A/N: As promised, the next part. I haven't had as much time to pick over it as I usually do, so I'll apologize in advance for any errors. As for the next part, it's not looking like I'm going to have as much time to write as I'd hoped, so it may be week after next before I get the next bit posted. Hopefully this won't leave you terribly frustrated. I want to get this posted, and so will respond to reviews in the next part, but please know how much I appreciate the fact that you're enjoying it and taking the time to say so. :)


Standing quietly in the shadows of the cave, Eomer watched the departure of the women and children. They were silent, even the smallest of the children picking up on the mood of the adults around them. There were no tears.

Brynwyn and Hilde were the last to go, and he watched Lisswyn again kneel before her sister. But instead of reaching out, the little girl only stared at her, an unreadable expression on her face. Lisswyn gathered her and held her stiff form close for a moment before releasing her and stepping back. She exchanged a look with Hilde, and then the older woman touched Brynwyn on the shoulder before turning for the cave entrance.

But as she turned to go, Brynwyn looked back at Eomer. Her face was blank, her look a hopeless one that broke his heart. And then they too were gone.

He turned and stalked back to the furthest cave from the entrance, feeling rage and helplessness eating away at his self-control. He was the King of Rohan. He had played a significant role in the war against Sauron, indeed, had been victorious in some of the greatest battles of his time. And it infuriated him that he could not find a way to save the lives of a handful of women and children.

The desire to lash out was fierce, but even as he felt his grip on his self-control sliding away, he knew he dare not make noise or vent the way his fury demanded. He paced around the small space, wishing desperately that he was out on the plains, riding hard and fast across the land on the back of Firefoot, his preferred method of releasing temper.

His speed increased, even as some part of his mind acknowledged the ridiculousness of the ever tightening circle he was going in. And then he stumbled over a bedroll. Grabbing it, he heaved it at the nearest wall with all of the strength he could muster, could not prevent a growl of absolute frustration from erupting as he did so. And found himself stumbling again as his bad arm flopped around uselessly and threw off his balance.

For a moment, he thought he was going to end the undignified temper tantrum by falling flat on his face, but he managed to twist and land against the wall, where he leaned, breathing hard and feeling weak, as the adrenalin from the anger drained away and reminded him that he was only recently up from the sick bed.

Tiredly, he rubbed a hand over his face. Would he ever learn to control his temper, learn that venting it didn't accomplish much?

He heard a noise and looked over to see Eoden standing in the door holding a crudely made sword. The look on his face indicated all too clearly that he'd been there for awhile, had witnessed Eomer's fit of temper.

Heat crawled up his neck. "Eoden." He cleared his throat, struggled to think of something that could justify the lack of control the boy had just witnessed. He sighed, pushed away from the wall. Tried not to wobble on legs that suddenly felt unsteady. "Forgive me." He glanced away, back, allowed the boy to see his frustration. "It angers me that I can think of no way to save you all."

Eoden stared at him for a moment, his features dim in the candlelight. Then he nodded, stepped into the room. "I understand, Sire.".

As he came closer, Eomer noted on his face the signs of a recent fight. His face was scratched, it seemed possible he was going to have a black eye, and his other cheek was red as well.

Eomer frowned, reached out and touched one of the scratches, then raised his eyebrow.

Eoden flushed, looked down. "I fought with my brother. I want him to take our mother and leave." His embarrassment deepened. "Mama found us and boxed our ears."

It was hard to know what to say. "I understand why you want them to go." Eomer looked over at the bedroll. "But as much as I wish it to be different, if all of you go, most likely none of you will survive. It is their choice as it is yours, and you must respect that."

Eoden nodded, and they stood in silence as Eomer tried to think of something else to say. Some bit of wisdom that would help. He finally accepted there simply wasn't any, and looked down at the sword the boy carried. On closer inspection, he recognized it as the one Lisswyn had taken from the wildman he'd saved her from in the spring. "Let me see the sword."

