Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I am only playing with the fandom for the enjoyment of myself as well as others.

Author's note: Take care that a spew warning might apply and be cautious when handling food and liquids while reading this.

Chapter 49

Sighing softly as he stood, Aragorn regarded the contents of the earthen bowl in his hand. What little of it he had been able to cajole his friend into eating barely showed. A few pieces of broth soaked bread was about the content of it, and his heart was heavy.

Not unconscious, and not really aware of them, but seeming something between the two the young King of Rohan lay on the bed. Through the three days from the battle to the stone walls of the citadel he had been brought, never fully regaining consciousness from his wounds. Now his friend wondered if ever he would, though the wound should not have been so severe.

Gazing at the window he wondered idly if there was witchcraft at play, but he had seen no sign of it. Putting the bowl down he turned back to his friend, sitting on a chair by the bed to meet hazed brown eyes. His friend was not seeing him, he was not seeing anything that was around him and Aragorn was worried.

This was how their mother had been lost, to this silent death that stole into her heart and consumed it. This was the darkness that no man could cure, and this was how he feared he would lose a friend, for already he had lost near all hope.

"Éomer," he laid a hand on the side of his face. "Éomer, you must not go like this. You must remember, you must fight…" The fragrance of Athelas lay lightly over the air, but in this it seemed the Kingsfoil had no power.

The bandage wound around his head was clean, the cut under having started to knit. The arrow wound was slower to heal, but it was deeper. Having passed through the mail shirt the arrow had been cut out, but unfortunately not before infection had had time to set in. Still the fever that had burned in his body was not high enough to account for his state. Lowering the sheet that covered him Aragorn still checked the bandage and found the folded linen it held in place lightly stained. Removing it he washed the wound once more, pressing gently against the sides to see if the liquid was clear, or the sickly yellow of infection trying to set in full once more.

Thought it had to be painful his friend did not even move nor made a sound as he continued the ministrations.

Éowyn had arrived from Emyn Arnen, and there was no doubt in Aragorn's mind that she had recognized the state of her brother for what it was. This was no fever haze no matter how much he would have preferred it. Taking a fresh pad of linen he gently smoothed a salve over the wound to keep the infection from regaining its hold.

A sword wound to the thigh was wont to bleed more, clear of any sign of infection but not having closed yet in spite of the stitches that had been used to close it. Though Aragorn knew it was in part due to the fact Éomer took no sustenance it still worried him. An open wound would drain his reserves even more quickly, and if he could not find a way to replace them, then there would be nothing left for Éomer to sustain the fight.

"What ails you, brother?" he queried as he tied the bandage in place over the wound once more. "What is this blackness that has taken your heart?" He did not even know if Éomer heard him, but he did what little he could.

Herbs had been left to steep in hot water, then chilled, and this he used to gently wipe over his brow and chest to cool the heated skin.

Though Éowyn had tried to show courage, it had quickly failed her and she had fled the room. Unable to watch her brother pass from them the same way as had their mother. She had taken her refuge to the stable where Firefoot was residing in one of their largest stalls. The great war horse had been wounded, and though he would recover, he was in pain and laid on the soft hay.

Unable to watch her brother pass before her eyes as had their mother, she had taken her refuge to the stable where she cared for the horse. Firefoot had been weakened by the blood loss and had barely been able to leave the field of battle. Brego had not let his old friend be though and had called to him.

When the black breath nearly took the life of Éowyn, it had been her love for her brother that had called her back. It had been Éomer she listened to, and it was his voice that had saved her. A terrible silent killer it had been, and yet she had been called back. As had Faramir, and Aragorn had prayed he would never see it again. Yet this was no witchery he knew. The mind is not a simple thing. One could set a broken arm and stitch a wound, and if they were not too grave, the person afflicted would recover. Sometimes with an arm or leg that was weaker, but if they were fortunate they would be able to regain full strength.

Growing up in Rivendell Aragorn had learned more about healing than some men knew. He knew how the spirit could be afflicted as well as the body. He knew of the wasting illness that had claimed the mother of Éomer and Éowyn after her husband passed. It was not common, but it was an illness and like any fever it could kill if severe enough. If it had been strong enough to kill, then it was often strong enough to passed to the children as well. He had seen it in Éowyn when she claimed Meduseld to be her gilded cage, and he had believed it was what drove her to disguise herself as a man and ride to battle.

He had seen it in Éomer when he found his sister on the field and thought her lost. As well as in the Houses of Healing before she was called back. Had Éowyn been lost then, they would have lost her brother as well, of this he was certain.

