Hello again, everyone. I apologize for delaying this update by so long, but I've been busy with lots of school work and such, and updating slipped my mind for a while. But I hope this chapter makes up for it - both in length and quality - and thank you to those of you still sticking with the story :)

Cheers

Disclaimer: I own none of LOTR - it is entirely Tolkien's genius. And any dialogue and such from the movies are credit to P. Jackson and Co.

Eomer's POV

Éomer, son of Éomund, and the only remaining heir to the lordship of Rohan, was terrified. He had been in countless battles, rarely with even odds, and had known that every time he faced an all-too possible death. Just hours ago he had been caught in the midst of the most immense battle he'd ever seen, and not felt any victory. Yet now, seated between the bodies of two unconscious women, he was more terrified than he could remember ever being. His sister lay on his right, her breaths so shallow the rise and fall of her chest was hardly visible, and her skin horribly pale. Alandria lay on his left, and was the opposite of Éowyn - her breathing was heavier than normal, and her skin was flushed with an unseen heat. The possibility of death weigh heavily on both. And that knowledge terrified him.

"Éomer?" The golden-haired man looked up eagerly at his name, recognizing the voice. Aragorn had entered the room quietly, and now stood at the feet of the unconscious women.

Éomer rose quickly to his feet, dark hazel eyes wide and worried. "Can you do something?"

"I hope so." The Ranger was studying both bodies, brow furrowed. "Éowyn first - she I am most worried about." Éomer did not answer other than to glance at Alandria for a moment, and then turn back to watch the dark-haired man kneel by his sister. He felt her face again, listened to her breathing, and then frowned. "Can you retrieve a nurse for me?" Éomer nodded and did as he was told, returning quickly with an eldery woman.

"You need me, lord?"

"Have you seen this before?" Aragorn gestured at the unconscious Éowyn.

"The lady, sir?"

"The symptoms."

The nurse knelt and re-enacted Aragorn's previous actions, before sighing. "Aye, only once, and I've not an idea what it is."

"Where have you seen it?"

"The Lord Faramir, sir. He's the same but with more of a fever, and has been since before the battle."

Aragorn swore softly, alarming both Éomer and the nurse, then sighed. "Have you any athelas?"

The nurse didn't seem to know it. "Athelas?"

"Kingsfoil."

"Ah, that sir. No, I don't think we do. It's a weed anyway, ain't it sir? We don't keep weeds in the stores."

"Weed maybe, but it's the only thing that will help. Search the city, find anyone that has some." The woman hesitated. "Quickly!" She jumped at the suddenly harsh tone, and scurried away.

Éomer watched her leave, then turned back to the man kneeling still by his sister. "Will the kingsfoil truly help?"

"If anything can, yes. This is not something I've had to treat before."

"What is it?"

"Black Breath. Curse of the Nazgul. It sends the victim to unconsciousness, and at times fever, and they have nothing but horrible dreams until they lose the will to live." Aragorn paused, blue-green eyes focused intently on Éowyn's pale features. "And they die."

More fear struck into Éomer then, but he did not let it show. "And Alandria?" He asked softly, turning back to the other woman.

Aragorn only then seemed to remember her and looked up, observing the body barely over a foot away. "I do not think she has the Black Breath but," He stood and quietly padded to her side, opposite Éomer's once again seated figure. "I cannot be sure." He felt her forehead, and winced. He glanced down at her right leg, where a bloody bandage was tied tightly around the thigh where a broken arrow shaft still protruded. "Has anyone checked for any further injuries?"

"Not that I saw."

"And did you see everything?"

"Yes."

"Then they did not." Aragorn muttered something, and then lifted his head, whistling sharply. Éomer flinched at the unexpected noise, but it received the response Aragorn had hoped for - every nurse and healer in the large room paused and looked his way. "I need one free woman to check a lady for injuries, and clean and wrap any she finds." He waited a moment, and a girl, not more than twenty, stepped nervously forward. At the same time, the nurse Aragorn had previously spoken with reappeared. "Éomer." Aragorn simply said gesturing towards Alandria, and then turned back to Éowyn.

