Eomer rode with all the speed he could muster back down the steep paths of Minas Tirith. Frustration dogged his heels, for he found his way blocked in many places by the masses of men who had returned from the battle. Their faces were weary, but filled with the light of hope. They had won the battle. If they could manage that, then was there not a chance that they could win the war?

It became clear that if he wanted to get anywhere, he would have to abandon his horse, for it was too large to plow a path through the milling soldiers. He slid down to the earth and began to shove his way through the mob, chafing at the delay in finding Aragorn.

Eomer felt like a fish swimming upstream. He was the only soul trying to move out of the city, and it seemed as if, for every step forward that he gained, the current swept him back another two. Still he pressed on and, inexorably, he made his way through the crush of men.

Coming out on the other side, he began to run, certain in his mind that Aragorn would not have entered the city, for the time was not yet ripe to claim his birthright. A few stragglers moved slowly up the hill past him, and one of them caught his eye. The man was so small that he could have been little more than a boy, and he stepped gingerly, apparently unable to place weight on his right leg. Why was no one aiding the clearly injured youth? He was still some ways down the hill from the horse-lord and, as Eomer ran, he watched the youth struggle to ascend into the city. One last step proved to be the lad's undoing, and his leg crumpled under him, sending him crashing to the dusty ground.

Eomer advanced upon his position, but pulled up short, as in frustration the figure threw back the hood of his cloak. Familiar sandy brown hair spilled forth, and a face from his recent memory grimaced in pain.

"Halanna?" Would it never end?! Where were all of these women coming from? Eomer felt as if he would burst. How many ladies of his acquaintance were suffering or dead this day?

He reached her side and assisted her to stand. "Halanna? Do you know where I can find the Lord Aragorn?"

Her pain filled brown eyes squinted up at him, registering her recognition. "Lord Eomer, I failed," she spoke, shaking her head in humiliation. "I tried to keep her safe, but I've lost her, and I know not what has happened to her."

With ungentle hands, Eomer took her jaw in his hand and forced her to look at him. "Nimoë lies like one dead in the Houses of Healing. Her only hope lies in Aragorn. I ask you again, where can I find him?"

It took Halanna only a moment to digest this information. Then she pointed back down the hill. "His brethren have raised a pavilion on the Fields. You will find him there."

He nodded curtly. "Thank you." Roughly, he grabbed the arm of a man who was passing by them on his way up the hill. With eyes of steel he told him, "Take this woman to the Houses of Healing. You will answer to me if any further harm should befall her."

The man glared for a moment at the horse-lord for his rough treatment but, as he feared the anger in the tall man's face, and he took Halanna by the arm, leading her slowly up the hill. Satisfied that all aid he could offer to the maid of Rohan was given, Eomer continued on down the hill, all his thought bent on reaching the heir of Gondor.

#

Soon he had reached the Gates of the city, and he looked out upon the battlefield. All around were the bodies of the dead, allies and foes together. He shuddered at the realization that he would be numbered among them if not for the sacrifice of the Elf maid who was lying within the city. His hand strayed to his side, which ached, but was otherwise unscathed.

The pavilion was easily seen and he ran towards it, leaping over those who lay in his path. Upon reaching the doorflap he burst in, startling those who were gathered there.

"Aragorn!" he called, seeing the ranger's stern visage among those gathered about a small table. "You are urgently needed in the Houses of Healing."

The heir of Gondor nodded. "Another messenger has just reached me. I know of Faramir, Merry and Eowyn. I go to them momentarily."

For a moment Eomer stood as still as if he had been struck by lightning. "Eowyn, did you say? But she is dead!"

"Nay she is not. Sorely injured indeed, but not yet dead. The foe which came against her was too great. Did you know that she has slain the King of the Nazgul? It was she who sent the shadow from the field of war. She and Merry, the young Hobbit."

Relief spread like a warm tide through Eomer. There was a chance then that she might live. But what about Nimoë? "The Elf maid Nimoë also awaits you there. She saved my life, Aragorn, but in doing so, she may well have killed herself. Please come with all haste."

