Mylla was grateful for her help, and immediately put Lisswyn to work cleaning wounds. King Elessar and the Gondorian healers who traveled with him had already tended some of the most gravely injured. Rumor had it that they had been trained by the King of Gondor himself.

But there were many more minor wounds.

She wondered if anyone was tending the King, wondered how Lord Elfhelm was. But there had been no time to ask anyone.

She had just finished wrapping the arm of one of the younger riders when the king's sister quietly stepped up to her.

"Can you be spared for a little while from here?" Eowyn's voice was soft. "Redwald is asking for your assistance."

Startled, Lisswyn looked up at her, then nodded. She hadn't seen Redwald amongst the injured, and had assumed he was somewhere with the King Elessar or the other healers. But what could he want of her?

She turned and followed Eowyn, and after a moment, realized they were heading toward the King's study. Uneasily, she wondered if perhaps the king had been more seriously injured than had appeared. But no, Eowyn had not looked unduly alarmed. In fact, it had almost seemed as if there was a hint of humor in her eyes.

They reached the door, and the other woman turned to her. The humor was now more pronounced. "Both Elfhelm and my brother were injured in the battle, and they're both being difficult. Elfhelm refuses to be treated until after Eomer, and Eomer insists Elfhelm has the greater injury and must be treated first. Redwald believes you're the solution."

Lisswyn stared at her, confused, but before she could ask for clarification Eowyn pushed open the door, led her inside.

The King was leaning against a large desk that stood in the middle of the room, while Lord Elfhelm sat at small table nearby. Redwald stood between them, and all three men wore scowls.

In unison, they looked up when she and Eowyn walked in. The King looked startled, the Marshal seemed to take it as an opportunity to slump back in his chair with exhaustion – the man was pale and obviously in poor condition – and the healer simply looked relieved.

"Good, you're here." Redwald pointed to her. "You," his finger turned to the King, "will tend him." His scowl returning, he addressed the King, "You," he emphasized with the finger, "will allow her to do so." He turned back to Elfhelm, and finished, "And you," once again the finger motioned for emphasis, "will now allow me to tend your wounds, secure in the knowledge that there is no one else whose hands the king would rather be in."

Eowyn choked back what sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Lisswyn felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. She glanced quickly at the king to see his reaction, but he wasn't looking at her. Instead, he was scowling at Redwald, who ignored him, turning instead to Elfhelm.

When the king finally did look at her, there was a glint of humor in his gaze. Cocking his head, he raised an eyebrow at her. "One of the more prevalent rumors in the Riddermark is that I actually rule here," he said dryly, nodding toward Redwald and Elfhelm.

She could not help but grin at him as she crossed the room, but the amusement faded when she got close enough to see his arm. He had removed his armor, was down to the mail shirt and whatever he wore beneath it.

He was holding his left arm close to his body, and now she could see why. A line of broken, bloody rings ran across his upper left arm where the orc's blade had struck and bounced off the mail. It had to hurt; no wonder he was trying to move the arm as little as possible.

She looked at him, knew he wouldn't appreciate sympathy.

Staring at the mail, she finally motioned to his right arm. "Let's see if I can ease your good arm out, then pull the mail over your head before freeing your injured arm. Perhaps that will result in less movement."

He nodded, and held out his right arm to her. Working the mail off, she tried not to bump the injured arm, but it was difficult – the mail was a tight fit against the muscles of his arm.

But it was finally free, and she was able to begin working it over his head. This was harder – it was more difficult not to bump the injured arm, and she heard him swearing softly.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just finish," he growled.

His head was finally free, the mail bunched around his shoulder, and her eyes met his. "Can you straighten the arm?"

He grimaced in response, but did so, his increased pallor indicating his level of discomfort.

Lisswyn was as gentle as possible as she pulled the mail off the arm, but knew that she had hurt him, and grimaced in sympathy.

"That's better. Just having the mail off helps."