Something in the heart of the young warrior had been lost that day, had perished on the fields of Pelennor never to be regained.

Perhaps that was why it had been able to claim him now, because it got a hold of him that day and had never fully released its hold.

He did not know, but he refused to give up all hope yet. While the young man had yet to speak even a whisper, sometimes he would move his gaze as if searching for something. Sometimes when the breeze came in through the open window he seemed to stir enough for Aragorn to give him a little nourishment, but it always faded.

"My Lord," at the sound of the voice he looked to the door and allowed himself a smile at the tall man standing there. His features clear showing his elven heritage, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. More than a mere friend he was father of Princess Lothíriel, betrothed to Éomer.

"This is no time for formalities my friend," he stated softly. "And there is no need for them from you." Imrahil had been sent word, and had arrived immediately. After the battle on the fields outside of Minas Tirith, Imrahil had become good friend of Éomer, and a wise voice that the younger one listened to. Overwhelmed by his new status and the heavy burden of it, Éomer had been glad for the counsel and paid it great heed. It was Imrahil that had found that Éowyn was still alive, and it was the Swan Knights that had saved the Rohirrim after the young warrior had lost his head in grief. His reckless charge then had near been the end of him as well as the riders that followed him.

Aye, it had been a dark moment when Éomer thought his sister lost, after so many years of having learned to master his temper and let it work for him, he had lost all control and Aragorn knew that it pained him to know. Had it not been for Imrahil, not only Éomer but so many of his men following him would have been lost.

"As I have come as a loyal subject intending to give his liege and lord an order, I felt a certain amount of respect and decorum to be in order," Imrahil smiled softly. "Tis well time you took some rest yourself, I shall remain here and do what I can for our friend."

"I thought for a moment he rested a little easier," the old Ranger mused. "I had hoped to get him to take some nourishment."

"I have three sons and a daughter," Imrahil stated softly. "And I have seen them all through illness and injury. You will do him no good if you are too exhausted yourself, and you know I will tend to him."

"Aye, it is to alleviate my own guilt I have not wished to relinquish the task," Aragorn admitted. "I wonder if this time Gondor should not have stood alone, for we had the men. Had I not wished for us to ride and draw swords together, this would not have occurred," he shook his head. "You have cause to hold me to blame as well my friend, for I wonder how your daughter fared at the news."

"She is distraught, and would not be left behind," Imrahil mused. "Though I have urged her not to see to him yet, for I think it will do neither of them any good. I have every faith in our young friend, and he would not wish for her to see him in such state. My daughter is strong, but this is something I fear would hurt her deeply. She has agreed to keep the Lady Arwen company until we know one way or another."

"That I think is for the best," Aragorn mused. Éomer was a proud man, he would not want for anyone to see him in such a helpless state, least of all his bride to be.

"So why do you not take your rest?" Imrahil urged again. "I do not wish to usurp your position, but you need it dearly. Rest, come back well rested and at peace, and mayhap we shall find there is a simple explanation. One that has merely been overlooked in exhaustion."

"Alas I wish it was so, but this is familiar to me," Aragorn shook his head. The way elves sometimes pined for the undying land. The way Éomer and Éowyn had lost their mother to grief. Alas also, how Finduilas, sister to Imrahil and mother of Faramir and Boromir had pined away from the sea.

"Aye, indeed it is, but perhaps the cause is different," Imrahil mused. "Head wounds have always been tricky. They cause men to act in different ways. I've seen men rendered little more than children after receiving one in battle. As well as those who loses all knowledge of who they are, some recover with time, some do not."

"Aye, that is my only hope," leaning forward Aragorn checked the head wound once more. The dark bruising that still marred the flesh around the cut. What had caused it he did not know, unlike the arrow still in the wound, it was never easy to tell. It could have been made by an enemy's club or sword, or even a rock on the ground as he fell. His helm had been beside him on the ground, and if it had fallen long before the young warrior, or as the man himself fell, he could not know. They'd found him unconscious, and Firefoot beside him, having fallen himself trying to protect his master.

"Go rest," Imrahil urged once more, and this time Aragorn gave in with a soft smile.

"I might as well, or I know you will get no rest from insisting my friend. You shall find all you need for the wounds on the table, and some broth in the pot in the hearth. You may soak bread in it, but you must not make the pieces too big."