The Horse-lord hesitated for only a moment, before taking charge of the young girl. "The lady here needs to be checked for any further injuries. Do what is needed to clean and heal them, then get her back here. Understood?"

"Yes, milord." The young girl nodded meekly.

"Find some men to help you move her, if needed."

"Yes, milord."

Éomer gazed down at Alandria's ailing body again, and both fear and pain twisted his features as he sighed. "Be careful with her."

The fear had not left. It had only grown. Only now, to make it worse, guilt and horror had added to it. The nurse that had returned had brought with her a few dried leaves of athelas and although Aragorn was grateful, he declared he would need the plant fresh to truly make it work. The city was being scraped for any still, and the Ranger-healer was doing what he could in the meantime: helping heal many others with their less-complicated injuries, and returning to check on Alandria, Éowyn, and Faramir, who all had been moved to their own room. Éomer was left to watch and wait helplessly. Alandria, it had been revealed, sustained more injuries than had been obvious. The skin on her left side was bruised an ugly black and purple, and her ribs appeared to be cracked. The arrow wound in her thigh had been deep, bled much, and - to his horror - poisoned. When they had removed the shaft she'd yelped and thrashed a second, then fallen silent and still again. Although Aragorn has reassured Éomer that the poison could be - and was - drawn easily, and with the help of some medicines she would recover from it, the golden-haired man was still concerned. The bruise on her face had split the skin on her jaw, and her teeth had ground bloody into her cheek, but it was otherwise harmless. But her unconsciousness was feverish, immensely so, and both men knew her lack of sleep and food had not left her the proper strength to fight the wounds and blood loss. Aragorn could not give an answer to Éomer's terrified, guilt-ridden question - would she make it?

"Éomer?" The Ranger's voice was soft, although the bodies nearby were not likely to wake. "Should you not be arranging care of your uncle's body?"

The Horse-lord sighed, dark features miserable as he remembered the other sorrow he had to bear. Théoden's death. "I told the men a while ago to find a lone room to lay him in, and have the caretakers embalm him. We will bury him when we return to Rohan." Aragorn nodded, and as he listened, poured a pitcher of steaming water into a wooden bowl, before pulling out his worn leather pouch of herbs. Éomer watched in curiosity as the older man selected a few light brown leaves, crushed them to powder in another bowl, then dumped them into the bowl of water. "Is that the athelas?"

"No. This is for her." Aragorn nodded towards Alandria, and handed the bowl to Éomer. "Try to have her drink it. It will help her strength."

Éomer obeyed nervously, having no skill in such areas. Alandria coughed for a second, then after he tried slower and fewer drops, it appeared to go down her throat. "Will she be alright, Aragorn?" He asked for the tenth time.

Aragorn looked at the large, concerned man kindly, watching him focus on Alandria and his task. "I hope so."

"But do you think so?" Éomer's dark, dark gaze raised to stare at the Ranger, his eyes wide and brow drawn together in worry.

Aragorn hesitated only a moment. "Yes." His answer seemed to satisfy the Horse-lord for the time being. "Keep soaking that cloth in the bowl of cold water and cleaning away the sweat from her face. The coolness should help."

"I know."

The reply was not curt or snide, merely soft and defeated. It worried Aragorn, but he had more important things to worry about at the moment. He knelt at Faramir's side now, doing to the rust-haired man what he'd just instructed Éomer to do - cleaning away the heat and sweat from the fevered man with a cool, wet cloth. He had been at first surprised to see the young man, knowing immediately whom he was. The resemblance to Boromir was clear, and unsettling for a moment, until he forced himself to the task of healing. Now he felt only sadness, fearing to have both of the sons of Denethor die in his care.

