The autumn sun was low in the sky when it became clear what the orcs were waiting for: nightfall. Darkness. Their stamping increased, and some of them could be seen pointing toward the sky as the light began to fade when the sun slipped behind the mountains.
Their vision would not be hindered by its going.
Lisswyn stepped out once more to join Eowyn at the front of the hall, her knife in her hand. They were still hoping there would be no need for those in the hall to fight, but the women were preparing as best they could. What few men remained in Edoras would stand with Elfhelm and his eored.
Eowyn looked down, saw the knife. "You will fight with that?"
Lisswyn stifled both embarrassment and irritation. "It has served its purpose," she said, unable to keep annoyance completely out of her tone. "I have nothing else, my lady." Her tone turned rueful as she added, "—and would not know how to use anything other than this, anyway."
"Forgive me," Eowyn said quickly. "I did not mean to offend you. Just the opposite, actually," she added. "My admiration for you grows, if that is what you fought with in the battle my brother described."
Embarrassment came back. "I do not consider that battle to have been a particular success. Nevertheless, this is what I have."
Eowyn did not respond immediately, then turned. "Come with me."
Confused, Lisswyn did as she was asked, realizing once they were inside the hall that the other woman was heading to her own chambers.
Motioning for Lisswyn to close the door behind her, Eowyn went to a chest, opened it and drew out an oblong item wrapped in oilskin. She unbound it, allowing Lisswyn to see an old leather scabbard, which Eowyn then handed to her.
"Draw it."
Placing the knife on a table, and with an uncertain look at Eowyn, Lisswyn obeyed.
The sword felt light in her hand, only a little heavier than her knife. It was longer than the hunting knife, but not all that much so. The reach did not feel unwieldy to her. A closer look showed it to have been well cared for.
She returned it to the scabbard, held it out to Eowyn. "It's lovely."
"I would very much like you to keep it, as a gift."
Lisswyn stared at her, dumbfounded. "My lady, I—"
"Please." Eowyn reached out, gently touched the scabbard. "It was my first sword, a training sword, really. But I think it will serve you well as a transition from the knife, as it weighs only a little more, and yet its length will be better for fighting."
"But—"
"Please," Eowyn repeated. "I think you do not yet see your courage in the caves the way others do. The fact that you were injured does not change the fact that you stayed willingly, faced orcs with only a knife. Such bravery needs a sword."
Her face flaming, Lisswyn once again pulled the sword, then resheathed it. Struggled for words. "I hope I will not need to use it," she finally said.
"As do I." Eowyn turned, walked over to a corner. When she came back, it was with a shield. "But if you need the sword, you will need this as well." Like the sword, it was also smaller than a normal shield, but would provide some cover.
Lisswyn accepted it, tested it. How had she come to this?
Not long after the sun finally sank behind the mountains, the agitation of the orcs increased. From a conversation she'd earlier overheard between Eowyn and Elfhelm, Lisswyn knew that the Marshal's eored was positioned along the walls with bows, and it was clear from the screeching that the orcs had spent quite some time stamping and jeering just outside the range of the weapons. Taunting them.
As the dusk deepened, their screams grew louder, as did the noise of their stamping feet, heavy in their armor.
And then they charged. From her position in front of the hall, it was hard to see anything other than the bobbing torches, but Lisswyn was heartened by the number of lights that just as quickly went out, falling as Eorlingas arrows felled the orcs that carried them.
She looked around her. The area in front of the great doors was crowded with women, all holding some kind of weapon, all silently focused on a battle they could barely see. Many of them had husbands and sons now fighting along the wall, fighting to protect the gates.
Others, like Ceolwyn, were wives of the men with the king. It had surprised Lisswyn to see the other woman there when she had small children.
She must have seen the question on Lisswyn's face. "Eothain trained me to fight last year. He wanted me to be able to offer at least some defense should we be attacked while he was away fighting in the south." She grimaced. "The irony now is that even if I die fighting on the steps of Meduseld, it will not necessarily mean the children are orphans."
The thought of the men's grief should they arrive back in time to save their children but not their wives made her eyes sting, and Lisswyn looked out once more in the direction the kings had ridden off in, hoping desperately to see some sign of their return.