Glancing at the injured area, she could imagine that that was so. He was now wearing only a soft shirt – a shirt with a bloody and torn sleeve.

She removed it in the same way, and could not suppress a gasp when she saw his arm. A darkening bruise covered most of his upper arm – that would be painful in and of itself – and in the middle of it, a series of cuts and scratches left by the shattered rings. Some were minor, but some of the larger cuts plainly contained small pieces of the broken mail that would have to be dug out.

Her eyes met his again. He was looking at her steadily, and she remembered Redwald's comment about him preferring her hands to anyone else's. She looked back at his arm, saw the scar on his shoulder, still red and angry-looking, from the poisoned arrow.

She reached out, touched it gently, then looked back at him. "I'm going to have to hurt you again," she said softly.

"I know what has to be done." Taking her hand, he squeezed her fingers. "You'll do what is necessary – as you have done before," he added firmly.

Humbled by his trust, she nodded, then looked around. Next to him, on the desk, was a bowl of steaming water, some cloths, bandages, and salves.

Picking up a cloth, she began cleaning the injured area, trying to get a sense of how many bits of metal were embedded in him, and how deep. And knew from the tension in his body that even such light touches were painful to him.

When the majority of the blood was wiped away, she picked up the small knife that was lying next to the bowl. The handle was warm to the touch and the blade glowed from having been sterilized in the fire.

Starting with the uppermost cut, she spread it open with the fingers of her left hand, then gently probed the wound with the tip of the knife. Forcing herself to ignore the tension in his body and the knowledge that she was causing him pain, she persisted until the tiny bit of silver popped out.

Easing back, she glanced at him. His eyes were fixed on her.

Saying nothing, she started on the second cut. Not all of the gashes had pieces of metal in them, but she had to check them anyway. An infection caused by one being left in his arm wouldn't be good.

Finally, she looked up at him. His face was drawn and pale, and his right hand was clenched in a fist.

He forced a smile though, then lifted his left arm, which was trembling. "You know the advantage to having survived the numbing poison?" he murmured.

"What?"

"Ever after, with no matter what type of injury, you can say you've had something hurt worse, and be telling the truth."

His attempt at humor fell flat, as she couldn't come up with a response. He was right, though it didn't make the knowledge that she was currently causing him pain any easier.

At least the next step shouldn't hurt as much. Dipping one of the soft cloths in the hot water, she began gently to clean the cuts. As he relaxed in response to a lessening of his discomfort, she found herself distracted by his nearness, by the intimacy of their positions and what she was doing for him.

Caring for him now was very different from the first time, in the caves. His muscles were firm beneath her fingers, but now she knew just how strong he really was, had felt his power any number of times – most recently as he had pulled her to him after the battle. Even as she continued gently cleaning the cuts, her eyes darted to his chest. His bare chest.

She remembered wiping him down in the caves, when his fever had scared her, remembered wondering what it would be like to be held by him, kissed by him. And now she knew. And knowing, she found the sight of his broad chest, with the hard muscles and light sprinkling of hair, to be even more distracting.

"Lisswyn?" His voice was very soft, and full of humor.

Flustered, she realized she'd stopped cleaning his cuts, had simply been staring at his chest. She gave him a quick glance, and saw a teasing glint in his eyes – along with a tenderness that made it difficult to take her next breath.

Deeply embarrassed, she turned, rinsed the cloth out in the warm water, and without meeting his eyes, resumed cleaning the cuts.

Finally, they were as clean as she could get them with water and soap. She reached for the small pot of salve, then met his eyes.

"This will sting, but it helps to prevent infection."

He glanced down at it, grimaced at the pungent smell. "I'm familiar with it."

Scooping some of the paste up with her fingers, she began to spread it on and in the uppermost cut. After a moment, he tensed, turned his head from her, muttered a harsh word.

"Try to think about something else," she advised, "something pleasant. The burning will not last long." She moved on to the next cut, eager to finish.