"I will take care not to," taking his seat in the chair next to the bed, Imrahil paid his liege no further heed, and Aragorn with a soft smile left. Whatever ailed their friend, he was in good hands amongst friends and he was glad for it. Éomer and Éowyn had lived through hard times in Meduseld as they watched their uncle wither away before their eyes. While Grima Wormtounge had never outright moved against Éowyn, he had many times tried to turn Théoden King's favour against Éomer. Seeing him as the more immediate threat no doubt. No doubt as the warrior would have run him through with his sword without a moments hesitation if given the chance.

Imrahil sat quiet in the chair for some time, contemplating the situation. While he had never found it hard to act in times of need, he knew he was more comfortable with the waiting than his young friend. Impatience had never been part of his personality, and that was a trait that had served him well when raising four children. Being able to patiently wait them out no matter what it was they had got up to.

"Though not everyone is able to do so, my friend," he mused softly, more to himself than to the man in the bed. "Your horse is making a nuisance of himself out of his concern for you." Suddenly he leaned forward, for as he mentioned the horse, there had been a shift in the man. Èomer had turned his head to the side, blinking, though his eyes were still unfocused. "Aye, my friend, Firefoot misses you dearly," he stated, louder, with baited breath as he wondered at the reaction. "Your horse is loyal to you, and he is very much concerned that you have not tended to him since the battle. I daresay he knows you are unwell, and it worries him. Only yesterday morn he bit one of the stablehands."

"Firefoot…" it was no more than the faintest whisper, and had he not had excellent hearing Imrahil might have missed it, but now he leaned further forward. Reaching out a hand to brush the sweat soaked hair away from his forehead with the gentle touch of a father.

"Aye, Firefoot, your noble steed. He does miss you my friend, as do I and my liege. Your sister is beside herself with worry."

"Firefoot is gone…"

Even listening close, Imrahil barely heard it. "No my friend, why would you think so?" he breathed. "Èomer, Firefoot is not gone, he was injured in the battle, same as you. But he is well, he is in the stable. He is being well tended to for all his ill temper. What he needs is for you to see to him, do you hear my words?" he rested his hand gently on his brow, wondering at what he had heard.

It did not seem like he would be granted more, which he regretted deeply, for after the brief words his friend seemed to retreat into himself once more. Not a morsel was Imrahil able to get into him though he tried, and in the end he sat himself gazing out the window.

He sat there still when Aragorn returned, and then he stood and drew his friend with him into the hallway.

"My friend?" Aragorn asked worried. "What has happened?"

"Good news, or ill, I know not which," Imrahil sighed. "He spoke, which I took for good news indeed, but after he seemed to sink even deeper. Aragorn, he thinks Firefoot lost, I say he thinks him perished in the battle."

"I know how much he cares for that beast, yet I can't see how that alone would cause this," Aragorn frowned, his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. "They are connected in ways I do not understand for myself. So has it always been with the heirs of Eorl and the Mearas. Firefoot may only be half Mearas, but the blood sings strong in his veins."

"Aye," Imrahil allowed himself a light smile. "I have seen enough to know it is so, and aye, I agree. Losing Firefoot would have torn his heart asunder but not like this. Éomer shall outlive the horse, and he knows it. There is more to this, it has to be."

"Alas we know not what, but at least now we know as much," Aragorn nodded.

"We have a place to start," Imrahil smiled softly. "I would move him to the chambers by yours, so as to open to the garden."

"I think that is an excellent idea," Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder. "I will have them readied."

Though he expected some of the servants thought it odd, they said nothing that new chambers were prepared for the King of Rohan, nor of the fact that the bed was pushed from its usual place to one by the door. It was a small private garden for the Royal chambers. It had not been used for many years while Gondor awaited its King. Yet it had been tended to and now flourished from Queen Arwen's touch.

Though the breeze that carried through the open door, the pleasant fragrance of flowers in bloom seemed to have no effect on the young warrior. It was not herbs and roses Aragorn had hoped for, it was the grey stallion that he led into the garden. The stallion though limping still neighed loudly as he sniffed the air, stomping his hoves and whinnying.

"Go on then," with a laugh Aragorn released the halter. "If you can not convince your master you are alive and well, I know not what can." Firefoot, rather than moving to the doorway, uncertain as most horses would have done, barrelled right in through the door. Ducking his head just enough to pass through. He could hear the iron clad hooves on the stone floor and knew there would be horrified nobles when they heard tell of it, and he did not think they would not. Servants would notice the signs a horse had been in the palace, and they would talk, he knew as much. However he did not find it worthy of his concern, not in the light of things.

The great war horse of Rohan ambled over to the bed, and nudged his master with his nose. Following after him into the room Aragorn met Imrahil's eye, and smiled. The Prince of Dol Amroth had been certain to step out of the stallion's way as Firefoot would not let anyone stop him from reaching his rider.

