving up to the tall roof where at the point it touched the ceiling it erupted into blood and rained down on every person wounded or well in the room. No one noticed. She tried to call the blood to their attention, but no one responded. Then Eomer's face swam into view. He looked worried, his eyes like liquid flame, dark, stormy, tired. She attempted to call out to him, she needed his help, it was raining blood! Why wasn't anyone noticing? Why didn't he respond to her screams?

She reached out to him, her own blood boiling in her veins. She had a fever. Was she hallucinating? Seeing images of family that had long since passed wasn't a normal thing, was it? It had been too long, her wound, her fever, sickness welled up inside and she shook without any control. Eomer's gentle hands soothed her then. His calloused fingers smoothing over the fevered flesh of her arm, causing misty green light to erupt and weave through the air like strange colored smoke. He smiled at her.

He came every day after, holding a burning cup of bitter tea to her lips, begging her to drink, one hand with the cup, the other under her hair, helping her down the healing liquid. Sometimes she refused but he forced her to drink anyway and then he would sit beside her, his fingers gently stroking the inside of her wrist. She wasn't sure if he was an image created out of the fever, she also didn't care. She was grateful for him all the same. He kept her sane.

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"Eomer, I'm worried." Eowyn appeared over his shoulder, her brow furrowed.

"About what, dear sister?" he asked; turning in his seat to look at her, still holding Lothiriel's hand.

"You."

He started, looking surprised.

"Me? Why?"

She sighed, her gaze flickering over Lothiriel's prone and fevered form before returning to her brother's face.

"Lady Lothiriel has had this fever for some time now."

Eomer looked away, turning back towards the aforementioned warrior. Eowyn placed a gentle hand on his now tense shoulder.

"The Healers say she may not survive much longer, you may not have sealed her wounds in time."

Eomer flinched.

"They have done all they can, it's up to God now." she tried to soothe him. He didn't respond. Eowyn sighed and dropped a kiss to her brother's hair before turning back towards her quarters. Her brother was a stubborn man; he would never give up on the woman he had picked from the battlefield.

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Lothiriel fought the fever for another three days. She finally triumphed during first light of the fourth day. She shook no longer, her hallucinations gone, and some lucidness returned to her eyes.

"Milady?" Eomer's face once again hovered over her, his strong hand on her forehead and a smile on his lips.

"Your fever has broken."

Lothiriel could only manage a rather undignified grunt.

Eomer brought the bitter tea back and forced her to drink. She winced as the liquid burned and tickled her throat; she coughed and spluttered but Eomer stood firm, making sure she downed the appropriate amount of medicine. When he pulled the cup away she managed a glance around the room, her eyes searching.

"Aria?" she managed and Eomer sighed, taking her hand in his own.

"Lady Arianna was badly wounded." He glanced to his left and Lothiriel followed his gaze.

Arianna was lying prone on a cot, her eyes wide open but unseeing. Her once beautiful face bruised molted purples and greens. She was pale otherwise, her breathing shallow, barely heavy enough to move the sheet that covered her.

Lothiriel felt tears well up and her throat tighten. She turned her head back to look once more at the ceiling, choking on her emotion. She tightened her grip on Eomer's hand and he moved closer to her, his free hand smoothing back her hair.

"Is it as bad as I think it is?" she questioned him and he sighed heavily.

"Yes."

She nodded, tears escaping freely. Arianna was the only family she had left. She didn't know what she'd do if she lost her.

"The men say you and your battalion fought bravely."

She gave him the softest of smiles.

"Brave or not, it was you and your men who saved us."

He sat in silence, unsure of what to say. He was saved the trouble when Aragorn appeared, looking ragged and weary.

"Eomer, your uncle requests your presence."

Eomer nodded to the other man before turning back to the woman before him. He gently released her hand and stood. He was several steps from her when he turned back and was back at her side.

She looked questioningly up at him, confusion on her countenance. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

"Rest well, milady."

He left her side, escaping the room with Aragorn and leaving Lothiriel to wonder if his kiss should burn into her memory as harshly as the iron had burned into her flesh three nights ago.

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OMG! It took me forever to get this chapter to become what I present to you today, and I am so sorry that it took me so long with it. But I stink at fight scenes, and I wanted to get to the romance so badly that I would undercut it, and make the Battle of Helms Deep much too short, and that wasn't such a good plan, because after all, Lothiriel is a warrior, she would fight in the battle even though she was wounded. So I hope you all like it and please, please, please review. Please?

~Andrew's Slinky