Disclaimer: See Prologue. Gwen is mine.

The Light Within

Chapter Thirty-Three: Haste

by: Sherrywine

He never should have agreed to take the girl with him.

Éomer leaned low into his horse's neck as he streaked across the wide sea of grassy plains, cursing his impulsive moment of compassion and weakness with every stride that passed. He sent the men of his éored through the Westfold without him, knowing that the Eorlingas herd-folk there would need the protection they could offer from the encroaching Dunlendings and uruk-hais. It had been a difficult decision, to leave them, but the young girl in his arms had taken a sudden, stark turn for the worse.

Hammalbrand, a rider of his éored skilled with healing, had given him a pouch of herbs to mix with water to stave off the sickness that clearly ravaged her body, but Éomer had been too afraid that even a moment's rest would place her closer to death itself. That fear – genuine fear for this girl's life – mocked him. He should be with his men, defending his lands against the malevolent forces that threatened to consume it, and yet he was forced to ride for thrice-cursed Edoras in the name of a stranger. A sick, weak girl, even, one who meant nothing to him.

Why he had ever agreed to such a thing as helping her was beyond him now. She was slumped over his forearms, unconscious and dangling freely over the swiftly passing earth, and had yet to stir. He could feel through his armor that she was very hot, practically radiating heat, and yet no sweat ran from her brows. Fever was ravaging her tiny, fragile body from within. He had seen too many good men die from such a fever, born of blood poisoning, to ignore that she was passing from a merely ill state to deathly sick before his eyes, and a small part of him whispered that it would be more merciful of him to draw his own blade against her than to continue this fool's quest into the nest of vipers that had become his uncle's chief city. Thought of the man, his King, whom he so loved, who had fallen so far under the corruption of another, made Éomer heartsick and furious by turns. He would not be welcomed back into the city with open arms after having defied his liege in leaving it to begin with. Had he any sense he would turn back now and take his chances with a healer-woman of one of the outer villages. But Éomer could not, knowing that to turn back now would mean the girl's death.

Only his sister, a healer of great renown, could help her now.

Éomer still could not fathom why he had been stirred so by her presence. In his mind's eye, he could see her standing before him, fear from the fearsome picture he presented astride his warhorse etched into her delicate features, and yet he could see her attempts not to show it. She had shown so much courage, even as sick as she was, and even his men had been impressed by her nerve. The girl had been barely able to move, and was kept upright only by the strength of her will and the touch of the elf beside her. She was a strong person; he could see it from that first glance. The courage and determination she had revealed in the few minutes she had been coherent in his presence had stirred in him the oddest of reactions. She had pleaded at his feet, begging for her friend's lives. In that moment, emotions had swirled in him that he could not name nor explore fully given his current circumstances, yet still existed all the same. The fierce will that had shone in her face as it flushed red with temper reminded him strongly of his sister, who was the dearest person in his life.

That was what it was, then, he decided. She reminded him of Éowyn, who was all soft strength and love for the world, and who carried a will of iron and strength. That strength must sustain her now, because I surely cannot save her on my own without it. It did not sit well with him that anything was so far outside of his ability to influence, but Éomer knew her will to live would decide her fate now. That, and getting her to Edoras, soon.

Glancing down momentarily at the girl in his arms, Éomer willed her to live. It would be a shame for her to die, truly, even if her appearance in his life was naught but a problem. She was a wee thing – so slight in his arms, and no burden at all for a man of his stature. She looked like a child, and were it not for the rounded shape of her bosom beneath his arm and the curve of her bottom on his thighs, he would have thought her one; still, she was a woman fully gown, if small. This girl had many years left to her yet, if she survived this illness. If he had anything to say about it, she would survive. She was his responsibility for now, and he would sooner be cursed forever than to return the faith shown in him with her death.