Lisswyn was helping Brecka redistribute their belongings throughout the caves to make it appear that the few of them who'd remained behind had always been the only inhabitants.

She was refusing to think about Brynwyn, or the little girl's stiffness when they'd parted. The only way she was going to get through the next hours was by not allowing her emotions, her fear, her anguish, to surface.

"Lisswyn."

She looked up, saw the king standing in the door. "Yes, sire?"

He glanced down at his useless arm, then back at her, his face neutral and unreadable. "Do you have any more bandages or long strips of cloth?"

Puzzled and concerned, she nodded. "I believe so. Has someone been injured?"

"The arm throws off my balance. I believe I would do better if it were bound to my side." The words were tight, forced.

Sorrow for him seeped through the wall she was trying to build around her emotions, but she only nodded. She looked at Brecka. "Can you bring me the strips of cloth that are out by my healing pouch – where the King was sleeping earlier?"

The girl nodded and slipped out, and Lisswyn walked closer to the King. "There is no control over it at all? Not even in the fingertips?"

Irritation and frustration flashed across his face, and for a moment, she thought he was going to snap at her. Instead, he only gave an abrupt shake of his head.

She knew better than to respond, instead said, "If you truly want it to be made immobile, we should probably secure it to you under the shirt. The shirt can then provide another layer of binding."

He nodded, and she reached down, took his left hand, began pulling the sleeve of the shirt off. His fingers felt warm to her touch, making it hard to believe he had no control over them.

Desperate for something that would distract her, distract them both, from what she was doing, she said, "I saw you with Eoden and the sword."

He nodded. "He has some natural skill. It would be easy to teach him to defend himself …if we had more time," he ended with a grimace.

His fingers caught on the hem of the sleeve, and she carefully threaded the sleeve over them. As she did so, she accidentally brushed her fingers lightly across his palm, and felt him jump at the sensation. Then his fingers, apparently of their own accord, awkwardly curved in, grasped her hand.

They both froze. "Sire?"

But he was looking down at his fingers in amazement, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. He released her hand, then squeezed it again. It was obvious from the clumsy nature of the movement that he did not have a great deal of control, but he did have some.

Lisswyn smiled, delighted, as he squeezed and relaxed his fingers a few more times, refused to think about anything other than the wonder that he was regaining control over the arm. Like how it felt for him to be holding her hand.

He released her, looked at her with despair back on his face. "It seems unlikely that it will be sufficiently restored to be useful in our defense against the orcs."

She hesitated. "Perhaps I should bind it outside your shirt, though, where it would be easier to free should more control return."

Eomer shook his head. "I have seen men regaining the use of a limb after the poison. It is good to know it is starting to come back, but it will almost certainly take several days, at least, before I regain full control over it." His expression was bitter, acknowledging what he did not say: that they almost certainly did not have several days yet to live.

Lisswyn nodded, and continued removing the sleeve of the shirt. Once his arm was free, she slipped the shirt up, rested it on his shoulder. Looked away from his bare chest as Brecka hurried back into the room holding the cloth that had been piled by the King's bed.

"Thank you," She murmured to the girl.

Taking one of the longest strips of cloth, she turned back to him, eyed his broad chest.

He was the king, she was only his healer. She repeated the words to herself as she took one end of the bandage and held it next to his left arm, then moved close to him to wrap it around his back in an effort to bring it full circle. She couldn't quite reach, and found herself pressing closer to him in order to do so. It was utterly impossible not to be aware of the intimacy of their position, and she felt a blush scald her face.

Refusing to look at him, she stepped back, secured the strip to the end she was holding at his left arm, then walked around him, making another loop. From behind him, she asked, "Is that too tight?" She had to force the words through her embarrassment, but at least it was easier than facing him.

"No. It's fine."

He cleared his throat, and she wondered if it was good or bad that it appeared he was as embarrassed as she was.