"Lord Aragorn?" He looked up at his name, and the eldery nurse finally reappeared, seeming much more cheerful. "We've found some kingsfoil for you, sir!"

A breath of relief escaped from his lips and he smiled faintly, standing again. "Excellent." The woman held out a handful of dark green leaves, small white flowers attached, and he took them graciously. "Much thanks, madam." She nodded, then peered curiously towards the bodies of Éowyn and Faramir as he began to cut apart the plant with a small knife, and grind it's pieces in a bowl.

"You can heal them, my lord?"

"I hope so."

"I don't know of anyone that's ever been able to heal the Nazgul's Death, my lord. Quite a healer, you must be."

"The Elves have taught me."

Her eyes widened. "The Elves, lord? Oy, that is quite a story!"

He smiled faintly in amusement. "I need peace now, please."

"Oh yes, yes of course.." She backed out the door again, tossing one last curious glance towards the bodies under Black Breath.

Aragorn prepared the brew of athelas, dropping the crushed leaves into a steaming bowl of water, and then soaking cloths in it. He knelt beside Éowyn now, and gently pressed the wet cloth to the woman's forehead, letting the warm brew of the athelas drip down her face. He held the bowl a moment beneath the woman's nose and mouth as well, hoping she would breathe in some of the sweet-smelling steam. The golden-haired young woman's eyes twitched, and she turned her head as her lips moved the slightest bit. Aragorn allowed a soft sigh of relief to escape, and murmured a few helpful words in Elvish, then re-soaked and pressed the cloth.

"Éowyn?" He murmured. "Éowyn you must come back to us. Come back to your brother, and me. Come, Éowyn."

"Please, gods.." Aragorn looked up in surprise at Éomer's deep voice so near, and saw the man had silently appeared beside his sister as well, and was watching her still face intently, dark eyes wide and pleading.

The intense fear and pain in the strong man's gaze was unnerving, and Aragorn quickly turned his full attention back to the young woman. He murmured another batch of soft Elven chants, and pressed the athelas-soaked cloth to her forehead again. Finally her breaths deepened, her chest rising and falling steadily, and her round blue eyes fluttered open. Her gaze found Aragorn first, and she held him in her sight for a long, disbelieving moment. He smiled softly and her gaze switched to Éomer, who breathed a heavy sigh of relief at her movement.

"Éowyn." He breathed, and leaned forward, touching her pale face, a wavering smile on his face.

She returned her own weak smile, and then Aragorn regained her attention. "You may sleep again, but it will be a restful sleep now. I must tend to another, and then we will have your arm slung and healed." She nodded weakly, too tired and frail to properly reply, and the Ranger moved away.

Éomer was still at her side though, and continued to watch carefully over her, the wisps of a faint smile on his rugged face. "You frightened me. I was sure when I found you, that you were dead."

She did not reply, her eyes merely drifted away and she seemed suddenly worried. "U..Uncle?" She finally asked, voice soft.

Éomer's dark brows fell back in sadness. "He fell." The news did not seem to surprise the Lady, she only sighed and closed her eyes for a moment.

"A-Aragorn....No!"

Both Éomer and Éowyn started in surprise at the weak, raspy voice, and turned to look behind the crouching Horse-lord, at the wounded woman that lay there. Alandria's skin was still flushed, but now her eyes flicked around randomly behind closed lids, and her head jerked sharply. Éomer moved from his place at his sister's side, to Alandria's, staring down at her in concern.

"Éomer?" Aragorn called. "What's happening? I heard my name. Is Alandria awake?"

"No, no she's...dreaming, I think." His brow furrowed further as the unconscious woman's lips twitched in silent words. He glanced across the room desperately. "Are you sure it's not the Black Breath?"

"I am sure. She came in no contact with any of the Nazgul. Her body has forced her into sleep, and the exhaustion she pushed herself to, combined with the blood loss and battlefield-horror, has deepened her sleep and apparently filled it with nightmares." The man already appeared tired, sighing. "Now she has to get herself out of it."