But wishing wouldn't bring the men back. She shifted her gaze back to the women, standing grimly around her. Nearly all of them, including herself, were in leggings and mail. It was hard to say which felt stranger – the mail's soft clinking, or the lack of a skirt when she looked down at her legs. She had not worn hose without an overskirt in many years – not since before Brynwyn's birth, when she'd had more time to ride. But Eowyn had pointed out that fighting was much easier if skirts didn't hamper you, and Lisswyn had agreed with her.
She'd been surprised at the amount of mail and armor which had been stockpiled in a storeroom, much of it obviously intended for smaller frames – primarily boys just beginning their training, but for women also, should the need arise.
Her hand tightened on the sword. It felt a little awkward, but she thought she could use it. She just didn't want to. She again looked out over the plain, beyond the dark mass of orcs barely visible in the moonlight. There was still no sign of the king. Had the kings and their men all been defeated by the orcs attacking the herds? Would evil win after all? Even after the defeat of Sauron?
Brecka silently moved over to stand next to her, and Lisswyn saw that the younger woman's gaze was also fixed out on the plains, beyond the orcs, no doubt thinking the same things Lisswyn was thinking.
As the battle continued, she began to relax, began to have hope. Marshal Elfhelm's men had the upper hand, after all, as they fired arrows from behind the wall.
Then she heard a cry, the word they'd all been both expecting and dreading. Ladders. She turned, met Eowyn's eyes. It had been too much to hope for, that the orcs would not have come prepared to scale the wall. The entire attack was too well organized for that. But it increased the likelihood of the loss of many more of the men. And of she and the rest of the women having to fight.
Eowyn moved over to stand next to her. Her eyes focused downward, on the gate, she began softly speaking, though Lisswyn wasn't sure whether it to herself or Lisswyn.
"Elfhelm will split up his men, probably into three groups," she murmured. "One will continue defending the wall directly, one group will move this way, to provide a line of defense against the orcs who make it over the wall and would start up toward us, while another group will do the same with the gate – for once it is taken, the orcs will simply pour in."
"Even then," she continued softly, "we will still have a chance, if the men were able to kill enough of them from the walls to even the odds once the gate is lost."
She fell silent, and they once again resumed listening. Watching. Straining their eyes to see more clearly what was happening.
But they didn't need sight to know when the gate was breached. The roar of the orcs, the angry cries of the men, told them that the battle was not going well.
"My lady…should we not go down and help them?" Lisswyn blurted, unable to believe she was asking such a thing. "If the numbers are possibly that close, could not our presence down there make a difference to Elfhelm and his men?" She had no illusions about her skill with the sword, but if she could kill even one of the orcs before she herself was killed, that would still reduce the number of the enemy by one.
The King's sister was silent for a moment, her eyes still fixed on the bobbing torches down by the gate. "Aye. We could make a difference. But if we go, and if we too are taken, there will be no one to make a last stand to protect the children inside." She turned to Lisswyn, grimaced. "That was how Elfhelm convinced me to stay up here in the first place."
Lisswyn nodded, looked back down. Froze. "Eowyn," she said in a strangled voice, barely aware that she had called the other woman by her name rather than an honorific, "they are burning the city."
It was true. The buildings closest to the gate were on fire. It made it easier to see the progression of the battle as it swept up the hill, but she grieved for those who were even now losing their homes.
Eowyn swore softly in the direction of the orcs. It was a word Lisswyn had heard the king use more than once, and despite the grimness of the situation, it nearly made her smile in spite of herself. It also once again made her long for the sound of horns. Where were they? Did the kings even yet remain unaware of their need?
They rode hard and fast, and Eomer was grateful for the moonlight that made such a pace possible. That and the fact that both his men and their horses knew every league of this land as well as they did their own homes and stables.
More than once, he looked over at Eoden. The boy rode beside him, and despite his obvious exhaustion, had no trouble keeping up with the pace. Neither did Fleetfoot, and watching him, listening to him, Eomer knew it was due to the way Eoden handled the horse. His respect for the lad grew.
They were going to have to fight. Grimly, Lisswyn tightened her grip on the sword, forced back the fear. The battle was coming closer, was nearly to the outbuildings of Meduseld now. Much of the lower city was in flames, though it looked as if the orcs weren't torching every single building. No doubt they figured they could always go back once the hall was in ruins. Or maybe they figured it wouldn't matter once all the Eorlingas were dead. And the fires would spread on their own as well.