Whinnying and scraping his hoof on the floor, Firefoot nudged him again, taking the cover in his mouth to tug at it. The horses of Rohan were trained to aid their masters, even if they were fallen in battle, and Firefoot knew well enough how to get the attention of the man. Not satisfied unless he got a reaction he stuck his mule in the crook of Éomer's neck, nudging again and again.

Watching carefully for signs that it had worked, Aragorn broke out into a wide smile as he noticed Éomer's eyes turn to look at the stallion, and struggling to focus. It was slow, as it seemed the warrior was barely able to focus on his horse.

Never did the warriors of Rohan easily surrender to a task for it being difficult though. Instead Aragorn found himself smiling wider when there was no doubt the young warrior had taken note of his companion and was struggling weakly to free his hand.

"Aye, tis your noble steed my friend," he stated. Walking closer he had to wait for Firefoot to allow his presence, for the horse was jealous of his master's attention. Especially when his master was ill or injured. As Brego had accepted him as a rider, so did Firefoot accept him as a friend and ally. This however was not a right he was allowed to assume was his, not without question. No, this was a right he had to continuously earn. One that Firefoot did not grant lightly.

Placing one hand on the stallion's shoulder he reached the over to pull the blanket back. Éomer weakly struggling to lift his hand as Firefoot dipped his mule to it. The horse nuzzled him, and though his rider said nothing it was clear to Aragorn that he was at least aware.

Not wishing to interfere he took his pipe to move into the garden, sitting on a nearby bench where he would be able to see both horse and rider. Imrahil coming to sit beside him.

"The bond between the two is strong," the Prince stated as he stretched out his feet.

"Aside from the elves, I've never seen anyone that understands horses so," Aragorn drew gently on his pipe. "And I've never seen a horse that understands men like that grey beast does. If Éomer bid him climb a tree, I would look up and expect to find him in the top."

"Aye," Imrahil nodded, leaning back on the bench. "If not that horse gets through him, then I shall say I do not think a herd of Mûmaks will do it."

"He did respond to him," Aragorn blew a smoke ring, studying it as it slowly dissolved in the air. "Though it remains to be seen if it will last. That is my worry now, that he may not take it for the truth if Firefoot leaves his side."

"Of that I do not think you need to worry, rather how to convince him the chambers of your palace is for men and not horses," Imrahil allowed himself a laugh. "Once you have allowed him inside, do you truly think that beast will consider himself returning to the lowly stable?"

"I think it not unlikely that Éomer shall make himself at home in our stable if he does not wish to be separated from his horse," Aragorn replied. Sinking into a comfortable silence as he watched the two occupants of the room. Firefoot had indeed not cared that he was inside a house, or a palace, for he was quite content to stay with his master. Éomer seemed to be focused on him, but soon Aragorn noted weariness overcame him and his hand fell to the bed.

Pocketing his pipe he walked into the room, rubbing Firefoot over the mule. "Thank you, mellon nin, you are a good friend for aiding your master."

"It seems me a more restful sleep," Imrahil stated as he had settled the cover over his friend.

"I think so as well," Aragorn nodded. "Come my friend," he nudged the horse. "We shall find you an apple and some oats, you may stay in the garden for now, but I think it is better you are there as your master sleeps."

He led the horse out, almost surprised that the stallion followed him as easily as he did. However as soon as the stallion had had his oats and the promised apple, he moved to the doorway again. Clearly making his will known.

Aragorn did not mean to deny him, but as he noticed his friend stirring in the bed he first wanted a few words with him, if it was possible.

Settling in the chair he waited for the hazel eyes to open, smiling as they slowly focused and he reached for to take his hand. "Welcome, my friend, I have been much concerned for you."

"I think I dreamed," Éomer's voice was faint from lack of use, and he seemed somewhat disoriented. "What of Firefoot? My Lord, did I dream he was here? Is he well?"

"He is well, though he was injured he is healing well, and he shall no doubt insist to see you again. I risked the ire of our servants to let him into your chambers," he smiled softly. "It is very good to see you are indeed here, for a moment we thought we had lost you."

"I do not recall, not all," he breathed. "Only that I thought I had lost him…" his voice seemed to fade and Aragorn grasped his hand to ensure he would not follow.

"Éomer, do not despair, do not think him lost, for he is not," he urged. "But you nearly was lost to us, and I know not really why. Can you tell me? What caused you to think your horse was lost? Do you know?"