She bound him with one more strip, further down on the arm, but this time reached around him from the back. It was only marginally less embarrassing to feel her breasts pressing against his back, and she felt her face flame again.

At the same time, the sensation affected her in other ways, and she found herself longing to be back on the other side, pressed against him while he held her to him. Impossibly, her blush deepened, her embarrassment now mixed with shame that she could feel such things given his identity and their situation.

It was affecting Eomer, too, and he was mortified that it was going to be apparent when she walked back to his front. He shifted, focused on a part of the cave wall that was particularly uneven, and gritting his teeth, forced himself to think of the orcs. He was grateful Lisswyn seemed to be taking her time tying off the binding. It had not occurred to him that it would be necessary for her to reach around him in such a manner until it had been too late.

His own response to her had surprised him. Always before he'd been able to sublimate physical responses to women, particularly when facing any kind of battle. What was wrong with him?

He didn't know. He only knew there was something about the feelings she inspired in him that made him more aware of her than he could afford to be. He had seen her own reaction before she moved around to his back, and knowing that she was aware of and affected by their proximity as well had not helped.

She walked back around him, and without meeting his eyes, reached up to pull the shirt back down, stretching it a bit to ease over the bulk of his arm. Desperate that she not look down and accidentally see something he'd rather her not see, he took the edge of the shirt and pulled it down himself, knocking her hand away and partially turning from her as he did so.

She moved away from him and began gathering up the rest of the cloth, but not before he saw her hurt at the way he'd brushed her aside. He finished adjusting the shirt, shifted his lower half a little more. Thought briefly about plunging into the cold spring he'd seen earlier in one of the caves..

She had finished collecting the pieces of cloth and was turning to leave.

"Lisswyn."

She stopped, her back to him. "I'm sorry for the way that happened, sire. I should have had Eoden and Andric assist you."

She thought he was angry at her for the way she had brushed against him. Wearily, he rubbed his face, tried to figure out how to handle the situation. Without saying anything else, she started toward the cave door.

"Lisswyn." She halted again. "Please come here."

Obviously reluctant, she turned and walked back toward him, her eyes anywhere but on his face. Hurt, embarrassment and shame were all displayed on her face, and he wondered how he could reassure her without giving away more of how he was feeling than was wise.

They were going to die. She was going to die because she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, had tried to help him. He would do anything to spare her, and it wasn't going to be enough. What did it matter if he revealed some of his confusion to her?

He moved closer, reached out and took her chin, and forced her to look at him.

"You did nothing wrong."

Her blush increased, but she swallowed, nodded, apparently at a loss for words. He remembered some of the glances he'd caught her giving him, the way she'd allowed him to hold her while she cried earlier, before she'd backed away. He suspected that the blushes meant she was not indifferent to him, and experienced a moment of intense frustration that the orcs were not going to allow them to explore those feelings in a normal fashion.

Experiencing a sense of hopelessness that was rare for him, he slid his hand over her cheek and around to the back of her neck. If they were really going to die, he would give them both this before the orcs arrived.

He leaned down and gently brushed his lips against hers, felt her start. When he lifted his head, he saw uncertainty come into her eyes before her gaze drifted down, settled on his mouth.

It was enough. He lowered his head and kissed her again, took it deeper, sank into her in stages. There was warmth here, and a shy welcome. To his delight, she slid her arms around him as she responded with a tentativeness that told him this was all very new to her.

That realization unleashed an unexpected tenderness in him, and he gentled the kiss, lingered for another long moment before slowly lifting his head. He sighed, then rested his forehead against hers as he slid his hand around to cup her cheek again, stroked the soft skin. Her eyes were closed, blocking her thoughts from him.

He pulled away a little, and her eyes opened. She gazed up at him, a look of both confusion and wonder on her face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "So damn sorry I can't figure out how to save you." He pressed a hard kiss onto the top of her head and stalked out.