He turned back to trying to help the young Steward's son, who's sickness from the Black Breath was worse than Éowyn's had been. Éomer turned back to Alandria worriedly, but her movements had ceased, and her breathing was deep again. He muttered incoherently, and instinctively dipped the cloth nearby in the bowl of cool water, running it gently over her sweaty face.

"What happened to her?" Éowyn's voice was soft, and still weak, but she had turned her head to watch her brother gently take care of her unconscious friend.

"She collapsed. She stumbled over to us on the battlefield, and then just..collapsed." He paused, glancing up at his pale sister. "She had an arrow in her thigh. And a check showed her ribs are cracked too." He sighed heavily, abandoning the water and cloth for the still-warm drink Aragorn had given him. "Now she is feverish, and we have only to hope." Éowyn nodded slightly, studying her friend's still face and then her brother's concentrated features, before turning the other way, to look at Aragorn. He was bent over a sickly red-haired man, and seemed oblivious to all else.

"Come, young Faramir. Your King calls you.." Aragorn murmured more soft Elvish words, and held the steaming bowl of athelas beneath the young man's nose again. He breathed it in a few times, and then his breaths came more steadily and natural.

Faramir moved slightly, his eyes fluttering weakly open, and a faint whisper escaped him. "Father?"

"Shh, young lord." Aragorn soothed. "Rest now, without dark dreams." The young man's tired blue eyes stared at Aragorn for a long, uncomfortable moment, then he nodded faintly and his lids fell closed once more.

"Éomer?" The gold-haired Horse-lord looked up tiredly from where he sat as his name was called, and saw Aragorn standing in the doorway to the small room. "You're still in here?" The Ranger entered, padding silently to the bed the younger man sat so urgently beside. "It has to have been at least five or six hours since I last checked on you. Have you had any rest?"

"I do not need it." Éomer lied simply, turning to stare again at the body on the bed before him.

Aragorn sympathized, seeing the deep care and concern the weary man gazed at the sleeping Alandria with. "Éomer, she will not heal any slower if you leave her side for a couple hours to rest. You as well need to keep your strength up."

"I'm fine, Aragorn." Éomer smoothly refused, and then sighed, touching the woman's hand. "She still burns. The fever is not any less."

"Give it time."

"How much time?" The young lord looked up at the Ranger, wide, dark eyes continually filled with worry.

"As much time as she needs, Éomer."

"But you know better than I do that we haven't forever. Sauron still must be challenged. And what then?"

"Then, I cannot say. We must wait until the time comes." He rested his hand on Éomer's shoulder as the younger man turned back to Alandria. "She will live, Éomer. She will."

The man did not answer for a long moment, merely gently held one of Alandria's burning hands in both of his. He sighed softly then, and spoke in a rough whisper. "And you can be certain of this?"

"I can be certain of nothing, my friend, but that does not mean I despair. You should not either."

"It is just..so hard, not to." The man's thick voice was choked with his emotion. "My cousin is dead. My uncle is dead. My parents died years ago. Now only Éowyn and I are left. And we cannot even be sure that Alandria.... We cannot even know if all our efforts are not in vain. Who is to know your little hobbits are even still alive? Or if Sauron yet has the Ring? Who is to say all of this will not fail?"

Aragorn was silent, contemplating his answer before he spoke. He did not answer right away, instead he went to the low wooden stand on the other side of the bed, and picked up the bowl of water and cloth from it, then handed them to Éomer. The lord took them but did nothing, watching the Ranger, until he realized Aragorn would do nothing until he obeyed. With a sigh, he began to clean away the fresh feverish sweat from Alandria's flushed face. Only when he had done this for several long moments did the other man speak.

