For main Author's Note and Disclaimer, see chapter 1

Chapter 21

As conscience slowly came to deposit him into the world of living once more Éomer found his thoughts disjointed and confused. It was a moment before he realised the strange feeling in his head was a blinding headache that sent a wave of nausea rolling over him. Biting back a moan his first coherent thought was to wonder what he had been drinking the night before, and of what quantity. Whatever scattered bits of memory he could dredge up did however not include ale and made him wonder. Especially since his limbs seemed heavy and the same stabbing pain was felt through the rest of his body.

Not daring to move his head he carefully tried to wiggle his toes and had to bite back yet one more moan as pain shot up his legs.

Ale had never caused that before….

Giving up on all thoughts of moving he allowed himself to sink back into the bed, wondering idly if trying to make sense of it all would make the pounding in his head worse. He started to drift off into the peaceful oblivion again when voices outside his chambers called him back once more and a faint whimper escaped him. He had no desire to be awake, the painless darkness seemed to be so much more pleasant. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter hurt, and opening them seemed impossible. Wanting the voices to go away, he attempted to move his hand on one side and the resulting wave of agony caused him to give another whimper.

It roused him enough so that the voices became recognizable, at least that of his uncle, Théoden King. It was comforting to hear his uncle, as wretched as he felt it couldn't all be down to too much ale and stupidity. There was something picking at his memory, and he knew that the voice of his king brought him comfort. He couldn't call out to him though, to ask for his presence. The pain in his head was too much for him to make sense of how his mouth was supposed to work.

"He made it through the night, he should pull through now, my Lord."

The other voice caused Éomer to frown, and worry, who was it that had made it through the night? The pain he felt could certainly be credited to battle, and if they had done battle, it was not unusual to have riders injured and even dead. Regretfully there were always dead, and that thought alone cut through his misery to stab at his heart. If they had been in battle, there would be dead, and he would have lost friends….

"Is there anything you can do for him? He seems to me to be in pain still…."

That was his uncle, and Éomer wanted to call out to him. Their voices were so loud they had to be just outside his door, but he could not move, could not speak for the damnable pain that seemed to want to overwhelm him if he so much as twitched a finger. He tried to shift his head, and a wave of black cold darkness rolled over him. Leaving him nauseous in its wake.

"Nay, my Lord, nothing at this time," the gruff voice was suddenly recognizable as one of their healers. "He is alive, that is all I can do at this time. The rest shall have to take the time it takes."

It should have been a battle then, Éomer thought. A terrible battle, and their king, his uncle was worried for the life of someone he cared very much about or he would not sound so concerned.

Théodred! Had Théodred been hurt? His cousin, the son of the king and the heir to the throne. Théodred was as a brother to him and he struggled to move. If Théodred was hurt so bad he needed to go to him, he needed to see his cousin and see if he would live. The blankets restrained him, and he threw up his arms, tried to beat them back.

The agony that crashed over him was enough to cause him to give a cry, and he found himself spitting vile bile from the nausea. There was nothing but the blood pounding in his ears and the pain that sliced through his very being.

Éomer was not conscious of anything but attempting to draw breath when the cool feeling of a wet cloth over his face and brow finally was clear to him.

"Easy my son, rest lad," Théoden's voice cut through the pain, soft and gentle. Warm and comforting as he felt a hand on his cheek. "Do not move, sister son, take peace and rest…"

How could he rest when Théodred could be dying? How could he lie quiet and let his uncle comfort him when thoughts of his cousin hurt was in his head? Attempting to query he found all that escaped him was a whimper.

He meant to struggle against the covers again when thundering steps and the shriek of armour cut through the haze and he whimpered in pain once more at the sound. The bed lurched under the weight of something heavy and nausea once more came over him.

"Father, how is he?"

That voice, Éomer knew that voice as well as he knew the voice of his sister and his uncle, it was Théodred and he struggled to reach for him, to find how he was, if he was alive. A callused hand clutched his own in a strong grip, and it was Théodred. Théodred was alive, though then he could not make sense of whom it was they were so concerned about…?

"The healer said he should make it, Èomer, sister son, I beg you, do not make the man a liar," Théoden sighed and Éomer felt the confusion rise again. "I can not stand another fright as such you gave me…."

That was odd, or so Èomer surmised. If Théodred was well, and his uncle was so worried, was he then the one they were talking about? Was he the one who had been hurt and the one for which they both seemed so worried…

The excruciating pain seemed to make more sense if so was the case, but he had no memory of it happening. Once more he tried to speak, to ask the question, but he could not form any words. They were in his head, though nothing came but quiet whimpers that he detested. Was he so weak he whimpered like a whipped dog? The anger had him raise his head and a cry of pain ripped through him. It seemed to split his throbbing skull in two and claw his body to shreds.

"Éomer," the hand clasped his hand tighter and a weight came upon his chest. "Lie still, do not try to move."

