'It cannot be real', thought Éomer, falling from Firefoot with a bleeding wound.

The world before his eyes was shaking and blurring. He was almost sure that he didn't move an inch, it was the earth that suddenly sprang on him and hit him in his face. His eyes could see nothing, whether it was because he was lying facedown or because he went blind, he couldn't tell. He was ready to feel the pain, but there was no pain, only that surreal sensation in his body and mind. Éomer wasn't even frightened, more like curious. His ears were deaf but he felt his heartbeat and it was like the soil was pulsating and flowing into him. But the smell was unfamiliar, the soil was sandy and dry here in Harondor. He couldn't grasp how much time passed since his fall — it could be seconds or centuries.

Then it all rolled back onto him, the rumble of battle, the clatter of swords, foul croaking of the orcs and loud, clear call of Aragorn, that thundered over. Éomer couldn't make a word out of it, though his friend's voice was orotund as always.

'He says my name,' finally decided Éomer but could neither move nor answer. Than he felt strong hands on his back, someone turned him over, but Éomer didn't know whether it was a friend or foe, for the pain finally hit him square in the chest, and he fell into the darkness.

When he came again to his senses, he knew at once the banners that were in Aragorn's tent. And the face, bending to him, belonged to his friend. So it was more like life than death than, thought he.

'I should return to the battle,' he said hoarsely. 'My men need me.'

'The battle ended twenty hours ago,' Aragorn said. 'Everything is well, all our enemies are destroyed.'

But it didn't look like victory, his face was solemn and gloomy. Éomer tried to lift his head from the pillow but it was as hard as trying to move a mountain.

'Be still,' Aragorn said. 'You were wounded, and wounded dangerously.'

'I can't be. I never get hurt, it must be only a scratch.'

Éomer finally managed to raise his right hand and touched his left side, just below the armpit. He found himself unclothed, and, what was more unexpected, his fingertips felt no wound and no bandages. His skin was intact.

'See, not even a graze.' But why then he couldn't move, thought he. Why even those words in a small voice caused him so much pain and suffering...

'That bothers me more than anything,' responded Aragorn after a short silence. 'It must be dark magic or that spear was deadly poisoned. I cannot cure wounds like these, and I believe there are few who can.'

Aragorn leapt to his feet and started pacing around the tent. Éomer couldn't see him now, it proved impossible for him to move his head, so he yielded and stayed still. The world became foggy again.

'More orc troops are there on the roads to Khand. We must scatter them or in a year we'll have again an army of them in the East. But your wound... I see only one way, Éomer. In a half-day ride from here is Khûr. Its sovereign is an accomplished healer. She even possesses some of the elvish skills and powers from her ancestors.'

'I'd rather die than go to Harad, Aragorn.' Éomer closed his eyes, trying not to cry from pain. Instead of being locked in his wound, the pain managed to spread all over his body, the pain so severe that he hardly stayed conscious.

Aragorn took his cold hand.

'I am not your king and I can't give you orders. I am asking you as your friend and brother. I can't lose you, Éomer. And Rohan can't suffer this blow, you know that.'

'If the wound is really dangerous and I am about to die, I'd rather do it with my people, Aragorn. Not among those red-eyed beasts, whatever magic they have there.'

'I know that if you come there you'll live. The princess of Khûr, pharadine, has saved my life once, and she was barely an adolescent then. She is a person of valour and candour, Éomer. And she's been a leud of Gondor for two years now. Please, do it for me.'

Éomer didn't want to comply, but he couldn't stand the look of suffering on Aragorn's face. He set his teeth.

'If I go there, I need my éored.'

Aragorn seemed relieved. He even had a feeble smile on his lips, when he stood up once again, agitated.

'You are not going to battle, Éomer King, two of your men will suffice. We need to get you there as quickly as possible, so two riders will carry you in turns.'

'I'll ride Firefoot,' Éomer protested.

Aragorn hesitated for a moment.

'Firefoot fell, my friend.'

Éomer felt a rush of grief and the pain increased tenfold, but a second later he was aswoon again. Aragorn touched his heated brow, winced and rushed out of the tent to give orders.

...

'I swear I never slept in a bed like this, fluffy pillows and blankets and everything. Yesterday I couldn't sleep so I studied carvings on my bedposts, I tell you, Fraca, it was more interesting, than the elf ballads we heard at Minas Tirith, with elephants and boars, hunting scenes...'

'And the peacocks! You've seen them? Strolling in the inner yard, like my chicken back home, can't wait to tell my wife 'bout them...'