The worst part of it, or nearly so, was that the women waiting on the steps of the hall had no way of knowing just how many orcs were still alive, or how many they'd be facing. They could still hear the shouts of men rising up reassuringly over the squeals of the orcs, but based on the fact that the battle was still progressing, if slowly, up the hill meant it must be well matched between the men and orcs.
Of course, on a more positive note, that meant that Elfhelm's men must have killed a good number of them before they breached the wall.
She'd stopped looking out over the plains for the kings and their men. She could no longer afford the distraction of hope. Maybe the kings and their men would come. But it was looking more and more likely that if they did, it would be only to see the loss of the capital of the Riddermark.
The sounds of battle grew closer, and Lisswyn braced herself for the moment they would sweep around the curve in the road.
It happened with a whoosh as one, then another of the outbuildings caught fire, and then men and orcs, locked in fierce battle, came around the bend.
They circled around each other, but always the orcs were moving the battle upwards, keeping the men retreating.
"Here we go," Eowyn said grimly, not sounding completely displeased.
Lisswyn took a breath, once again forced back memories of the battle in the caves. The odds were better in this one. She tried to count, but with the movement and shadows, it was impossible. Suffice to say enough of the orcs still fought. She tightened her grip on the sword, swung it.
Eomer crested the top of a hill, and slowed, knowing that now he would get his first sight of Edoras, would be able to see for himself what they facing.
It took a moment for his mind to register what his eyes wanted to deny.
Shock moved through him. He had known it was a possibility, but seeing the city in flames stunned him.
Then the horror turned to fear as he thought of those inside – Eowyn, Lisswyn, the other women. The children. And for the orcs to have progressed as far as they had meant Elfhelm might already be dead.
Fury replaced the fear, settled cold in his stomach. He turned, shouted back, "They burn the city. Ride!" He heard the cry going back as the men roared in response.
He wished for the kinds of words Theoden had had to muster the men before the battle of the Pelennor, or that Aragorn had used before the black gate. But none would come, and he would spend no time trying to think of them. Such words would be necessary anyway. The sight of Edoras in flames would do more than he could to rouse them to battle. Raising his voice louder, he cried, "Forth Eorlingas!"
They charged.
The battle in the caves had been fairly straightforward, Lisswyn discovered. There had been limited space, and that had directed the battle somewhat.
Such was not the case now. There were men and orcs fighting all over the area directly in front of the hall, with the orcs occasionally trying to start up the steps, only to be pulled back down. The orcs were determined to make it up, the men equally determined that they wouldn't. At least the hand-to-hand battle between the men and the orcs was preventing the orcs from targeting the women on the steps with arrows.
Some smaller groups of the orcs were trying to get to the stables, but the men were holding a line, blocking it. The battle must not reach the horses. Even over the noise of the fighting, she could hear the sounds of agitated horses in their stalls. Trained for battle, they weren't happy at being locked up, but there was too little room to maneuver in the narrow streets of Edoras to use the horses effectively.
She and Eowyn, followed by some of the other women, had crept part way down the stairs, only to stop and then retreat – not due to fear, but rather an awareness that being higher up would provide an advantage when the orcs finally made it up the steps.
But it was hard, much harder than Lisswyn had expected, not to go down those steps and into the battle. If waiting was hard, waiting while watching was worse.
She saw Elfhelm move to the bottom of the steps, realized for the first time that he had obviously been injured. He was fighting without a shield, indeed his shield arm hung useless and bloody. It amazed her that he could fight as well as he did, when he must be in considerable pain.
In the light cast by the fire she saw more orcs pour into the courtyard. One of them seemed much bigger than the others, and she frowned, staring hard at the creature. Was it a trick of the light?
"An Uruk," muttered Eowyn.
Uruk-hai. Orcs were bad enough, and certainly deadly, but they weren't the most intelligent of creatures. Lisswyn grimaced. The only reason that Maegwen had been the lone casualty in the caves was because orcs weren't particularly good at battle strategy. But Uruk-hai were different. Canny creatures, they were deadlier than orcs, and their presence in the battle significantly reduced the chances of any of the Eorlingas surviving. But how many of them were there?