She sensed him look at her and glanced up, saw his eyes darken as they met hers. Felt her cheeks heat again with the knowledge of what he was apparently thinking of.

In spite of her embarrassment, she could not completely suppress a smile as she went back to spreading the salve on his wounds.

But by the time she finished and looked up, he was once again rigid and swearing. The salve was effective at preventing infection but stung unbearably for the first few moments after it was applied.

"Are you done?" he asked in a harsh voice.

At her nod, his right hand shot out, and before she could react, he cupped her neck, pulled her toward him.

Startled, she lost her balance and fell, coming to rest on his chest with her hands between them.

"You told me to think of something pleasant," he said as his lips came down on hers.

For a brief moment, she worried about Redwald, Eowyn and Lord Elfhelm seeing them, then every thought fled except the one of how nice it was to be resting against him in such a fashion, with his skin warm and firm beneath her.

She was growing more used to his touch, to his kisses. Knew what to expect, knew what he expected back as a response, enjoyed accommodating him.

It wasn't a long kiss. He was smiling a little as he as slowly lifted his head, then pressed his lips to her forehead.

"You're right. The cuts aren't stinging at all now," he said in a mischievous voice.

She stifled her laughter and eased away from him, glancing over at the other occupants in the room. Eowyn and Redwald were busy with Elfhelm, and though she couldn't tell exactly what the healer was saying, she could hear the frustration in his voice.

"They didn't see anything," the King said softly. "Elfhelm is never a cooperative patient at the best of times, and tonight, has refused to let Aragorn tend him. He insists there are others with worse injuries. Redwald will overrule him if he thinks it's necessary, but in the meantime, they'll argue over every step of the treatment."

She smiled in response, then reached for the dry cloths she would use as bandages. "How does your arm feel now?"

He flexed it. "Better. The stinging is gone."

Nodding, she went to work with the bandages. "Keep the wounds dry if you can." She looked up, attempted to glare at him. "If they get wet, we'll need to clean them again and reapply the salve."

He gave her that mischievous grin again. "As long as you're the one to reapply it, so I can take my mind off the stinging…"

She choked back another laugh and resumed bandaging his arm. His lightheartedness surprised her. His willingness to smile and tease her must be a result of the victory over the orcs, and his relief that they no longer had to wonder from which direction the next attack was coming.

Finally satisfied that the bandage would not easily come undone, she looked up at him.

"You must let Redwald know if it appears to be becoming infected, or particularly sore."

He nodded, flexed it again. "It will be fine." Glancing at her, he smiled again, but it was clear his mind was starting to focus on other things – the burning buildings in Edoras, the shattered gates, the men who'd died.

She had other duties as well, should return to the main hall, as there were no doubt still men with minor wounds waiting for treatment. As she turned to gather up the cloths she'd used on him, though, she found herself reluctant to leave.

Despite the discomfort he'd been in at least part of the time, she'd enjoyed the interlude with him.

An idea came to her, and she looked up at him. Dare she? He was watching her, noted her hesitation. Raised an eyebrow.

Feeling bold and a little mischievous herself, she glanced over to the other side of the room. Redwald and Eowyn were still working on Lord Elfhelm. She could hear the Marshal swearing softly at whatever they were doing.

Clutching the soiled cloths in one hand, she looked back at the king. He was watching her, a hint of both amusement and puzzlement on his face.

Her heart pounding, Lisswyn leaned up, lightly brushed his lips with hers. Felt him go still. Was he pleased? She could only hope so. But after her earlier realization of how he felt about her, she had wanted to give something back to him – something more than just responding to his kisses.

As she pulled away from him, her boldness deserted her, and she ducked her head, suddenly shy. She might know how he felt about her, but their relationship was such a tenuous thing. An unknown thing.

He caught her hand, tugged her back to him. "Oh, no, you don't."