Fiercely he clutched her to him, fearing she would fall from the horse as he spurred Firefoot onward. Éomer curled his body around her protectively, ensuring she was secure in his embrace before sinking them as low onto the steed as he could. The girl moaned aloud, coming awake in that moment, nearly throwing herself from the cantering horse with her weak thrashes and jerks. She would kill herself if she fell from Firefoot at this speed. Cursing his luck, Éomer shifted, lifting a hand to the woman's side to still her movements, and felt the deep heat from within her skin. She is in the throes of fever. Her strength had been so greatly diminished, Éomer was able to still her with just his hand, holding her to him strongly.

Firefoot understood his shift in body weight as a signal to slow, and he responded as he had been trained to do. They were not far from Edoras now, and the sight of the city in the distance created a lump in his throat born of anger and sadness, and yet also gladness. This was his home. Would he be executed on sight by the deranged, mad king whom he so loved? The woman slumped over his arms again, murmured unintelligibly, sending an irrational fear spiking down him and breaking him from his melancholy thoughts. Oh Béma, do not let this woman pass in my arms!

He could see the great hall of Meduseld atop the hill in the distance, and had Éomer been a man of great emotions, he might have wept in sudden, irrational relief at the sight of it. Spurred on by his forceful grip, Firefoot covered the ground more swiftly, taking them through the gates of Edoras and up through the city until he had reached at last the steps leading to the great hall. Éomer dragged the woman from the horse with careless strength before taking the stairs two and three at a time, ignoring the looks the guards gave him as he passed bodily by them. Éowyn will know what to do. She will save this woman.

He glanced down at the girl in his arms, and was struck by her delicate beauty, so marred by yellowing bruises and crusted wounds. She was the very picture of what happens to women allowed to fight in battle, by his thinking. Éomer swore then and there that his sister would never see this girl's battles as she so wished to. It was a fool's game, deadly when played, and he wanted to knock sense into the strangers who had allowed such damage to come to a woman. When he reached the height of the hill, Hama, the door-guard of Meduseld, tried to stop him from entering the hall of the King, sputtering about meetings and privacy.

"King Théoden will wish to see you, no doubt," he concluded with a stormy, ill-tempered look. No doubt the oaf Wormtongue had forced him to say that. Éomer scowled his displeasure at that name. "Not now, Hama," he growled, seeking to pass the aging doorman. But the red-bearded man stopped him again. "You would bring a woman here?" he gaped, surprised. His eyes showed incredulous curiosity as they swept over the girl in his arms. Éomer's scowl deepened as he ignored the question and shouldered past the old man and into the hall, yelling for his sister."Éowyn!" His voice bellowed through the open space in rising cacophony. He cared not of the servants and guards that rushed to see what was the matter, and ignored them altogether. It was his sister he needed. His legs ate up the distance quickly. Across the great hall the slimy worm Gríma whispered into the King's ear, ignoring his entrance altogether. By the Gods, I would rend him in two if I but could. The sight of the oily man there sickened and enraged him.

"Éowyn!" He roared again, to distract himself from his thoughts of murder, and this time the sound came more frantically than the last. Where was she? He rushed through the throne room, seeking his sister in the chambered wings of the hall. The girl in his arms did not have long yet to live, by his reckoning. Seeing her sweet face thrash in his arms did something to him. At last, his sister's golden head appeared in the hallway looking dazed and confused, her face stained with tears. He rushed forward, relief palpable at having found her.

"Éowyn, I need your help - " Éomer stopped, caught by the sight of her tears, which she was hastily drying, her gaze already taking in the feverish woman in her brother's arms. At the sight of those tears, he all but forgot the sick woman in his arms. "What is the matter, sister?" he asked. Worry and tension filled him up, made him want to shake the answer out of her when she hesitated. Éowyn's eyes met his and welled again, making his heart clench painfully. He could never stand the sight of his sister's tears. Dread settled like a lump of peat in his chest. "What has happened?" he asked again. "Tell me." The words were soft and as gentle as he could make them.