Several of the men turned, targeting the Uruk, which allowed three of the orcs to slip past the line the men had been maintaining in front of Meduseld and start up the steps. Lisswyn and Eowyn exchanged glances before starting down once more. This time, they didn't turn back.
Even knowing she couldn't afford the distraction, Lisswyn's thoughts turned to the king as she moved down the steps. Had Eoden even found them? Was he lost somewhere in the darkness? Or dead?
She gave a sharp shake of her head, focused on the orc coming toward her. She brought the sword down, partially severed its arm. The orc howled, transferred the sword to its other arm, and charged her. She brought the shield up, slashed down again. The orc's sword hit hers at an angle, deflected. Its injury was affecting its fighting ability, and Lisswyn used it to her advantage, managed to slice deep into his neck on her next thrust.
The orc fell, but there was no time to relish that fact – not when there were more of them behind him.
They were nearly to Edoras before Eomer looked over at Eoden and realized the boy had neither weapon nor armor. He frowned, unwilling to prevent Eoden from riding into the battle – not that he thought it would do much good to order him to stay behind, anyway – but uncertain how to protect him. Reaching behind him, he pulled out his spare sword.
He had never had to use it, could not imagine actually fighting with anything other than Guthwine. But a warrior was always prepared for the loss of his weapon.
Riding close to Eoden, he shouted the boy's name, then tossed him the sword. Eoden caught it, and despite their shared worry for those in the city, gave Eomer a delighted grin.
They rode on.
At the gates of Edoras, Eomer, with grim satisfaction, took in the number of dead orcs that had been felled by Elfhelm's archers before the gate was breached. That many less inside, then.
His mood changed back to simple fury once they were in the city and confronted with dead Eorlingas lying on the ground. The numbers weren't huge – it hadn't been a massacre – but he ached at the loss of more good men. Some, though injured, yet lived, and he could only hope they survived until after the battle, when the healers could tend them. Aragorn, with his healing skills, would make a difference there, too, but first they had to finish the battle.
He saw a larger figure on the ground, and grimaced. An Uruk. Aragorn had been right, then, about the possible involvement of the Uruk-hai. He looked up, exchanged a glance with the other man. At least it wasn't an entire army of the creatures.
It was growing harder to see due to the smoke, and the horses had to go more slowly or risk tripping. As they made their way up toward Meduseld, he was gratified to hear human voices raised in battle. Some still lived then -- they weren't arriving after all was lost. He turned his mind away from thoughts of Lisswyn and his sister, and focused on making it up the hill.
That Elfhelm's men had fought fiercely all the way up the hill was evident by the dead orcs littering the road. The Eorlingas he saw were mostly injured, not dead, and were in much fewer numbers. Testament that the men had been fighting on their own ground, had known how to make use of the buildings around them.
The leading edge of the riders, Eomer and Aragorn at the front, swept around the road's curve and into the courtyard of Meduseld with a roar. It was immediately apparent that it was no place for the horses – about seventy-five orcs and fifty or so of Elfhelm's men were fighting there, and the horses would find it too difficult to maneuver.
Startled screams from the orcs indicated that they hadn't heard the riders' horns over the noise of the battle and the fires, and Eomer knew they needed to take advantage of the orcs' confusion. His eyes still taking in the details of the scene before him, he dismounted, heard his men doing likewise behind him. Glancing over at Eoden, he said, "See if you can make your way to the stables, and assist with the defense there."
As the boy nodded and began to lead both Fleetfoot and Firefoot away, Eomer shouted to Alric, "Remain on your mounts, cover the road." There wasn't room in the stables for all the horses, and someone needed to prevent orcs from escaping back down the road.
The other man nodded, but Eomer had already spun back around, charged into battle. It was time to end the threat of the orcs for good.
He had already seen the women fighting on the steps, and now, even as he ruthlessly started dispatching orcs, he realized that both Eowyn and Lisswyn were among them. He was relieved to see Lisswyn in mail, recognized the sword she was using.
He didn't like the fact that any of the women were in the battle, but at least some of them, including Eowyn, had some real training. Lisswyn did not. He killed another orc, grimly acknowledge that he understood the necessity that had placed Lisswyn in battle. He respected her courage in not backing down from the challenge, and so far, it looked like the numbers of orcs that were making it to the stairs were manageable.
