Title: Halla the Huntress (may change later if I make up a better name...)

Author: ontuva

Beta: xXxAralasxXx

Warnings: See the progologue or the rating.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's characters or Middle-Earth. I don't get any money from writing this, I'm just doing this for my own fun. :) Everything you recognise is from the hand of mr. Tolkien. I only own my OC.

Chapter 1: Awakening

Éomer son of Éomund, the third Marshal of the Riddermark, did not like surprises. That was because usually the surprises he got consisted of orcs and destroyed villages. And now he faced yet another surprise – a lone woman traveling in the plains and what had happened to her? Orcs. Of that he was sure. And it hurt his pride more than he would admit. It was his duty to keep the East-mark safe and the fact that travellers were getting raided by orcs... That screamed failure to his ears.

They had made camp for the night, since Halla was in no shape to travel yet. They would need to stitch her wound here although Éomer didn't like the idea. Fever usually indicated inflammation and inflamed wounds needed proper medical attention – not quick stitching in the middle of the plains with limited supplies. As soon as she would be able they would travel to Aldburg, his hometown. The healers there would take good care of her if she would live to meet them.

He had asked Éothain, his second in command, to take care of their visitor and her injuries. Éomer didn't trust himself at the moment. His hands shook from the restrained rage and at the moment he would've given anything to get his hands on the orcs who had done this. Every successful attack they made was an insult towards him and his country. It didn't matter whether they attacked his kinsmen or occasional travellers, the safety of this land laid on his shoulders. And sometimes the burden just felt too heavy.

But he was pleased to see that someone had taken care of their visitor's mount. The grey mare was standing with the rest of the horses and seemed to be enjoying herself. His horse, Firefoot, was standing a bit away, wiggling his ears in awareness. "Enjoy your night," Éomer told him. "It seems these calm nights are becoming rarity." Firefoot snorted in answer.

In the tent where Halla was supervised, Éothain was scratching his head, unaware of his Marshal's sulking thoughts. He had sulking thoughts of his own, cursing Éomer, who had given this task to him. Éothain could take care of injured men without any problems and he was fairly good at stitching and bandaging, but this was a woman he was facing! This felt improper. He wondered for a while what his betrothed would say, but then forced the frightening images away.

He sighed and lifted the cloak that had been laid on top of the woman, to keep her from cold. Her side was completely covered with dried blood and with horror Éothain realised that he would have to cut the tunic off. It had glued itself to the wound and her skin, and while he tried to be as gentle as possible, he heard her groan in pain through unconsciousness. The task was more difficult than he had expected. He needed constantly to add water to the fabric, to get it detached from dried blood. Still sometimes he had to pull it with power and cut it with his dagger. Quite quickly he lost himself in the process of freeing the wound and forgot altogether that he was dealing with a woman here.

Until he reached her chest. Éothain did his best to keep his eyes occupied on safer areas, like her armpit, but in the end he had to face the facts. The wound reached the side of her breast and he couldn't really do anything to it without looking at it. He decided to keep thinking about orcs, his grandmother or just about anything but the barely covered breast in front of him. Wilda would kill him. And he would kill Éomer before that.

Now that he could see the whole wound he started to feel pity towards the figure laying in front of him. The cut reached from her chest to the hip. He was surprised that the woman had somehow found the strength to stay conscious and ride for help. The inflammation had started spreading from near the hip. Éothain suspected that the woman hadn't cleaned the wound before starting the journey in the plains. He hoped it wouldn't spread after he'd cleansed and stitched it.

Softly he started cleansing the wound, hoping she wouldn't wake up until he was ready. The breast was still haunting him - after all, he was a man, although an honourable one. And stitching would be easier with her blissfully unaware. He had seen grown men yelling in pain and wasn't sure if he could handle woman's screams.

He almost dropped the needle he was purifying with fire and alcohol when Éomer stepped in. He made a small bow with his head in acknowledgement and continued his task. His Marshal just stood in the middle of the tent, his tall frame looking a bit baffled. It took a while until he realised the breast might be haunting his friend too.

"That's... That's a horrible wound," Éomer said after a while and hid his amusement in fake cough when Éothain glared at him. "She hasn't woken up yet?"

"No, sir. And it is better that she remains unconsciousness until I have finished with the wound." He turned to face Halla's side and started to realize he would have to touch her. In the place he didn't want to touch her. Wilda would kill him; he was a dead man.

"Give me the needle, Éothain. You've done well and deserve a break. Please, let me finish," Éomer said politely, but a hint of a smile was creeping in his lips. Éothain handed him the needle without thinking twice and bowed to him as a thank you before leaving the tent, his cheeks flaming red.