She thought perhaps he would kiss her again, but instead, he simply pulled her into his embrace, held her to him. She relaxed against him, enjoyed the warmth of his bare skin beneath her cheek, heard his heart beating strongly.

He pressed a kiss into her hair. "Thank you."

After a long moment, she eased away from him and he let her go, his finger touching her cheek as she did.

At the door, she turned and glanced back at him. He was still leaning against the desk, his eyes dark with emotion, pleasure on his face.

Eomer moved quietly through the great hall, noting with relief that the number of men still being tended was small – and that most of them seemed to have only minor wounds. He could see Lisswyn in the distance, apparently lecturing a young rider about the treatment of his injury. To Eomer's amusement, the lad was both scowling and nodding. The rider might resent the restrictions, but Eomer doubted he'd disobey.

She would make a good queen, and it reassured him that others were seeing that as well. He hadn't been particularly surprised by Redwald's calling her into his study to tend his arm – the healer, like Breghelm and Elfhelm, had known Eomer most of his life, and would see things others missed. But allowing Lisswyn to tend him had been more than an acknowledgement that he knew Eomer's heart – it had been a statement of confidence in Lisswyn's abilities.

He wondered if she understood that. Probably not, just as he doubted that she'd see her courage during the battle the way others would. But for the time being, it was enough that the inhabitants of Edoras were coming to see some of what he saw in her.

His good humor faded as soon as he stepped out of Meduseld. It was immediately clear that most of the fires had been put out, but smoke hung low over the city, a reminder of the homes that had been destroyed. And worse, far worse was the knowledge that buildings had not been all they lost.

Grimly, he started down the steps, intent on discovering just how bad things were.

He was nearly to the gate when he met Aragorn coming toward him. Discouraged by the damage he'd seen, the sight of Gondor's king caused a renewed surge of gratitude to move through him. As bad as things were, they'd be far worse if the other man had not come to their aid.

With his good arm, he clasped Aragorn's arm, found himself unable to speak around the emotion.

"How are you?" Aragorn nodded toward his injury.

Clearing his throat, he carefully stretched his left arm out, tested it, before looking up. "Fine. Mail scratches that have been tended. Nothing more."

"And Elfhelm?"

"He fared somewhat worse, but Redwald assures me he'll make a full recovery – if he doesn't strangle him first." He managed a wry grin. "Elfhelm makes a poor patient."

Aragorn's lips twitched in acknowledgement, but the humor faded as he followed Eomer's gaze to the devastation around them. Exhausted men and women could still be seen carrying buckets of water to dump on smoldering walls while others hauled salvageable belongings out of homes that would have to be rebuilt.

"It is not as bad as it looks, Eomer."

Eomer turned to him, ready for any encouragement the other man might give him.

"Most of the buildings which burned were those closest to the road. Elfhelm's men succeeded in preventing them from getting to the ones set further back, and there was no wind, preventing the fires from spreading as quickly as they might have."

Eomer nodded, relaxed a little. That would make a difference. The number of buildings lost or sustaining a great deal of damage was still too high, but at least he wasn't facing the loss of the entire city.

Then he braced himself for what he really wanted to know, but was so afraid to ask.

"Thirty-two." Aragorn's voice was soft, and full of compassion as he anticipated the question.

"Dead?" He'd been expecting it, but the number still stunned him.

At the other man's nod, he turned away, muttered an oath.

"All were lost before we arrived, Eomer. Although there were a few new injuries, there were no more casualties once we joined the battle."

Eomer closed his eyes, sighed. "A third of Elfhelm's eored," he murmured. Would the deaths never stop? Had their hopes for peace after the hideous days of the War of the Ring been completely misguided? It seemed so. Bracing himself again, he asked the next question. "How many injured?"

"Thirty-three. Some are minor, others are more serious, but I believe they will all survive – though several may never fight again."

"They shouldn't have to." His voice was bitter. "But fools that we are, even now we can not guarantee peace."