But in addition to the orcs, there was an Uruk who seemed determined to get to the stairs, and the men who were equally determined he wouldn't were paying a high price to prevent him from doing so. He saw Elfhelm, saw the man fighting despite an obvious injury. Furious at the sight of his injured friend, he renewed his attack.
The orcs were beginning to realize that he was present, and their grunts and squeals became louder as they left off targeting Elfhelm's men and turned to challenge him. They knew they were going to die – with the arrival of the riders, they were now hopelessly outnumbered. But as was normal with their kind, their new goal was simply to kill as many of the humans as possible before they were stopped. And they all wanted to be the one to kill one of the kings.
Let them try. Unlike Elfhelm and his men, he wasn't already battle-weary. The only drawback to it was that he could no longer keep an eye on the steps, on the women.
With a fierce yell, he lunged, killed three of the orcs near him. They too, were tired, and fighting poorly.
When he was next able to spare a moment to glance at the steps, he saw that the renewed push from the arrival of his men was forcing the orcs up, towards Meduseld. Despite many of them coming after him and Aragorn, more of them were now on the stairs. Elfhelm's men were still trying to hold them back, but were obviously having a hard time of it, and Elfhelm himself was fighting the Uruk. Eomer had to get to the stairs.
He worked his way to the outer edge of the battle, started toward Meduseld. Some of his men followed him. They took their responsibilities seriously, and were determined to stay close to him, fighting along side him. It annoyed him at the same time he was grateful for it, as it increased the speed with which he was able to move around to the stairs.
The next time he glanced over at the steps, he saw Aragorn dispatch the Uruk, but he could no longer see Elfhelm at all. Thoughts of his Marshal were replaced by horror as he saw that a group of orcs, several of which were focusing on Lisswyn, now separated Lisswyn and Eowyn. Frantic, he tried to see if any of the men were nearby, would be able to go to her aid, but could not get a clear view through the battle.
The attempt cost him. One of his men shouted at him, and he spun, just in time to duck an orc's blade. It missed his head, sliced into his upper arm. Thanks to the mail, it mostly bounced off, but a hard enough blow, particularly an angled one, could cause the individual rings to weaken and break, resulting in some of the blade getting through. And this had been intended as a killing blow.
It wasn't a bad injury – that was the point of the mail, after all – but it stung, and annoyed him. Furious on every possible level, he took out two more orcs, before looking up again. To his relief, he was getting close to the stairs.
Lisswyn seemed to be holding her own, with the assistance of some of the men. It looked as if a few of the riders had made it to the steps – men who weren't being targeted as he and Aragorn were.
And then he was there, fighting at the foot of the stairs. A glance around told him that the battle was reaching its conclusion. Though quite a few orcs remained on the ground, Aragorn and their men were quickly dispatching them.
He looked up, and saw that only Eowyn, Lisswyn and Brecka were really still engaged in battle on the stairs. Other women stood on the porch, obviously trying to figure out how to help those on the steps, but the lack of space and the position of the orcs made it difficult. He couldn't see where were the men who'd been on the steps earlier had gone.
The orcs were trying to drive the women up the stairs, where, trapped against the front of Meduseld, they would have less room to maneuver.
As he killed the two orcs still on the ground preventing him from reaching the bottom of the stairs, he saw the orcs above him shift into a new pattern. They were trying to increase the distance between the women, surrounding them, continuing to force them upwards. Unlike when the same thing had happened earlier, there were now more of the orcs to do so, and fear beat at him.
Even his sister would not be able to withstand five orcs focused on her at once, and Lisswyn didn't have a hope of surviving the four she was currently battling. And further up the stairs, three more were targeting Brecka.
He could not save them all.
He vaulted up the stairs, taking out the nearest orc – one of the ones attacking Eowyn – then glanced frantically around. Where were the rest of the men?
Aragorn was obviously trying to reach the stairs, but was still too far away to help. Eomer hesitated, knew he could not afford to do so. A split second could be fatal, yet he froze, torn between aiding the sister he'd spent his entire life trying to protect, the woman he loved and knew to be a less competent fighter, and the third woman who'd already lost so very much.
His eyes trying to be everywhere at once, he noted that Brecka had managed to kill one of the orcs targeting her, and was now dancing back from the others. Was she deliberately leading them up the stairs, away from Lisswyn, giving Lisswyn more room to maneuver? Regardless, Lisswyn was working her way up the stairs as well.