Éomer's smile died on his lips when he looked at the figure lying on the cloak. Her short-cropped reddish hair was stuck on her forehead and her breathing shallow. The whole tent smelled like fever and blood. She looked so fragile – almost like a child.

After cleaning his hands and the needle – you can never be too careful – he started stitching. Éothain had done a very good job cleaning the cut and luckily it wasn't too deep either. He suspected the amount of blood she had lost hadn't been as much as he had first expected. With proper care it would heal and her life wouldn't be in danger, but it would leave a very nasty looking scar.

The only warning he got was the tingling in his neck, but that was enough. The warrior's instincts probably saved his life when the knife came towards his throat. In stead of it slitting his windpipe it left a small scratch on his shirt before he managed to snap a hold of Halla's arm. Her gaze was defiant albeit feverish. When she realised it was him it became confused and her gaze scanned the tent around them until it came resting to her upper body and the tunic that was cut off. Then she fell limp again.

It took a while before Éomer could steady his heartbeat. He had no idea where the knife had come from but he was quite sure Halla had more than one hidden in her garment. It wasn't until he finished with her when he could relax his tensed muscles again. Yes, Éomer son of Éomund definitely did not like surprises.

""

Halla woke with a groan of pain. Her right side felt like it was submerged in molten lava, which, much to her dismay, felt even worse than getting hit by a sword. She had never understood why healing had to hurt so much. With a sigh she tried to feel her wound only to discover it was covered in soft linen. A frown appeared on her face and Halla tried to use all of her wit to make sense of her situation.

The orc scout had found her just when she had finished bathing in the river. Still, she didn't understand how it was able to surprise her, and without a terrified neigh from her beloved pony she probably would've died. That mare had earned itself a reward.

So, instead of the orc killing her – it probably had considered her an easy prey – it had wounded her side when she reached for her swords. Slaying an orc while being naked and wounded hadn't been the most desirable task, but in the end Halla had succeeded.

It had been pure survival instinct. Every moment the thought of losing too much blood had hammered in her brains. And she had been afraid, afraid of losing to this monstrous creature when she could not know what it would do to her. Her mind had wandered again to that dreadful spring when everything in her world had crumbled down and with that in mind she had beat herself to feral rage.

When she came to her senses the orc's head was a few feet away from her and its body hacked to pieces next to it. With a shiver she had collected her clothing and tried to tie the tunic around her as tight as possible. She needed help with the wound, Halla knew that much. She had tried stitching herself once and the experience hadn't been a pleasant one.

Mounting Dustfoot had been difficult, to put it mildly. The mare hadn't calmed down until they were a good distance away from the carcass that once had been an orc scout. Halla hadn't calmed down until the fever had struck and made her feel blissfully numb.

And right now she could feel the panic rising inside her again. With two long inhales and exhales she managed to calm down enough to pay attention to her dark surroundings. There was a cloak on top of her, smelling like a horse, musk, oil and wet dog. Somehow it reminded her of home. With the thought of home comforting her she found the courage to try sitting up.

A yell she couldn't possibly suppress escaped her lips. And with that outburst several things happened at once. Halla heard several running footsteps, words in a language she didn't speak, the sounds of swords being pulled from the scabbards and horses neighing. The night had come alive at once.

In panic she tried to find her swords, but she couldn't spot them anywhere near her. Without her trusted companions on her side she turned to the second best option and tried to flick a small knife in her hand. To her horror it wasn't in its rightful place either. At least her boot didn't betray her and the knife located in there still felt familiar in her hand.

The flap to the tend opened and three male figures walked in, two of them having swords in their hands. Halla clutched to the knife as if her life depended on it. She would have the element of surprise. If only they would come a little closer...

The one in the middle of the group said something to the one standing right to him. He shrugged his shoulders as an answer. The third one, with the tallest frame, sheathed his sword and knelt beside Halla. He smelled just like the cloak on top of her. With her every muscle tense she waited for him to come closer and closer and...

A shriek of agony escaped her lips again. Her side! It felt like thousands of needles piercing it simultaneously and every needle had a salt coating! The knife dropped on the ground and for a moment she had to concentrate on staying conscious. But to her surprise, the man kneeling next to her hadn't even flinched.

"We won't hurt you," he said, his tone comforting as if he was talking to a wild horse. He had a low and soothing voice. She found it very pleasant to listen to. There was also a slight accent in his speech, indicating Westron wasn't his first language. "Would you like to drink something? Water? I'm afraid we don't have any willow bark with us." Halla nodded carefully after realising they must have been the ones to take care of her wound. The mention of water had made her painfully aware of her dry mouth and the thought of having willow bark was heavenly.