The woman in his arms thrashed and moaned, but he had to know, and she was ignored. Something was wrong with his sister, and she was far more important than the stranger. Finally, Éowyn told him, in halting, upset words. "It is Théodred, Éomer," she whispered brokenly. "He is dying." Éomer stared down at her, agog with shock. Horror swirled through him, leaving him feeling as if he had been punched in the gut, and for a moment his grip on the sick female slackened. She slipped from his weakened arms a bit, but did not fall. Théodred...dying? Nay!

His cousin could not be dying. He was the King's heir! It could not happen, not now. Not with Edoras cloaked in shadow as it was. All that Éomer stood for, in defiance of his liege even at that moment, would be for nothing if Théodred passed unto the dead before the King. Just the idea of it made Éomer forget about his purpose in coming here altogether: the woman. "What did you say?" It came out somewhere between a croak and a groan. Éowyn shook her head, motioning her brother to the next empty chamber. "I will explain later," she sighed, glancing again at the woman in his arms. "It is obvious there are those who have a need to be saved, yet still."

His attention, though broken by the shock of Éowyn's news, returned to the girl. His sister touched gentle fingers against her brow, stroking the bruises that marred her skin before turning her eyes back to him. "Who is this woman?" she asked, with concern. He looked down into the sweaty, bruised, filthy face of the woman he carried, suddenly even less caring of her fate in the face of Théodred's mortal wounds. "She is very ill," he explained, shifting her slight weight in his arms. "Poisoned in the blood, sister." He shared a look with Éowyn, knowing she knew as well how serious the condition was. There was a small part of him that hoped she would choose to abandon the girl and instead go to their cousin, but he knew she would not. Éowyn cared for all things, even strangers.

She waved him into the nearest door. Éomer bent to enter the bedchamber, waiting for her to tell him what to do. In his full armor, filthy from the journey, he looked every inch a battle-hardened fighter. They were two sides to a coin, she and he. Éowyn was the healer, and he, the killer. The girl in his arms thrashed and groaned, reaching for him in her fevered madness. Compassion stirred in him as he watched her struggle, knowing instinctively this girl would not die easily. She, too, was a fighter.

His sister rolled down the blankets on the bed, motioning that he lay her there, which Éomer did with a bit of difficulty; the girl would not let go of his tunic. "We encountered allies in the Westfold," he explained as Éowyn bent to aid him. Her hands were gentle upon the girl, and she made soothing noises in her throat when the fever made the girl babble. Her gray eyes flickered up to meet his again, showing him she was keenly listening even as she worked. "One, a Dúnedain, claimed to be the son of Arathorn," Éomer added pointedly. Her hands stilled on the pillows, her countenance disbelieving when her eyes met his again.

"How is that possible?" Éowyn murmured, shocked. "The line of Gondor's Kings has been long broken!" Éomer tossed one heavy shoulder up into a shrug, wondering the same thing. Indeed, he doubted the man's claim was true. Truthfully, Éomer had not been long enough in the Ranger's company to know if his words were to be trusted or not. Still, the information was not relevant to this girl, and returned his attention to her. He motioned to her prone form, laying so eerily still in the bed, her dark, bound hair gleaming dully across the pillow. "She is called Elin," he said. "They asked that I bring her here, for she was wounded badly somehow." Éowyn shot him a surprised look, making shame echo in his blood. She had not expected him to aid her, and perhaps his sister was right. Of late his heart and mind had become hardened. You did not expect this of you.

"She fell into sickness the day we departed," he added, pushing down the feelings only his sister could evoke. The woman moaned, punctuating the graveness of his words, tossing her head feverishly.

Éowyn sucked in a breath, pity for the younger woman obvious on her face. Éomer stared down at his sister seriously, his nose flaring with his anxiety as it was often wont to do. Éowyn was sure he didn't realize his eyes lingered on the girl's frame with an air of worry. "I do not know the extent of her injuries," he continued gravely. She placed an assessing hand on the woman's head, flinching back at the heat she found there, and whirled into action, knowing every minute counted in cases such as these.