Aragorn nodded to those surrounding him. "Imrahil," he spoke, addressing the noble Prince of Dol Amroth. "I leave you in command here. I will return as quickly as I may." Then he ran from the tent, wrapping himself in a long cloak, and Eomer followed him out the doorflap, where he watched him mount up onto his horse and ride, as if the Dark Lord himself was behind him, towards the city.

The emotions of the day finally crept up upon Eomer and he sank to the ground outside of the pavilion. For long moments he sat there, shaking uncontrollably, trying to gain some measure of control over himself. He felt helpless. Eowyn might live, but she had defied him, coming away to war, and she had nearly gotten herself killed. And Nimoë… He could hardly bear to think of her.

If she was truly dead he knew that remorse would follow him for the rest of his days. But what could he have done? Had he not tried to save Legolas, she would have been killed by the orc, and even when he had willingly risked his life to save her, the Elf maid had given it back to him. It had been her decision, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Wresting his thoughts away from such painful wanderings, he brought his mind to the one care that he might be able to do something about: Halanna. It was true that she was injured, but it appeared that she would survive. He would find her and see what aid he might offer. Glad to have come up with a course of action where he might be able to make a difference, Eomer stood up resolutely. Then he followed after Aragorn's retreating horse, back into the White City.

#

As he climbed back up the steep hill of the city, Eomer looked ahead of him and was shocked to see Halanna and the man he had set to bring her to the Houses of Healing still struggling up the hill. Her hand rested on his shoulder, but that seemed to be all the aid that the man of Gondor was willing to offer her.

Eomer felt his hands ball into fists and he chased after them. Upon reaching their side, he reached down and pulled Halanna's slight form into his arms. Glaring down at the useless man, he spoke, "I expected more from a man of Gondor. Go! Get out of my sight before I forget myself."

The man scurried away, and Eomer felt the woman resting in his arms give a deep sigh. "Do not be afraid," he said to her. "I will bring you to the healers. You will not suffer any more needlessly."

As he walked, she gazed up at his drawn face. Quietly she spoke, "My King, it is not seemly for you to be carrying me. I am only a country girl, and beneath your notice."

He looked down into her pained brown eyes and smiled ruefully. "If not for me, you would not have come to this pass. It is my fault that you are so sorely wounded."

She shook her head to deny him. "The fault is mine, for I allowed fear to slow my sword. And then I lost Nimoë in the heat of battle. I have failed you in every way, my King."

Eomer had slowed his pace, afraid of what he would find when he reached the Houses of Healing. "I asked for more than you could give. I had no right. Nimoë is…" Tears rose unbidden to his eyes and his voice caught in his throat. "I cannot bear to think on it."

Halanna regarded him with deep pity, for clearly he suffered terribly. "It is alright to cry, my King. I will tell no one."

The sound of her gentle voice, and the tenderness with which she spoke, broke the last boards holding back the floodwaters, and he felt tears begin to spill down his cheeks. They blinded him with their strength and he staggered to a bench on the side of the path. Wearily he dropped down onto it and turned his face towards the wall, trying to hide his weakness from those who passed by.

He was aware of Halanna's soft hands wiping the tears away from his cheeks, murmuring words of reassurance. "All will be well. You will see. The Lord Aragorn will awaken your sister and, surely, if so many people love her, Nimoë cannot help but come back to us as well. Please, Eomer, my King, take comfort in that. All will be well."

Halanna was the only thing about him that was sure and strong, and he held her tightly to him, taking comfort in her unqualified solace. Finally, as his tears began to run dry, she asked, "My King, please, my wound pains me greatly. Are you strong enough now to face the healers?"

Eomer shook his head, clearing the last remains of his grief from his eyes. "Forgive me, Halanna. I am ready." Then he stood and brought her the rest of the way to the Houses of Healing, as prepared as he could be for what he would find there.