If he had felt able to speak, he would have pointed out the futility of telling him not to do what he was unable to do. He might even have blacked out for a moment as the voices faded to a low buzz before they came back again. He tried to focus on Théodred's voice, his cousin had always been willing to offer him comfort. Even when the King needed to be strong and harsh, to prove that he demanded the same of everyone, including his nephew, Théodred had been willing to seek him out to offer words of encouragement.

"How did this happen?" Théoden demanded and Éomer strove to listen past the pain and confusion, for indeed it was something he was rather curious about himself.

"They were ambushed by orcs father," Théodred sighed tieredly, and though he was nauseated and coming to be in quite a foul mood Éomer felt that that much should have been fairly obvious. His whole body on fire as it was he felt as if an orc had rolled on him… "Apparently Éomer has spent much of his time in the evenings alone, teaching Firefoot tricks," Théodred continued and Éomer could have smiled if he was not so certain that would hurt.

"His captain says he does not fit in as well as he feels he should," Théoden sighed, and that was not fair, Éomer reasoned. He wanted to object, to argue his case, but it seemed like it would have to involve moving, and he clearly recalled how much that had hurt. "I suppose it is my fault."

Théoden sounded tired, weary and almost in pain himself and Éomer did not like that.

"He is too young to have joined the Eored," Théoden sighed. "Skilled he may be, a better rider than many and a good strong hand with the sword, but he is not old enough. He knows nothing of the life as a man, he is too much of a boy still and how could he not, at his age?"

"He is young father," Théodred seemed willing to argue his case, once more, and Éomer was ever grateful to his cousin. "But he is no child. He is no man, tis true, but look what he has accomplished. The men make fun of him for his youth at times, aye, and I do not care for it. But has he not proven himself? They laugh because he does not drink and boost of deeds he has not done, and because he trains his horse to antics of which they see no use. And yet if not for those same tricks he would be dead. The orcs were moving between the fallen to make sure they were all dead when we came, Father, those whom they even thought to be alive they struck dead where they lay. Firefoot covered him with his body, laid down by him as Éomer has taught him. The orcs did not think a man trapped under his horse in such a way could be alive and cared nothing about him. Aye, a seven hundred pound horse is by far heavy enough to leave him bruised all over, and bad. But he is alive, and he would not have been if he cared more about fitting in and less about being true to his own self."

So that was why he felt as if an orc had rolled and stomped on him then, Éomer mused. His horse had done so. He had meant for it to be a way to seek shelter from icy wind and rain, use the horse that was better equipped to handle the elements to survive himself. Many of the older riders had warned him about laying too close to their mounts, saying they were wont to trample their masters unintentionally, but he had trained the horse. The horse took to it well and was generally careful as he laid down and stood up, though indeed the training had not been without bruises when Firefoot misplaced a hoof, or all of his rump…. Aye, the others had laughed, but it would seem it had been of use then, and he had not expected Firefoot to shelter him from things like orcs, but it would seem the horse was wise enough to adapt his lesson to fit the need.

"What of the rest of the men?" Théoden asked, and Éomer felt an icy hand wrench his gut. How many men were dead? How many of his friends would he never see again? Aye, they laughed and made fun of him, for he was younger than many. He was nephew to the King, and they wanted him to suffer for it while they were not outright cruel. Only in a few cases had he known the barbs were jealousy, but most of them only wanted to see if they could manage to anger the hot headed young rider.

It was still rather easy he had to admit, though he had painfully learned to keep his temper… Théodred had helped him greatly, taken every care to ensure his younger cousin survived his own foolish stupidity. The calloused hand still held his, and it still hurt too much for him to contemplate speaking, but he needed to know about Firefoot. His horse had saved him, he needed to know the creature, so loyal had not paid for it with his own life.

Slowly he forced his eyes open and whimpered against the bright light that seemed to spill from a few candles on a small table.

"Easy my boy, easy," Théoden's voice drew his attention and a cool cloth wiped his brow and face. "Rest Éomer, do not worry yourself yet. We took loses, aye, brave men, but many made it. Théodred and his Eored arrived in time to save most. You will be well, and your horse is well. Théodred has been seeing to him, and will do so until you are able to do so again. Rest easy, you've earned it…"

Firefoot was well, that was what he needed to know. Théodred would take care of him, Firefoot trusted Théodred. He would like as not make some sort of a fuss to make sure all knew he was displeased, but he would let Théodred take care of him….

Turning his head into Théoden's touch he drifted off again…

A Temporary End...

Thank you all who has read and reviewed, and welcome to the new readers and reviewers, the Cricket is ever so happy...

Additional Author's note: Some of these stories might not fit into the Tolkien timeline, I apologise for this, I have not yet been able to procure an English copy, and therefor there has been things I was unaware of while writing. Some I've changed, some I've left as I liked them.
Most of the Rohirric I use, is, as I believe Tolkien himself used, Old English. Though some is modern Swedish, as, frighteningly enough, these are quite often the same. In order to give the story a more pleasant flow for the reader, I have opted not to use a glossary at the end, rather, I try to make the meaning very clear in the story.