"This fever will kill her if we do not bring it down," she said. A servant appeared in the doorway, and Éowyn took advantage of her presence immediately by waving her inside. To her brother, she said, "Fill the tub with warm water – not cold." Éowyn waved a hand towards the bronze bathing kettle in the room. "Go, Éomer! Now!" Never had she commanded him in such an imperious manner, and had the situation been less dire he would have had words with his feisty sister. As it were, he and Britta, her servant, did her bidding wordlessly, bringing bucket after bucket of water to fill the low tub in the corner of the room.

Éowyn insisted that he drag it out into the center of the room, so that she could move around it. Once that was finished, he turned to the woman – Elin – on the bed. Her clothing stuck to every curve. "She needs to be stripped," he said. He moved towards the bed, ready to do the job clinically and dispassionately, but was stopped by the servant's gasp of outrage and his sister's small hand on his pectoral. "Yes, she does, but not by you," Éowyn said firmly. Her clear eyes did not allow for argument. "I will not throw away her modesty so easily," she pressed.

Éomer wanted to protest, but Éowyn pushed him toward the door determinedly. It is not as if she has something other women do not. He had seen all that women had to offer a man, many times over. Still, he could see his sister would not be swayed, and Éomer tamped down his impatience. His sister caught his gaze with her own clear gray eyes, and he read the compassion and sudden flash of sadness in them.

"Go to Théodred, brother," she implored with both hands on his arms. "He has little time left. I will look after this woman you have brought to me." Éomer could see the determination in her gaze, and glanced one last time at the bed, concern and something more niggling at him. Reluctantly, he did as his sister wished, exiting the room. Britta and Éowyn watched him go, and the latter was amused to find that the servant looked immensely relieved at his departure. "Ever is he the intense one," she murmured. Her brother had a force of will that was difficult to endure. Britta nodded wordlessly in agreement.

Éowyn put him out of her mind and focused on the task before her. She studied the woman curiously as Britta worked to disrobe her. She looked to be, at first glance, from Dunland; her dark hair and small stature were common among the people there. That she traveled with the supposed lost heir of Gondor was most surprising, however, as the men in Dunland were most possessive of their women and never allowed them to move about. Éowyn wondered how she had come to be with such a group.

This Elin was surely a pretty woman, despite her injuries, and younger even than Éowyn was at a score and four years. She estimated her to be no more than nineteen years of age. Wordlessly Éowyn directed Britta to the other side of the woman as they worked to remove the poor girl's sweat-sopped clothing. "Keep her hair up for now," she commanded, and the servant dropped the thick, matted plait back on the bed, continuing to undo the laces of the woman's boots and breeches. Together they worked her pants from her hips. Éowyn winced in sympathy when Elin moaned aloud as they worked the breeches from her legs, clearly in pain even in her unconscious state.

A sweaty, well-bandaged wound was revealed at last along her thigh, and upon seeing the yellowish tinge to the rags, Éowyn was sure they had found the source of the woman's fever. When Britta started to remove the bandages to have a look, Éowyn stopped her with a gentle hand.

"We will remove the bandages in the water, in case there is much to be cleaned." Britta nodded and began to remove the sweat-soaked shirt, gasping in shock when she saw great purple slashes, more scars than fresh wounds, across Elin's skin. This is healed skin, Éowyn thought, wondering what in Middle Earth had caused such marks. "By Béma, this woman is disfigured!" Britta croaked, horrified, in an aged and brittle voice. Her wrinkled hands traced a jagged, puckered scar gently. Éowyn took in the scarring with equally horrified eyes, flitting up to the bruises coloring her otherwise pasty face. Someone has abused this woman terribly!