"No, not until we discover the source of the orcs' organization. But there cannot be that many of them remaining, which means that whoever is behind these attacks will have to fight directly now." After a pause, he continued more slowly. "This was a major campaign, Eomer. They – whoever is behind this – expected to hear of the downfall of Edoras tonight, and with it, the very heart of Rohan. Instead, the army they've done so much harm with is now destroyed. Your city is damaged, but still stands. And while the loss of the men is grievous to bear—"

"—it could have been far worse. I know." He turned, looked back up the hill. "If not for Eoden, we would have arrived back fresh from our defeat of the orcs attacking the herds to find nothing but ashes." The thought still made his knees go soft, so he turned his mind in a different direction.

"Speaking of Eoden, I need to have a talk with him. Interested in coming along?" He looked at Aragorn with a raised eyebrow.

A glint in the other man's eyes told Eomer he could guess the nature of the conversation. "I wouldn't miss it."

They turned, started up the hill as Eomer thought over what Aragorn had said. "Were there only the two Uruks?"

"Yes. They were key in organizing this battle, but nothing Elfhelm or any of his men saw suggested that they were capable of coordinating this attack with the ones on the herds. It's possible that this is the end of the threat, Eomer, but…"

"But you don't believe that to be the case."

Aragorn was slow to respond. "My heart tells me otherwise," he finally said. "But I do believe whoever is targeting you sustained a major blow tonight. With you out of the city and not expected back, there was no reason for them to hold any orcs in reserve."

Eomer nodded, tried to find comfort in the words. But the devastation around him made it difficult to do so.

Their trek back up the hill took longer than his journey down, as he stopped to check on the Eorlingas he encountered. To check on them and encourage them. The latter was harder than he wanted it to be because he found himself unwilling to make false promises.

He was quiet as they neared the stable, weary from seeing so much grief and heartache in the eyes of his people – heartache he didn't know how to protect them against.

Breghelm stepped out of the stables to meet them, and Eomer braced for more bad news.

"The horses?" The stable seemed mostly quiet, though he could hear the occasional sound of an agitated animal.

The older man rubbed his eyes wearily before looking at him. "A few scrapes and bruises." He glanced back into the stable before turning back to Eomer. "The smoke upset them, and it took all our effort to keep them from doing more damage to themselves."

Eomer nodded, unsurprised but profoundly grateful that Breghelm wasn't reporting any deaths. Frightened horses were a threat to themselves, to each other, and to their keepers, and very nearly nothing frightened them more than fire.

"With most of the other men in the battle and putting out the fires, I don't know as I would have managed it without the boys," Breghelm added in a measured tone. "You were right about them. They're good lads."

It was an understatement, and Eomer nearly told him so, but instead said, "I know," then added, "…speaking of the boys, where are they? I'd like to have a word with Eoden."

"Sent the younger one up to hall for a meal, but Eoden is still in there," he motioned toward the stable. "Might well be asleep by now, but he won't leave his horse."

Their eyes met, and Eomer felt a smile tug at his mouth. More affirmation of how well some of his men – in this case, Breghelm – knew him. "He's a good lad," Breghelm repeated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple. Tossing it at Eomer, he said, "best give that to your own mount, so he doesn't feel neglected." With that, he turned and started up toward the hall, no doubt heading for a meal for himself.

Eomer watched him go, then turned, gave Aragorn a partial grin. "He treats me the same as he did when I was eleven years old."

Aragorn turned, watched the elderly man make his way up the stairs. "You're a fortunate man," he said quietly.

Eomer knew he referred to the gift of being treated as a ordinary man occasionally, rather than king, but as he glanced out, down toward the city, then turned back toward the stable, he thought of how much worse the night's events would have been without a young boy's frantic ride across the plains of the Mark. "Yes," he agreed. "I am."

They went inside, and began working their way toward the stall where Eomer knew Eoden would be, but as it had taken time to reach the stable, so too did this, for he stopped to check on the animals, murmur soft words to them. Knew it would come as no surprise to Aragorn that Eomer spent nearly as much time reassuring the horses as he had the human inhabitants of Edoras.