"As I said, I can be certain of nothing. Neither can anyone else. But we can hope, and do our best to give Frodo and Sam what chance we may. True, it may be in vain in the end, but would you have us do nothing instead?" He paused, waiting for an answer. "Éomer?"

"No." The man answered shortly, sighing and ceasing his actions, then drawing a hand over his tired face. "I am sorry for my fears and doubts. I know better. And yet..." He paused, dropping his hand and staring at Alandria's body with desperate, pleading hazel eyes. The guilt that had weighed on him for the past hours became heavier.

"What is it, Éomer?"

"It's my fault." The Horse-lord whispered roughly.

Aragorn's brow furrowed, not sure he'd heard right. "Pardon?"

"It's all my fault." Éomer repeated, resting his head into his hands, propped up on his knees. "It's my fault she's here, like this." His thick voice was muffled, but Aragorn could discern the - confusing - words.

"How can it be your fault, Éomer? You couldn't have saved her from the orcs in that bat-"

"I knew she was there." The golden-haired man growled into his hands. "Before the battle even started. When we stopped for our first rest - I saw her. Damnit, I talked to her. I made her ride with my éored." He dropped his hands again, gazing dejectedly down at the woman's still body. "Hell, I practically gave her Elrendyn's old blade; I might as well of just tied her to my horse and drug her along!"

Aragorn watched the man's eyes darken in anger, his body tense with agitation. "Éomer," he started soothingly, "It's not your fault. She would have found a way to come anyway."

"Perhaps, but that doesn't mean I should have encouraged her, does it? And now because of me, she's...now she's...she-" The man broke off, his voice choked with fear and guilt.

"You are tired, my friend." Aragorn softly comforted. "She will live, you know this. You should sleep. I can have someone else watch over her."

"No, it is alright."

"Éomer.."

"Just a little while longer, Aragorn, please. Then I will sleep."

The dark-haired man hesitated, but knew further arguing would be useless. "Fine." He agreed. "But be sure to rest."

Éomer nodded absently as the other man began to walk away, but then called out and stopped him. "Wait - would you mind bringing me more of that warm drink from earlier, that herbal thing you had me give to her? It should help, yes?"

Aragorn paused in the doorway, glancing from Alandria's unconscious body to the tired features of the Rohan Lord, and then nodded. "Yes, it should. Wise thought, Éomer." He smiled reassuringly at the younger man. "I shall bring you some in a moment."

Éomer nodded, and turned back to his charge as the Ranger disappeared. Her breathing was still deep, her skin flushed and hot, and still she sweated. He cleaned her forehead with the cool, wet cloth again, and bit his lip nervously, glancing up and out the window above the bed. There was the palest shine of light coming through it, but the rest of the room was lit by torches. The edge of dawn, it seemed. Which meant that it had been, as Aragorn had said, at least six hours since they moved her in to this lone room, and another six since she was laid beside Éowyn in the main room of the House of Healing. So then it was near twelve long hours she had been unconscious, perhaps more. Not once had she woken, nor had the fever slowed, and even Aragorn - brilliant healer as he was - seemed unable to change anything.

"What keeps you sleeping, déore?*" He whispered softly, brushing his fingertips lightly down the side of her face. "I'm so sorry I let you get into this nightmare... Every second I'm more afraid for you...please, Alandria.." His soft words did not wake her, but her breath came sharply. His eyes widened in worry, and he watched fearfully as her body twitched again in the spasms of a dream.

"Éomer?" Aragorn was suddenly beside him, gentle features concerned. "She's dreaming again?"

Éomer didn't have to answer, as she was practically panting now, and her fingers tapped and curled and shook with surprising energy. Her head snapped to the left, and then she stilled, save for her eyes flicking around wildly behind her lids and continual heavy breathing.

"Boromir?" She whispered, and her body shifted slightly.

Éomer felt weak, and an insensible wave of sadness washed over him. Twice now she had uttered names - one of the brilliant man beside him, the other her lost love. What did they mean? He glanced up desperately at Aragorn, but the Ranger could only grasp his shoulder in attempted comfort.