Her heart ached for this unknown girl, and she wanted to stab her unknown companions, lost heir to Gondor's throne or not. To treat a woman so violently is contemptible! Éowyn's imagination ran away with her, and she formed a gruesome picture in her mind of this girl's companions. Abusers, they are, to be sure!

Eiln moaned again, snapping Éowyn away from the her thoughts instantly. "No matter, Britta," she said briskly, "Let us move her to the bathing tub." She directed the servant to grasp Elin's shoulders and lift while she supported the poor woman's torso. Together they moved her to the tub of water, laying her gently into the warm, healing waters. When the woman still did not awaken and only moaned in pain as the water hit her body, Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief. "That is good. She responds to us, but does not wake," she said. "Her mind is not yet gone from this world." Éowyn motioned to the stack of cloth laying on a chair nearby.

"Wet the linen and soak her body fully while I remove this bandage," she commanded the elderly servant. Together, the women went to work, their movements silent and focused. After a few moments of attempting to untie the knot in the heavily sweat-caked bandages, Éowyn rose, frustrated and half soaked, striding to the door. "Éomer!" she called clearly, voice raised, knowing he would not be far. Her big brother appeared in the hallway, face streaked with moisture. Clearly, he had been with their cousin. "I need your knife," she said, trying to ignore the blatant emotion in her sibling's face. He stared at her a moment, trying to discern her intention, before finally acquiescing and passing it over wordlessly.

Éowyn started back into the room, but was stopped by Éomer's broad palm on her shoulder. "How is she?" he asked in a husky voice. Beyond Éowyn, the girl's head was visible through the space of the cracked doorway. She looked flushed and serene, but the shadow of death remained in his mind, and he worried. "I do not know yet," Éowyn answered honestly. Gently, she dislodged herself from her brother's grip and disappeared behind the door, leaving Éomer to his emotions.

Inhaling a deep breath to steady herself, Éowyn strode back to the tub and crouched in the floor near the girl. Cautious of the woman's pinked skin, Éowyn sliced the knot in the linen carefully away, grateful when the stained bandage came apart easily under the sharp blade. Placing the knife out of the way, Éowyn began to unravel Elin's leg gently, careful not to pull tightly or bang the wounded appendage against the tub. Once the filthy linen came free, she realized she would not be able to see the wound with the girl laying as she was, as the top of her thigh was decidedly unharmed.

Éowyn directed Britta to sit on the chair at the head of the tub and lift Elin out by the shoulders. The servant did this without complaint, though her thin frock was soaked to the bone in moments. "Turn her now, watch her head," the Éorlingas woman cautioned softly as the girl was shifted. Britta cradled the girl's head in her lap, and she wiped a wet washcloth over Elin's hair and face with a gentle touch, leaving Éowyn to attend to the gash on her thigh. It was not as badly infected as she had been expecting, but the wound had begun to heal already, the half-sealed gash leaving infection trapped inside. The outside edges had healed nicely, but the deeper middle was red and puffy, and most concerning. It is a good thing Éomer arrived when he did. This would have killed her eventually, Éowyn knew.

"Britta, I am going to need a needle and thread as well as bandages," she instructed softly, never taking her eyes from the girl's leg. "Oh, and those herbs and healing cream I used on my cousin earlier. Lay her back down and fetch them for me, please," she requested. The wound would have to be reopened and drained, a most unpleasant task for everyone, but it would be singularly painful for the poor girl. The servant paled slightly at the sight of the nasty gash that covered the girl's thigh, but quickly regained her senses and nodded, placing the girl gently back into the tub and swiftly exiting the room. Not for the first time, Éowyn was glad to have a woman such as Britta among the servants, for she was loyal and dedicated, never shirking from any task, even one so unpleasant as this. She had been in her uncle's employ since Éowyn was a child, if not longer.

Britta returned fairly quickly, clutching the needed supplies to her bosom. She laid them down on the floor as she was directed, and repositioned herself at Elin's head, helping her Lady to turn the girl once more in the lukewarm water. The poor babe made more soft, pained noises, but soon quieted in Britta's lap. The old servant cooled Elin's face constantly with wet cloth, and tried not to watch as Éowyn went about her work.

