A/N: I sincerely apologize for the wait. Lots of stress.

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Chapter Five

'His fever has not died.' Ioreth folded her hands upon her apron and kept her grey streaked head down to avoid the eyes of the Steward and his wife. 'If it does not cool he will not make through the night.' His mother stifled a sob by covering her trembling mouth with a pale hand almost invisible in the dim torchlight of the hall; and she stepped back into the comforting shadow of her husband. Denethor reacted only with a mutter and a curse, and he laid a rough hand over her shoulder in shallow console.

'What is there to be done?'

'We must keep him cool,' Ioreth's words were simple and efficient. 'Nothing more than the light of a candle in his room, and the windows must be kept open. I will see that fresh wet cloths are taken to him cold every half hour to draw the fever down from his head.'

Finduilas nodded wordlessly and closed her eyes tight to keep her tears in check. Denethor's hand relaxed and gentled as it moved slowly over her back in light circles. Finduilas murmured quietly, 'I will stay with tonight, my lord.'

'Nay, rest, Finduilas and allow the Healers to care for our son.'

'Boromir will be alone,' Finduilas' grey eyes glimmered with tears, and her voice trembled in her aching throat. She turned to lean into Denethor's broad chest. 'He fears the darkness, let me stay with him.'

Boromir watched the carnage from his perch atop the steed he rode, clutching the reins with as much anticipation as the horse, which was blowing and stamping in eagerness to ride back out into the fray. Theodred lingered beside him, speaking words Boromir only heard as a blurred mass of sound. The plan was simple; he needed no more details, though the ever-proficient Theodred hammered it back to the men for assured comprehension.

Our men should have stayed just another two days, he found himself thinking, frowning and closing his eyes. The combined forces of Faramir's and his men would have crushed these Orcs as water shattering a dam. Boromir silently cursed, reminding himself what he always did in the heat of battle – never dwell on what could have been; dwell on what is to come. It was the driving force in his life, to keep what was to come a glorious outcome for the world of men; it was what drove him through blood and sorrow, days of pain and despair. He was the proud Captain of Gondor. Naught but death would hinder him.

'If the Captain is right then our downfall will be the imperfection in the Eastern wall's structure,' Theodred sounded grim and tired as he directed with a mailed arm to the blur on the hill's horizon that was their vulnerability, and the riders nodded their understanding. 'I will take as many men as I can find to defend the Eastern side, and if it has not yet been discovered. Then we will see if we can mend it and escape with only a few men forced to stay behind and guard it.'

'My lord there is naught we can do to mend the weakness of the wall with so little time, and under such an attack.' One of the riders said quickly, and he sounded breathless, his horse twitching nervously. 'What do you plan to do in the stead?'

Theodred knit his pale brows in deep thought, and he shot a long glance to the very end of the field where a mob of grounded riders and Orcs festered at the Southern Wall – it was an attempt to drive them back out of the city. Orcs taller and sturdier in stature had gotten past the first lines when the gates had been opened, and were now turning back and trapping the men of Rohan between two lines of the fighting beasts.

'Boromir.' The Captain met the Prince's eyes in a lightening moment. 'I leave the southern entrance in your hands. Do you hear me? Drive them out.' Theodred reached over to clasp Boromir's forearm as if he did not fully trust that Boromir was listening and not completely focused on the chaos around them. 'I will drive them away from the eastern side but you must finish the job.'

At this Boromir nodded swiftly. 'Aye.'

Theodred's fingers tightened on Boromir's arm and he leaned close enough so that he could speak above the rain without being heard by the other riders, a forbidden expression of fear lingering behind the shield of his grey eyes. 'Also I have heard no news of my young cousin, he should be leading his men but they cannot find him. Would you keep an eye out for him?'

'I will find him as well.'

'Thank you,' Theodred gave Boromir's arm one last squeeze, and the Steward's son returned it. They split apart.

The prince once again held his weapon high enough to reflect the warped flashes of the lightening and colliding clouds above, calling the attention of his men to follow him to the Eastern side. Boromir paused for only a moment to watch his friend with admiration as Theodred reared and turned, charging to defend.

--- --- ---

Eomer did not remember precisely when the attackers had divided, but it was sometime after Theodred had given the signal to gather a large portion of the men – he had seen this from a distance at the midpoint of the first hill where he had been aiding Faramir, and when his cousin's cry echoed over the rumble of the clouds a ripple of comprehension seemed to go through the host of Orcs.

Their numbers immediately divided, and their efforts were three times as swift.