"Please, Bor-" Her words ceased suddenly, as her lips pulled back in a grimace. Her head turned again, her hands flexed, and then she stilled back to her normal heavy breathing. Éomer leaned close to her, studying her features, which still held the remains of fear and a grimace, and gently stroked her dark hair.

"I'll let you be." Aragorn set down the steaming mug of herbs on the nearby stand, and quietly turned to leave. "Remember to get some rest, Éomer."

The Horse-lord nodded, his eyes never leaving Alandria's face, even though he knew now sleep would be impossible. Instead, he continued to gently stroke her hair, and touch her warm face, and murmur quiet words that he knew she could not hear.

It was nearly a full day later, and still Alandria had not changed. Now and then she would tremble and twitch with dreams, but no more words or names escaped her lips. Éomer stayed at her side, having ignored Aragorn's many pleadings for him to rest. He couldn't rest - who knew when she might wake? Instead he continually watched over her, paying attention to little else, eating and drinking only when he was reminded to. He thought nothing of his odd actions, for no one dared call him on them. Until a visitor other than Aragorn and the random maids that had bothered him so, appeared.

His head was just starting to fall into his hand, the elbow of which was rested on the bed beside Alandria, when he heard the footsteps. He snapped to attention, clearing the fog of drowsiness from his mind. A glance behind himself showed his sister, and he had not even the strength left to be surprised to see her about. "Shouldn't you be resting?" He mumbled instead.

"Shouldn't you?" She retorted, and he didn't bother arguing with her. She stepped closer, beside him, and gazed down at her unconscious friend in concern. "She still hasn't woken?"

"No."

She glanced at her brother. "And you still haven't rested?" Again he didn't answer, just continued to stare at Alandria, and Éowyn sighed. "Éomer, please, sleep at least for a couple hours. I will watch her."

"I'm fine, Éowyn. Why aren't you in bed?"

"Because I've slept three different times in the past day and night. You have not."

"Is your arm alright?"

"Do not try to distract me, brother. Please, I beg you, get some rest!" She walked to the other side of the bed, so she could see straight to his face. "Look at me, Éomer." Reluctantly, he raised his head. His dark hazel eyes were bloodshot, and his brow held too many weary lines. "You do no one any good torturing yourself so. You haven't slept since the battle, and she hasn't woken since it either. I can assure you that nothing will change in a couple short hours." He didn't answer, just glanced down uneasily at Alandria. "Please, Éomer. Just a short rest."

"You will watch her?"

"Yes."

"And wake me if she wakes as well?"

"Immediately, yes."

"You promise?"

"Éomer."

He sighed heavily, and slowly stood. "Alright, alright. I'm only worried about her."

Éowyn pale features softened slightly, understanding well. "I know, Éomer. But you must take care of yourself as well." He drew his hand tiredly over his face again, hesitating to leave. "Do you want to sleep in here?" His sister offered. "We could get a simple bed made up for you."

Relief flooded the strong man's features, and he sighed happily. "Gods yes, that would be wonderful."

Éowyn smiled softly. "I thought so. It is settled then - I will get a servant to set you out some blankets, and you will sleep for a few hours. And I promise I will wake you immediately if Alandria should wake too."

"Thank you, Éowyn." Her brother murmured, deep voice low and soft. "I am sorry I'm..so difficult."

She merely smiled in reply. "Since when aren't you?" He smiled faintly, and she started towards the door. "I will get a servant to set your bed. I hope you know you shall be sleeping on the floor."

The tired man shrugged, glancing over at Alandria again. "Does not matter." Éowyn glanced at Alandria as well, nodded, and went to retrieve some help.

*although its probably pretty clear, for any that are wondering, "deore" is "dear" in Old English, which I'm using because Tolkien based most of the Rohirric language off OE