"Aye," though weary he turned his head to the side. "I recall seeing the blow about to land, and it was as if all the bells of Gondor rang in my head," he lifted his hand to his head, and Aragorn, knowing what a heavy blow falling on your helm felt like could well believe it.

"You took a bad blow, you were unconscious when we found you," he stated.

"Aye," Éomer nodded. "I felt it coming, though I could not stop it. I saw him still coming for me, so I swung my sword, but I had lost my bearings, and I saw my aim was not true. Firefoot was there, and I know not how my strike fell, but I heard them, not clearly, but as a dream, and how they said I had killed him. How his head was severed and I had killed him. He's more than a war horse Aragorn, Firefoot is more than so…" His voice rose, as if needing his friend to understand, and this Aragorn did understand.

"Firefoot was wounded, but not by your blade, that I can assure you," he stated. "The wound he had could not have been done by your sword, but your bane, the one that struck you down, was indeed lying dead beside you, head severed. I should say it was his demise you heard them state. Not Firefoot's, your enemies."

"T'was not true?" Éomer swallowed. "It feel unreal still, though I seem to have noted the passing of days, I can not see them. I know not what they have contained, but the horrible deed I thought I had done. Was it naught but fantasy? Was I so foolish?" The dream had seemed so real, so dreadful it could not possibly have been a mere dream. Though as in a haze he had seen his sword fall, and the blood of his mighty beloved stallion flow over his hands, pouring over the ground as he was powerless to stop it. Powerless once more, just as he had been when he had been too late to save his cousin. Aye, Théodred was dead, by his hand to some it would seem. For as surely as if he had killed him himself, his delay in coming to the heir's aid had been his bane.
Théodred had trusted him, and though his task important and vital, he had failed him. His cousin and his Uncle both, for had he ever found a way to free his Uncle from the clutches of the worm? Had he even found out to what extent that traitor had affected his uncle with his potions and evil ways? Nay, he had failed there again, as he had failed his mother after the death of their father. Failed Éowyn for he had not only left her in Meduseld where she felt caged, but he had never realised to what extent that despair ran. That she would have sought her end in battle, rather than to go on. To think how close he had been to losing her, to have seen it once more in a fever haze, and known at last and final he had also been the demise of his own steed. Firefoot whom had never questioned him no matter what he seemed to ask of the big grey.

If there was one thing he had been ever certain of, it was how badly he had failed….

"No," Aragorn shook his head. "Not foolish my friend, and no fantasy of your choosing. It was a bad head wound, and you have seen what they can do to any able bodied man. A cut to an arm or a leg is rarely more complicated than so, bones can be broken and heal, but injury to the head is different."

"I've taken blows to the head before, many a time, and never before have I fallen into such a state," Éomer strove to glare at him, but for his exhaustion it lacked its customary fire.

"And you know well that what I say still holds true," Aragorn smiled softly. "Éomer, I was worried, I still am, and I will not deny it. But a wound like that is something one can not predict. It can affect men in many ways, it is no fault of yours." He was worried about it happening again, but this was not the time to bring that concern to his friend. What Éomer had been able to parse of his situation, the young warrior did not care for. He found it difficult to cope with what he perceived as a weakness on his own part. While he would never think less of a brother in arms, he was less generous with himself.

The worst part, Aragorn thought, was that if the young warrior could not reconcile with his injury, he might fall pray to the same affliction again. If they, as his friends, could not reach him. "Éomer, I ask you to hear me, have you not seen strong, well seasoned warriors fall victim of such wounds, and have you ever thought less of them for it?"

"Aye, I have, and nay, I would not do it," he started slowly, though Aragorn felt he was looking for a reason to judge himself more harshly.

"Then do not hold yourself to a higher standard, you were injured, and with such an injury, no man can know what fate awaits him. Indeed, that you are with us now, is a proof of strength, will you see it as such?"

"I might, if my head was not pounding and there was not near enough two of you," came the slightly sheepish reply.

"Then rest, rest and regain your strength," Aragorn bid him. "Once you wake, you have friends glad to see you, and your sister is here. Rest, and your horse also will be glad to see you when you wake."

Barely had he spoken the words before his friend was asleep. He was still concerned, he could not deny it, but he was still much relieved.

Even more so a few days later, when not only was his friend recovered enough to at least get out of bed for a few hours, but sat in the garden with Lothíriel and his sister. That Firefoot was there as well seemed to be a fact all three of them took as only natural.

Aragorn had to say that in that, he agreed….

A Temporary End... Please review, the Cricket is hungry...

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.