A glance toward his sister told him that she was playing with the ones who were still after her, taunting them, ducking their weapons, trying to get them to go after each other. It was entirely possible it would work. But four against one…
Lisswyn was trying to do the same thing, but it wasn't working as well. The orcs were circling her, turning the technique back on her. Two of them lunged at her, and she tried the same escape that had worked in the caves, ducking between them, going higher up the stairs.
Eomer yelled, and one of the orcs spotted him and leaped, snarling. Eomer beheaded him, and then saw that Brecka was now at the top, but was so far managing not to be trapped against the building. Ceolwyn was trying to assist her, but couldn't seem to get close enough to the orc to make a difference.
It was harder than he thought it would be to work his way up the stairs. He was trying to get to Lisswyn and Brecka while taking out as many of the orcs targeting Eowyn as possible, but there was so little room to fight, it seemed possible he would only succeed in driving the orcs closer to all the women.
As he stabbed out at the neck of another of the orcs, out of the corner of his vision, he saw Lisswyn duck, saw an orc raise his weapon, bring it down, but could not tell if it connected. Fear blanked his mind, and he beheaded the orc in front of him with enough force to send it flying completely out of his way, off the stairs. If that blow to Lisswyn's middle had connected… it had been forceful enough not to matter that she wore mail.
He gave a roar, leapt forward. Was unaware of making a decision to aid Lisswyn instead of his sister. Every thought except one fled his mind when he saw the orc's weapon start toward her: the memory of the battle in the caves, of seeing her struck, of nearly losing her.
The first two orcs were swept aside before he was even aware of swinging Guthwine, and all the while he kept Lisswyn in his peripheral vision. She seemed to be uninjured, was now battling the remaining orc with single-minded intensity, even as she continued to climb the stairs. But Eomer had believed her uninjured in the caves as well.
He spared a moment to glance behind him, noted Eowyn was down to one orc, and that Aragorn, Eothain, and Thedhelm were once more at the bottom of the stairs.
He turned again, saw that the orc and Lisswyn were now at the top. It stabbed out at her, and she danced backwards, was close to being trapped against the building. He darted up the last few stairs. It was time to end this. She was fighting well, but the orc could always get in a lucky blow.
Reaching them, he drew back his sword, but even as he swung it, he watched the orc stab out again, watched Lisswyn dance back once more, this time into the shadows near the great doors. Had the orc succeeded that time? Had she really danced back, or had she stumbled, bleeding from a wound?
Guthwine arced down…but it was unnecessary. He watched the orc stumble backwards, then fall, blood spurting from the gash in his neck.
Turning back to the shadows, he wiped his sword off, sheathed it as he covered the last few feet between them. She was barely visible in the darkness, but he could see a dazed expression on her face, and it alarmed him. Maybe it was just battle shock. But maybe it wasn't. He took off his helmet, dropped it next to them.
"Are you injured?" His voice was sharp. Once again, the memory of the aftermath of the battle in the caves came back – of believing her to have mostly escaped serious injury, of being wrong. So nearly fatally wrong.
He backed her against the wall of Meduseld, didn't care that he was rougher than he'd meant to be. He could still see the orc's blade coming toward her, and fear that even now she was bleeding, robbed him of rational thought.
He started with her shoulders, ran his hands lightly down the outside of her arms, then back of the inside, feeling for wetness. Blood. Or rough, broken places on the mail. He felt nothing but the armor.
Turning, his hands glided over her torso. She gave an embarrassed squeak of dismay when he brushed over her breasts, but he didn't care. There was nothing sensual about it, just a desperate need to know that she really was uninjured.
Nothing. No wetness, no rough patches on the mail.
She squeaked again when he ran his hands over her hips, tried to pull away from him. He growled at her, continued his inspection. Going all the way down her legs, he knew he was being completely irrational. It simply didn't matter. He reached her lower legs, started back up, going beneath her mail skirt, checking the back of her legs, before she finally found her voice.
"Sire!" she whispered urgently, once again trying to shift away from him. "I'm fine."
He stood, looked down at her, wished he could see her clearly. "You're fine." There was a disbelieving tone in his voice, relief that she'd really escaped the battle without injury having a hard time pushing through the memories.