For his part, he was grateful he'd invited Aragorn along as heard the other man speaking quietly in Elvish to one of the more restless animals.

They reached the end stalls and Firefoot leaned over and whuffed at him. Eomer was unsurprised to see that he'd been freshly brushed, and while grateful that it had been done, felt a flash of regret that he had not had time himself. It was one of the things he most resented about being king.

With a silent sigh, he offered Firefoot the apple, and took a few moments to stroke the horse before turning to the stall across the wide aisle.

Fleetfoot raised his head as Eomer approached, but didn't move closer to the gate, and once Eomer got close enough, he could see why. The horse had probably been sleeping, but the boy leaning against him definitely was – Eoden was quite literally asleep on his feet, his arms draped around Fleetfoot's neck.

Eomer slid the gate open, moved toward them. "Eoden?" he called in a soft voice.

The boy jerked awake and stepped back from the horse, a confused expression on his sleepy face. "Sire." He gave a hurried bow, then looked up. "Is something wrong?"

Anxiety laced his voice, and Eomer shook his head, noted the startled look that came into Eoden's eyes when he saw Aragorn standing behind him.

"No. We came to check on the horses – and you and Fleetfoot."

Surprise crossed Eoden's face, then pride settled there – but not before Eomer had seen a flicker of sorrow in his eyes.

Eoden turned, ran his hand down the horse's neck. "He's fine, sire," he said in a tight voice. "Wasn't even winded by the day's run. He'll make his new rider a fine mount."

Aragorn shifted next to him, and Eomer looked up, saw puzzlement on the other man's face. But before he could speak, Eoden turned back to them again, a forced smile on his face – and a shimmer of tears in his eyes he was obviously fighting to suppress.

"Some of the stable hands were talking about it." He paused, took a gulping breath, looked back at the horse, fisted his hand in the mane. "About how he's obviously ready to carry a rider, even into battle, and that you'd probably make a gift of him to one of the riders who served you particularly well today." He was speaking very fast, but his voice still cracked on the last word.

With someone else, Eomer might have strung out his response, might have indulged in a little teasing. But Eoden had already lost too much. "Eoden, he's yours," he said quietly. "I'm giving him to you."

It took a moment for the words to register. But Eoden finally looked up, a disbelieving look on his face. One of the tears leaked out, apparently unnoticed, as they watched.

"But—"

Eomer interrupted him. "What rider served me – and all of Edoras – better today than you?"

"I'm not a rider. Sire."

Eomer cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. "No? Your riding skills saved an entire city today." As disbelief turned to hope on Eoden's face, Eomer continued, "It's true that you're not yet ready to ride with an eored. But no one will ever say you aren't a rider, not after today." He reached out, stroked the horse's neck. "And you know yourself that some horses and riders simply belong together. I don't think Fleetfoot would cooperate if I tried to give him to someone else."

As if in response, the horse turned and nuzzled Eoden's hair, and the boy gave a weak laugh. "I thought I might be in trouble, particularly with Lord Elfhelm."

"For not getting permission before riding after us?" Eomer shook his head. "He's as proud of you as we are – though being Lord Elfhelm, he may well growl at you, just for form."

Eoden looked up at them and grinned, but his eyes were shining with pride.

"Take some rest, Eoden – off your feet." Eomer said firmly. "That's a command."

Smiling, Eoden stroked the horse again. "Yes, sire."

A/N: Hapy New Year! I hope you all had a wonderful start to 2006, and that this year brings all you hope for. Many thanks to those of you who continue to take the time to review. It's appreciated more than you know. :)

Istarriel asked about a typo in the last chapter. You're correct, unfortunately! It's a bit mind boggling to think of how many times both I and several others have read that chapter and yet missed that there should be a negative in that sentence. Thanks for catching it!