"I have some willow bark in my saddle bags if you can get them for me," she managed to utter, her voice coarse from lack of moisture. The man she was speaking to nodded and turned to face the others. However, she understood nothing what he told them to do. After listening for a while she however had to admit that she liked the sound of the language. It almost lulled her to sleep, but only almost. The pain in her side made sure of that.

"Are you the riders of Rohan?" she asked quietly. Halla had no memory of coming to this place and although the man seemed vaguely familiar with his long hair and dark eyes, she didn't know who he was. In the back of her head she had a feeling she should. The man seemed somewhat perplexed by her question.

"You don't remember encountering us? Yes, we are the riders of Rohan. I'm Éomer, son of Éomund. I did introduce myself earlier, but I have feeling your fever was rather high back then, Halla the Huntress." There was a hint of smile on Éomer's lips as he said it. Somehow Halla remembered that tone.

"Are you mocking me? I did not choose my nickname, it was given to me," Halla hissed between her teeth. "Or do you make fun of everyone who crosses your path?" Still, after many years of surprised gazes, taunts and disbelief she still didn't like when people questioned her. Funny, she thought she'd be used to it by now.

Éomer raised his hands in to indicate that he was sorry. "I am sorry if I have insulted you in any way. It is just a rather odd nickname to be given to anyone," he held a pause, as if thinking would he be bold enough to ask his next question, "What exactly do you hunt?"

"Orcs," she said bluntly and almost crossed her hands across her chest until the pain reminded her that moving was not an option. The look Éomer gave her was almost comical. There was disbelief and surprise combined. And something else, but Halla wasn't quite sure what.

"You hunt orcs?" he repeated to be sure of what he had heard. Then he said nothing, except "Hmm" which might have meant anything between "interesting" and "horseshit". Luckily that was the moment when Halla's willow bark decided to arrive. She had been ready to give a mouthful to the man, but the tea diverted her thoughts. Or rather the fact that they had taken the time to make her tea rather than just giving the willow bark to her to chew on.

"I'm sorry, milady, for we didn't have any honey to accompany it," the man bringing the tea and water said, and tried actively shift his gaze to anywhere but her. His accent was slightly more visible than Éomer's and he seemed younger than his commander. Halla wasn't sure but there might have been a slight blush on his cheeks. She looked at Éomer to confirm her suspicion and saw that he was holding back a grin and failing miserably.

"Thank you, Éothain, I'm sure our lady visitor will like it just fine, even without the honey to sweeten it," Éomer answered and dismissed him. Halla eyed them both. There was something here she wasn't understanding. The innocent gaze Éomer gave her confirmed it. "You should drink it now, while it is still warm," he said, like nothing had happened.

"Why was he blushing?" She went straight to the point. "And what is all this lady-nonsense? I have never been one and I'm not planning to be one any time so-", she was cut off mid-sentence when Éomer lifted the waterskin on her lips and made her drink water. She drank eagerly, now remembering how thirsty she had been and forgot her questions altogether.

However, Éomer didn't let her drink as much as she would've liked. In stead he handed her the willow bark tea and made sure she drank all of it. Halla wasn't quite sure if she was annoyed or embarrassed by this. She decided the former when she saw the small smirk on the man's lips.

"Are you always this concerned with your visitors?" Halla asked with a hint of her irritation showing through her voice. She realised her question might have been insulting when she saw how the look on Éomer's face changed quicker than a wood elf reloaded his bow. His lips pressed into a thin line and the sparkle of amusement in his eyes disappeared.

"You are a visitor in our country and I'm in the charge of East Mark's safety. The fact that you got attacked by someone or something clearly states that I'm not doing my task as well as I should," Éomer stated while staring at the tent's fabric wall. Halla felt a sting of guilt strike at her heart. It was not his fault that Halla had not been cautious.

"I'm sure you are doing all you can," she answered while playing with the cloak's fabric with her fingers. The pain in her side was starting to fade and Halla found herself to be quite ravenous. She saw the familiar hint of amusement return to Éomer's eyes when he too heard to growling of her stomach.

"I'll ask Éothain to bring you something to eat. I think we still have some rabbit stew left from earlier," he said and a boyish grin appeared on his face for a while. "Éothain really likes your company."

Halla lifted her brow and stared at the man before her. "He does?" she asked with a hint of suspicion in her voice. She was quite sure Éothain was the man who had brought her the tea earlier. There was something going on here and Halla wasn't sure whether she liked it or not. The only answer she got was the low chuckling of Éomer's when he left the tent.