The young soldier felt the rush of air that always swept forward when the line of an army approached, and before he realized what was happening he had been slammed bodily into the rain and mud-slicked grass.

Since then it seemed as though his entire share of the battle had been fought completely from the ground, his back submerged in the gathering puddles while he fought the foes that would not allow him a chance to stand.

Fear did not seize Eomer when the booted foot landed on his chest and pinned him to the earth as enemy upon enemy rose up to replace the ones he slew – it was invigorating; nothing in the world satisfied him as the taste of his own blood in his mouth and the sound a sword made as it met it's match.

Even, during his desperate battle, when the iron shod foot connected with his unprotected jaw because of a miscalculated move in the wrong direction and spread a hot wet pain all throughout his upper body it only fed his vigor, and he found within himself an unimaginable strength and lust to keep moving, keep fighting, no matter what the cost.

Finally, when he managed to gain enough leverage on his elbow and snapped both feet out to crack against the knees of his latest attacker, his boots grated into the exposed brown flesh and ripped a roar of pain that was both satisfying and enough to ring Eomer's ears.

The Rider wasted no time and thrust his weapon forward, but once again the darkness distorted his perception of distance and he aimed far too low – instead of delivering a finishing blow to the chest his sword was driven through the thigh of the Orc, beside the bone, and the blade glinted on the other side when it tore the flesh.

The Orc jerked in this new agony and while Eomer frantically tried to remove his sword and strike again the creature found the awareness of mind to take this chance. He smashed the side of Eomer's face with a closed fist. The impact rattled Eomer's teeth and sent him back into the mud, dazed and dribbling blood from between cracked lips.

The Orc struggled to remove the firmly imbedded blade from his torn leg and keep watch of Eomer all at once, but Eomer allowed no such time for his attacker to come up with any plan. Weaponless, he tore his aching body from the ground and dove into the legs of the beast, bringing it down and hitting the ground with it.

His chin snapped up and his head back, sending a sharp sensation down into his knees. The Orc roared and scrabbled to shove him off, the long talons scraping his chest plate but doing little more than pushing Eomer back into the mud.

The man cried out wordlessly with effort when he heaved himself to his feet despite the resistance from the injured Orc, and stamped a booted foot onto its leg. It screamed above the roar of its companions when he reclaimed his weapon. Eomer swung his arms back to come in for the final stroke, but one of the powerful hands locked around his wrist and twisted before it fell. He was driven to his knees with a short, agonized yell.

Eomer's arm was twisted far behind his helmless head and his fingers numbed so that his sword fell limply from his hand. Desperately he threw a blind punch behind his back, and his knuckles cracked against the wound he had previously inflicted on his foe. But along with the shriek of pain came his own out cry when a bony knee struck the base of his skull.

Eomer felt the warm wetness spread from its base point, and then drip down the back of his neck along with the pattering rain. Darkness over came him, and he pitched forward.

When next Eomer awoke he was unaware of time or distance from where he was now and where he had been. His hearing crept back into his senses and the roars and cries echoed about the walls of his skull as he flattened both palms against the spongy ground and pushed himself out of the muddy water, quivering in effort and almost swooning again under the terrible throb in the back of his head. His pulse hammered in his neck, and all that convinced Eomer that he was actually alive was the pain, and the labored beats of his heart.

The fray seemed to have left the section of the gates he had been fighting at, and dead laid all around him. Eomer quickly sprang from where he had been laying, and a wave of dizziness and pain blackened his vision into little more than specks of light dancing with the falling rain.

The stench of blood and rain clouds filled his nostrils when he drew a breath, and nausea came upon him as a hard, heavy clench in the space between his stomach and chest. Eomer kept himself above the ground only long enough to hurl forward and gag. Vomit splashed the already water saturated ground, and he shakily dragged himself away from it. Several feet, perhaps, he crawled before falling forward again, still and silent as before.

Eomer lay still, conscious but unable to movie, and his face still pressed into the rain-slicked grass of his land and his eyelids fluttering back into that peaceful blackness. Another sensation of pain, though not deliberate, bit into the muscle of his calf – the feeling of hard, prodding fingers moving along his leg to get a better grip. Two more sets of hands came to each of his arms, and a terrifying realization dawned over the Rohirrim warrior. He did not have his sword.

'Move him – quietly now!' the voice above him was thick with accent. 'Softly as you can, we don't want attention drawn to us – '

'This one's not dead!'