"Better than you—" she started to speak, started to raise her hand to where his own injury stung and throbbed.
He didn't let her finish. Trapping her against the wall with his body, he crushed her mouth with his.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. Hours of worry culminating in a few minutes of heart-stopping terror on the steps had robbed him of self-control, and he knew nothing but a fierce need to touch her.
But she was responding, was kissing him back with equal passion. After a first stunned moment, she'd given herself completely over to the kiss, had brought her free hand up, anchored it in his hair.
As some of his desperation dissipated, he gentled the kiss, brought his own hands up, and stroked her hair.
Someone came up to them, and he felt another burst of impatience. Couldn't they leave him alone for just a few moments?
No. Of course not.
Eowyn cleared her throat, and he finally looked up, not completely able to suppress another growl of frustration.
His sister wasn't intimidated. Her voice soft, she said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but your men are starting to look for you. At the moment, you're in shadows, but…"
Lisswyn stiffened in his arms, and he reluctantly nodded at Eowyn, then dropped his arms, slowly stepped back.
Without looking at him, Lisswyn turned, slipped into the great hall.
He sighed, looked more fully at his sister. She was fine, but guilt once again pricked at him that in the heat of the battle it had not been she he'd thought of first. For nearly twenty-five years, her safety had been his primary concern.
"I'm sorry I did not aid you more." He hadn't meant to speak of it, hadn't meant to blurt the words out, and felt shame at the admission burn his cheeks.
Eowyn smiled a little, nodded that she understood. "I would not have been happy with you if you had done so over assisting women less trained for battle."
He wanted to protest, but knew it was pointless, knew she would never understand the complex mix of pride, terror, and sorrow her warrior abilities had always inspired in him.
Someone shouted, and he gave a quiet sigh. His men were indeed looking for him. It was time to go assess the damage, see what was left of Edoras.
Lisswyn slipped into the hall, then paused. Instead of going further in, she turned and moved quietly into the shadows, where she leaned against the wall and tried to get her bearings.
Before long, they would no doubt begin bringing the injured men into the hall, and she planned to offer her services to the healers. She might not be fully trained, but she could perhaps assist them.
First, she badly needed a few moments to herself. She was trembling, and it didn't have anything to do with the battle she'd just survived. Or at least not much.
She'd known the king cared for her. She just hadn't known what that meant, had been unable or unwilling to put a name to it.
But there were very few possible interpretations for what had just happened between them. She'd seen him upset before, had seen him angry. But it had been desperation and panic behind his response to her – both his examination of her and his relieved kiss when he'd finally been convinced she was fine.
He loved her.
She tested the thought, rolled it around in her mind. Shivered in response. The King of the Riddermark loved her. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she hugged herself as wonder crept in.
She still had no idea what it meant, could not imagine a future where they were together in some way. Wistfully, she allowed herself a moment of dreaming he had remained only a Marshal, that his cousin had not died. There might have been hope then. Though Marshals usually married women of noble birth, given the unexpected friendship developing between her and the King's sister, she thought Eowyn would have supported a marriage between them. Her heart gave a hard rap at the thought of being able to be with him permanently. Of belonging to him, and he to her. Of bearing his children.
But he wasn't Third Marshal. He was the king, and was not as free as other men in choosing a wife. There was a reason he'd never spoken of his feelings for her – he would probably marry as much for politics as anything else. That thought brought sadness, and she pushed it away.
He loved her. She was sure of that, and no matter what happened later, the knowledge thrilled her.
She would have loved him, regardless. Had given him her heart long ago. But to have such proof of his feelings for her…it steadied her. The losses of the past year, the battle she'd just survived…as hideous as they were, they faded a bit next to that knowledge of his love.
He loved her. She leaned back, allowed the simple wonder of it to roll through her, then shook it off. There was too much to do for her to delay any longer.
She went to find the healers.
A/N: A long chapter, but I wanted to keep all of this together. Thanks for all your good wishes! My family medical situation has stabilized some, and we had a nice Christmas -- I hope those of you who celebrate the holiday had an equally nice time, and that this last week of 2005 brings all you wish for. :) I will hopefully be posting another chapter of the story this weekend, but in case I don't manage it -- happy new year!