Éomer looked at the ceiling above him and listened to his men blabbering sotto voce somewhere by his side. It was a strange contrast, guttural Rohirric words in a chamber like this. The ceiling and the walls were made of some very dark timber, inlayed with gold and with vast panels, depicting all sorts of flowers and birds. Éomer lowered his eyes and saw that his room was open at one side, and strange fronds with huge white flowers came into the room. The air smelled wonderful, perhaps due to those flowers, but Éomer thought that the fragrance came from the linen on his bed.

'I was taken to Harad, obviously,' thought he. He remembered nothing after his conversation with Aragorn. He was in this foreign place and he still lived — it looked like Aragorn was right about insisting on bringing him here.

'... and that delightful pudding I had last night, remember, that with red berries, I hope they'll serve it tonight as well...'

'... and the bath I had! Never had a bath like that in my whole life, with foams and oils, ah, though they don't heat the water as we do back home, right, mate?..'

Éomer shifted a bit in his bed and saw two Rohirrims standing by the windowsill. He knew them well, of course, they were people of his own éored. So Aragorn decided not to send Elfhelm or Erkenbrand with him, just his regular warriors... that was wise, perhaps, for nobody knows how much time this journey might take...

The birds were chirping in the rays of sun outside. Éomer thought that summer in Harad must be unbearable, but not in the battlefield it was... tolerable. He wasn't quite ready to join the raptures of his soldiers, for he hadn't seen much still. And he would give anything to find himself not in this strange country, but in his own chambers in Meduseld.

'Éomer King!'

His awakening was noticed, the warriors bowed. Éomer saw that they were without their armor and was not happy with that carelessness.

'So glad you came back! Though she told us it must happen about this hour.'

'How's your wound, sire? That princess girl spent hell of a time on it...'

Éomer felt a feeble pain but he was cautious not to stir too much and not to think much about it. So he simply asked which day it was.

'Today's Saturday, my king,' answered Dimbold. 'You were wounded on Tuesday. Then King Elessar asked us to take you to Khûr. I swear we quailed at the thought but it turned out not that gruesome. We just rode southwards till we reached Khûr patrol. But we put a red flag, as King Elessar proposed, so they took us to their princess straightaway. And then it was even better, for she speaks Rohirric no less than we do, we told her the whole story and she spent two days trimming up your wound, without any food or sleep. And this morning she finally came out of your chamber and said you're going to be just fine. And you should see the quarters she put us into...'

The door opened and Dimbold ceased talking. Éomer looked that way and saw a young woman entering, a woman of such breathtaking beauty that she seemed hardly real. She was tall and slender, in a thin purple dress that left her arms and neck bare. She wore golden armlets and long earrings. The Rohirrims bowed.

'My lord, it is her, the pharadine, I mean, the princess of Khûr,' whispered Fraca.

But there was no need to tell that, for a woman of such looks and posture could be no one else but the princess herself. She returned the bow to Éomer's warriors and looked at Éomer sharply. Her big starry eyes were grave, or such was the impression given by her long black lashes.

'Westu hal,' she said softly and approached the king's bed. Éomer noticed something strange about her walk, the princess was slightly limping.

'My guests,' she spoke in Rohirric to the soldiers. 'The dinner is already served on the terrace.'

Thus dismissed, Fraca and Dimbold bowed again and went out. And Éomer was left alone with this Haradrim princess, but he had no fear or doubt in his heart.

The walls of the chamber were already colored in the rose tones of the sunset, so Éomer was not surprised when three servants clad in blue came and brought candles. Their motions were noiseless and they disappeared as swiftly as they came in the first place. When the door closed, the pharadine stepped to the golden basin in the corner of the room, took the ewer with quaint neck and washed her hands thoroughly. Then she approached Éomer again and silently untucked the sheets to study his wound. Éomer was embarrassed, for never a woman touched his naked body, never looked at his bare chest so closely. He suddenly became conscious of his situation but was relieved to feel that he no longer smelled of battle — someone must have washed his body and hair after he came. The princess probed the wound with her slim fingers and muttered some words. The king of Rohan was at first surprised to hear Sindarin, but then remembered Aragorn's words. So the wound wasn't healed yet, he thought. The princess frowned, and that proved his guessing right. He took a moment to study her while she was taking care of the wound. She must be a bit younger than he is, Éomer thought, but not much. Her skin was fair, even fairer than his own, but her lashes and eyebrows were jet black. On her throat she had a barely visible white mark in a shape of a crescent. Éomer lifted his eyes and saw her looking back at him. She covered his wound with a bandage and left his room with a curt nod.