Eomer's heart stopped when the thought crossed his mind that they may be referring to him. He was flipped onto his back as limply as a sleeping child, not even breathing – the sounds of a half-living rider barely reached his ears before it gave a short cry and was silenced. Voices began again.

'Take them out of the gates.' The one above him snapped, the misshapen mouth making the sharp teeth of the Orc grind together in a horrible sound. 'And no eating them until the other lads retreat!' Eomer's blood ran cold. It was true, then, that the hosts of Mordor consumed their foes rather than just mercifully killing them. Strong arms covered in a coarse gritty flesh wrapped around his chest and pulled him up to be dragged out of the open gates and then flayed for food.

Eomer lost all self control at the thought and he hurled away the fact that he was outnumbered three to one. He released a wrenching cry and lashed an arm out behind him, fingers scrabbling along the leather and metal bound back, seizing a strap and then tearing the creature away.

The Orcs seemed surprised but not unprepared. Eomer stumbled to his feet and forced the dizziness away, blinking hard and searching around him for anything sharp. Nothing. Nothing but dead soldiers and discarded shields. The Orcs had not been as moronic as he had anticipated and separated the weapons from the bodies.

One of the Orcs his size crashed into still-weak body and brought them both down into the mud. Eomer distantly thought that his ribs may have cracked, but the Orc was already raising one of the rusty flat blades high over it's head to drive through his chest.

He tore an arm free from under the other hand of the Orc and met the blade halfway, only allowing the tip to graze his chest plate and then twisting it to the side. Eomer managed to jerk his weight to the side and flip over so that he dominated his attacker. It took only a moment to kill.

Eomer snatched up the Orc's weapon the moment he was on his feet again, and spun around to face the others with a feral snarl. He charged onward viciously, driving through the red haze of his pain and crying out over the howl of the wind and the hammering of the sky.

Much to his surprise the rabble of Mordor did not scramble up to meet his challenge, instead they all fearfully yelped fled clumsily in the opposite direction, barely holding onto their weapons as they ran. Eomer stood, dumbstruck by this reaction and still holding the foul weapon of the enemy in his rain and sweat slicked fingers. Blood of his companions stained the blade, and when Eomer finally caught this he cried out in disgust. He threw the weapon to the ground with deliberate disdain, spitting on it when it hit the ground.

The soft ground felt far too hard when his knees cracked against it, but he began rummaging through the armor, shields and bodies for wherever he may have left his sword. The sight of the proud steel glinting in the flashing light above as it rest in a puddle was enough to bring a giddy smile to his face. He sheathed it without a second thought. Eomer also fit his discarded helm back over his wild mane of gold hair and came wearily to his feet.

He had been injured, but not to the point of having to crawl into a corner and wait the battle out while gingerly nursing a few meager flesh wounds (others, of course, would have taken the constant pounding in the back of the head, the loss of blood, and the blurred sight as a bad sign and sought help rather than leap head first back into the fray). Eomer only tore a strip from his tunic to bind the deeper wound on his arm, where the blood had not yet clotted, and gave a cry of disgust as he pulled it tight. The scarlet rivers slowed.

Through the darkness he saw nothing but a mass of thrashing beings, man and Orc, and the merciless rain and uneasy feeling that clouded his vision bore down hard. He stalked forward, knowing of only one location to seek aid from – the hill's crest, where Faramir kept the lines strong.

Eomer pushed past both man and Orc, and despite the earlier words of Boromir, felt a great rise of heated discord, and he snarled audibly to those around him. Theodred should never have opened the gates. It would finish them all.

The light of the moon wavered through the brief break in the ominous thick clouds, but just as quickly as it showed its head did it once again slip behind the heavy cover of black and grey.

--- --- ---

The chaos on the inner circle of the city had momentarily ceased, if one could call it as such, and Eowyn had made into one of the houses, staring out at the gates through the veil of rain. Voices cried out from behind the great walls, and the feeling of thick despair that always accompanied her when Eomer would go into battle was heavy over her heart. Her brother may not come back, as was always the risk he took, but it was the one thing besides her that Eomer loved in all the world. It was the one thing Eowyn was never allowed to join in.

Theoden would scold her for participating in such a bloody fray, this she knew, but a few words of concern from the uncle she loved was not a price too high.

Soldiers moaned in agony behind her, and those that were being aided on the field before being taken into the homes of the civilians cried out even more in jarring pain. Their wounds were bandaged roughly and quickly as possible by the guards and various older women of the circle, trailed by their daughters.