Deftly Éowyn sliced open the healing wound from the girl's buttocks to knee, grimacing as bloody pus welled from it instantaneously. Elin barely cried out at that bit of pain, but as Éowyn pushed on the edges of the newly opened wound, seeking to rid it of all infection, she keened and thrashed, forcing Éowyn to hold her leg more firmly. Elin remained blessedly unconscious, a blessing for both servant and lady.

Stoically, Éowyn completed the unpleasant task thoroughly, hating to cause even momentary pain; she didn't stop until blood ran cleanly from the wound, with no trace of infection inside. Only then did Éowyn and Britta clean the girl with a gentle soap to remove any oil and dirt from her body. Éowyn looked for other wounds but found none, other than her bruises. Once this task was finished, together she and Britta moved the wet, still hot woman back to the bed.

Britta sat at the head of the bed to ensure the girl could breath on her stomach while Éowyn began to restitch the entire wound deftly, using small, even strokes, and packing it with healing, infection-fighting herbs as she went along. At the deeper places, Éowyn layered neat stitches to ensure it would heal evenly, and well. The lady was so consumed in this work that she didn't notice when her hands began to shake from rising hunger. Britta, ever the silent, dependable aid, passed her cream and bandages with which to bind the sewn leg as was needed. Éowyn thanked her with a sweet smile, wiping her brow in weariness. Swiftly she applied the poultice to the woman's leg before binding it snugly as it was before.

Relieved that the task was at last completed, Éowyn tossed the dirty bandages from the floor into the softly crackling fireplace in the corner, bidding Britta to tidy up as she went. "Continue to moisten her forehead with cold presses, throughout the night," Éowyn bid her gently. Her eyes flickered to the bed and back to the servant's. "With luck, her fever will break soon." She crossed the room to the door before turning to clasp the servant's hands in gratitude. "We have done all we can do; I thank you for your aid."

Éowyn rolled her shoulders wearily, trying to work a knot from her back. She smiled gently at the servant before exiting the chamber, knowing her brother would be waiting for an update in the corridor. Surely enough, he paced the hallways like a caged Mearas, stopping anxiously when he heard the door open and scrape heavily against the cold stone floor. Her brother had always worked so hard to be stoic and emotionless. Yet she wondered if he knew how clearly he showed his emotions to her. Éomer stepped toward her, tense and moody.

"Well?" he asked gruffly, tense and agitated. Éowyn smiled gently at her brother, hoping her update would soothe him. Too often of late her brother had neglected his emotions, preferring the mindless duty of battle. While it was startling to see such blatant feeling on him, it soothed her to know he had not forgotten yet himself. "She will live, I think," Éowyn reported. "I had to re-open a long gash on her leg to remove a fair bit of disease that had settled there, and with luck, her fever should break soon."

The tension in her brother dissipated as she spoke, and he let out a sigh. "That is good news," he breathed, toying with the ends of his long hair. It needs a trim, Éowyn thought idly. "The heir to Gondor's throne, if it is indeed he, would be sorely upset were she to pass under our watch," Éomer continued, making his sister smile a bit. She knew him well enough to know that he, too, was pleased that the girl would likely live. To her surprise, Éomer brought her into a hug, suddenly. "Thank you, sister, for your aid," he breathed into her shoulder. "I was afraid that she would die in my arms."

There was a tremor in his muscles, though not for fear of the girl. Éowyn knew her brother well enough to know he was thinking, too, of their cousin. Their precious, dying cousin. The thought of him made her victory with the girl seem less, though Éowyn was mindful that it was not. With a smile for her fierce warrior-brother, Éowyn pulled back. "You always did have a good heart, Éomer, even if you pretend otherwise," she said gently. "This girl owes you her life, not I."

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