The warmth of a fire behind her was comforting, and it's heartful crackling helped drown out the roar of the battle on the other side of the tall gates where the men of Rohan defended it. The material of her dress had been pale and blue, composed of fine soft threads woven with gold.

Now it hung around her as a drape that was too big, tattered and dithered from mud and rain. Splotches of still drying scarlet blood marred it above all, and Eowyn inhaled deeply with a tired smile. Theoden would also scold her for ruining another dress.

Absently she gathered her sopping gold tresses behind her neck in both hands, wringing it out for no real reason except she needed to occupy herself. The heat from the fire mingled with the lingering cold feeling rainwater gives when it drenches one's clothing and hair and created a sensation that contradicted itself, giving her warmth and chills at once.

'My Lady,' the voice was deep, youthful and hard with suppressed words. It was Ganha, stiff and cold in glance with his disheveled hair hanging in wet clumps around his stern face, pale blue eyes expressionless as she spoke to her. 'It is late and cold. You have done many deeds this night, but you should be in your hall, out of the rain, away from the battle.'

'You are wasting your breath.'

'It is my duty to do so,' he reminded her, and Eowyn waved a dismissing hand before turning back into the house. Ganha followed, fruitlessly. 'My Lady – '

'If you are so eager to help then bring fresh bandages.' she replied shortly, and gave him an even stare before descending to a crouch beside a young rider propped against the bed where another injured man lay. She rested a warm hand on the young man's damp brow, seeking signs of a fever.

The skin was cool and clammy, and his chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythmic breathing. The rider looked only ten or so summers older than she, still in his prime. His eyelids fluttered, and then slid slowly open, dilated eyes focused on a point in the thatched roof.

'He stirs.' Ganha knelt beside her and waved a hand before the eyes of the rider, speaking gently in a quiet tone, 'Eodrec, do you know me?'

Eodrec swallowed and moved his lips very slowly, his words inaudible even when Ganha leaned down to listen closely. Sighing, the guard reached up to the table beside the bed and moved the lantern down to get a better view of the rider's injuries, but Eodrec jarred in reaction, and Eowyn pushed the lantern away.

'He is sensitive to light, that is good,' Eowyn breathed, though she motioned for Ganha to move the lantern back on the table. 'He will not go blind.'

'Eodrec…do you know me?' Ganha repeated, and the sullen dark blue eyes slowly slid over to hover on Ganha's face. He nodded, though he did not speak until he looked upon Eowyn. There was not one rider that did not recognize Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, and Eodrec smiled weakly at her.

'You are here,' he whispered hoarsely, and Eowyn returned the smile, moving his damp clumps of hair away from his blood-streaked face. Eodrec frowned at her. 'Why?'

'I was wondering that myself.' Ganha put in from beside Eowyn, but the young woman only began to dab at the blood on his face, giving a light shrug.

'You have your duty, I have mine,' she told him gently, and Eodrec silently kept her gaze. 'That you are permitted to do yours does not relieve me of mine.' Eodrec managed a grin in the boyish features, and Ganha snorted, but the hint of a smile could be seen on his face. Eowyn moved away. 'You should sleep now, Eodrec.'

'Yes, My Lady.' The young man focused on the ceiling again, his voice barely audible amidst the falling rain and crackling fire. Before Eowyn and Ganha stood to leave, however, the rider whispered in a painfully dry apology, 'I am sorry for your dress.'

'I am not.' Eowyn gathered the skirts of her tattered gown and stepped lightly away, eyes shining and her blood and dirt streaked features beaming in a smile. 'Sleep, Eodrec.'

As they approached the door Ganha still regarded her expectantly with folded arms and raised brows, leaning against the doorframe. Eowyn frowned at him as she took a seat on one of the neatly carved chairs, moving the heavy wet material away to free her shoed feet. She met Ganha's stare.

'I am staying. Accept it.'

'Very well.' Ganha snorted, looking out into the grim night. The canopy of grey clouds choked out the light from the stars and moon, and the battlefield was black. 'You are far too persistent, my lady.'

'Are you also persistent?' Before Ganha could open his mouth to respond Eowyn shook her head and held up a bloodied hand. 'Yes, I know, it is your duty. Why do we not call a truce, Ganha, and at least for tonight end this feud?'

Ganha regarded her suspiciously, but when she held a hand out – sideways, as no other ladies would – he readily accepted it and shook hard. Eowyn did not flinch. 'A truce then, lady, until this battle ends. I then reserve the right as your protector to report to your uncle whenever you decide to recklessly pursue battles.'

There was a startled cry from outside the house, the howl of a child too afraid and traumatized to even call for its mother, and then various other panicked voices. An older woman's voice rang above the shouts, desperately, and Eowyn maneuvered around Ganha and out of the house to meet them on the outside. The woman's wet face was red with efforted breathing, and she fell to her knees before Eowyn. Several small children were crowded around her, clinging to the black and grey skirts.

'My lady, these poor little children had been trapped in the midst of the fray!' she cried, and the children whimpered and stared up at Eowyn with wide, fearful eyes. Eowyn nodded slowly, catching the look in the old woman's eyes that told her what was not to be said aloud with the children hearing. Their parents had probably been brutally killed, and had not been within reach of hearing the calls when the gates had been opened to allow anyone still outside safety.

Eowyn covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes tight, grateful for the rain that hid her tears. Now was not a moment for weakness. She called sharply to Ganha, who hurried over at her side, fingers twitching nervously as they clutched the hilt of his sword.

Eowyn knelt slowly before one of the children and held a hand out. The little white face stared at her long, almost as if he were searching her eyes for intentions, and finally stepped closer to her. Eowyn smoothed his wet hair from his face, squinting at him through the rain and asking as gently as the noise would allow, 'How did you enter the gates? Did you slip in during the calls?'

The child shook his head, tears staining his eyes red but not falling, and his white face was splattered with red blood that was slow to wash away. Eowyn frowned, twisting to give Ganha a questioning look and then turned back to the little boy. 'Little one, I must know how you came here.' One of the children behind him cried out for their mother, and the old woman drew them closer, but Eowyn leaned in closer, intensely. 'How?'

'The gate,' the boy said quietly, and stuffed his grubby fist in his mouth to hold back tears. With the other hand he pointed into the green and grey distance, to where the gate stood on the Eastern side. 'The little door under the gate.'

Eowyn sank back on the balls of her feet, her heart dropping into her stomach. Ganha hesitantly touched her shoulder, having not heard the child over the rain, and queried as the children were lead away, 'What is it?! Are their parents dead?'

'They came in through the Eastern gate.' Eowyn breathed, coming to her feet on shaky legs with her exhaustion and weakness forgotten, her skirts clinging to her thin legs and doing nothing to evade the cold. She met Ganha's startled pale eyes and fumbled for the sword still hanging in its sheath at her side. 'The space cannot be larger than the amount of space it takes for a child to crawl through, but even a little breach can turn deadly,' her eyes flashed when she looked over to the Eastern gate. 'The children most likely lead the enemy there.'

'Surely the captain and his forces are guarding it?'

'At this time of night it would be impossible to see any trouble with the Eastern wall.'

'Then would that not also apply to the Orcs?'

Eowyn exhaled sharply and drew her sword quickly enough to have taken Ganha's head off without him even feeling the blow. 'Are you coming or shall I leave you here and have Runhelm and Celgin aid me?' Ganha watched her carefully for a moment or so, debating whether or not to truly aid the White Lady in endangering her life. He snorted, and drew his own weapon.

'We shall need their aid in any case.' Ganha nodded. 'I await your orders, lady.'

--- --- ---

Boromir was rallying a group of men down on the far side of the southwest side of the outer circle gate, that much Faramir knew. He had heard nothing since Theodred began gathering men to defend the Eastern side, and rumor was traveling quickly of a breach. Had the enemy broken through the inner city?

Too many had died already, and the thought that perhaps he had been holding the wrong end of the gates while the enemy had devised a plan withered his hope into little more than the natural instinct to survive.

But at the distant point below him Boromir raised his sword high over his bare head and cried out above all the wordless voices of the Orc mob, and Faramir gave a bark of heartfelt laughter. He raised his sword as if he were standing beside his brother, and the line of men he commanded focused on him in wonder, and looked to where he had his blade fixed.

Theodred and Boromir were shouting orders to the Riders of Rohan that still possessed horses, and through the grey Faramir saw Theodred lean over and speak to Boromir, and Boromir gave a swift nod of affirmation. Theodred clasped his arm, and then broke away in one word to Brego.

All the Rohirrim defied the rain and chaos, rising a cheer from even the deepest cornered mobs of battle as Theodred galloped past with his men in his stead. A simultaneous flash of all swords on the field that night gleamed in the air as they were struck with the vanishing moonlight.

'The Prince!' They cried, and Faramir thrust his sword forward in the Rohirrim salute, shouting with the single voice of the Rohirrim Riders, 'The Prince!' The Rohirrim would rise.