As the Uruk-hai fled the valley, the Riders followed, chasing them onward and away from the Hornburg. Hilde lagged behind, breathing hard as voices rose, calling for them all to stay away from the trees.

It was over.

She slid from the back of the horse she had joined on the battlefield, giving him an absent pat as she waded in among the strewn corpses of Uruk, horse and rider alike. There was someone she had to find. She could not rest until she knew...

When she finally found Brytta, she knelt by his head, lifting his now blood-matted forelock away from his eyes. They looked up at her, clouded with pain. The pike had found its mark. Looking upon the wound she knew she should end his suffering, and with a shuddering breath drew her father's sword, lifting it into position.

The blood-streaked blade fell from her trembling hands. She couldn't do it. So instead she sat with him, gently pulling his elegant head onto her lap. His eyes closed, comforted by the touch of her gentle hands. She couldn't bear for him to be alone. For the longest time she just sat quietly with him, her fingers gently stroking his broad cheek and neck. His sides jerked, his breath coming in ever slowing wheezes. Eventually, she leaned down, resting her forehead against his soft cheek. His great dark eye opened, watching her with a nearly human expression of love and contentment...and longing. A trickle of blood had begun trailing from his nose. Her red-gold hair, now dulled with sweat and blood, tangled with his chestnut mane.

"Thank you, old friend," she finally whispered, "You saved my life, though you paid for it with your own."

"But you are free now. Free to run to my father, and together you can ride to the Great Halls of our ancestors. Tell him I love him, and that I will miss him.

"And take care of him. I know he will take care of you." Tears had begun streaming down her face. With a final labored breath he went still, his expressive eyes going dull.

"I will miss you, Brytta," she mouthed the words more than spoke them, for her throat was too choked with grief. She leaned down a final time, placing a kiss on his velvet nose, stroking his cheek one last time. Then, setting his head gently back onto the ground, she stood, fighting back the urge to throw herself over his body and weep. He was a warrior just as much as any man. He deserved the dignity of a warrior's death.

"Westu hál. Ferðu, Brytta, Ferðu."* With that, she turned, pausing only to pick up her father's sword.

Though her jaw was set, tears continued to stream down her cheeks as she began the slow walk back to the Hornburg.

Whether through shock, blood loss or grief, pain or pure exhaustion, Hilde did not make it more that two steps before her entire world went dark. She collapsed to the ground, and knew no more.

***

"Stay out of the forest! Keep away from the trees!" Éomer cried out, pulling Firefoot up sharply even as the riders behind him reined in their horses, others already taking up the call. Before them, the Uruk-hai fled among the dark boughs and looming trunks, desperate to get away from the Rohirrim. But the Riders knew better. That forest had not been there before, and Éomer could feel in his bones that there was something other, something powerful about these trees. A flicker of fear went through him as he turned his eyes from his men to the trees.

Sure enough, as the last of the Uruks disappeared into the shadows of the forest, those very trees came to life, their long unheard voices roaring and groaning in satisfaction as their limbs and roots gave end to the shrieking Uruk-hai.

Letting go the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, Éomer turned to his King, meeting Théoden's gaze for the first time in what felt like an eternity. When Gandalf had found him, he had spoken of the change in the King, assuring Éomer that Saruman's spells were no more. He had been almost desperate to believe it, but part of Éomer had been wary, and not quite ready to take the wizard at his word.

But now, looking into his uncle's clear eyes he did believe. With a heavy sigh, the King angled his horse next to Firefoot, his hand coming to rest on Éomer's shoulder. It was a long moment before Théoden managed to speak, starting several times before deeming the words he'd chosen inadequate.

"I am sorry, Éomer," he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. Éomer could feel his own emotions rising in his throat. Along with Éowyn and Théodred, Théoden was his only family. It had crushed him more than he'd been able to admit, even to himself when the King had fallen under the wizard's spell. Clearing his throat, a hesitant smile on his lips, Éomer lifted his own arm, clamping his hand on his Uncle's shoulder. He was not a man of words and so he had no words he trusted to say what he wished, but judging by the look in his uncle's eyes, the King understood what Éomer said with the gesture. Grinning, his relief evident, the King gathered his reins more firmly in his hand before urging Aelafel forward, issuing commands as he passed among his men on the way back to the Hornburg.

Gathering up his own reins, Éomer began to follow the King, allowing Firefoot to set the pace as Éomer recognized his mount's fatigue. They were both all but spent from the hard ride. But the Marshal was not ready to give in to his own exhaustion just yet. He couldn't; there was still a great deal to be done. The battle might be over, but there was still a great deal to do. Already those who had taken shelter within the Hornburg were beginning to trickle out of the ruined gates, searching for survivors and loved ones. Soldiers were beginning to comb the field of battle, destroying any Uruks still clinging to life. Cries and wails echoed around the valley, both of pain and misery, as the wounded and dying cried for help and the survivors looked out upon the dead; the aftermath, Éomer found, was sometimes harder than the battle.

He still had work to do as the new Heir to the King and Third—no, First now—Marshal of Rohan. But that was not the only reason he fought back his fatigue.

He wanted to see her again.

A part of him needed to know Hilde was all right before he could rest easy. The flame-haired shieldmaiden had lingered in his thoughts after he had left her standing in the stables of Edoras. Though, in truth, she had been lingering in his thoughts for far longer than that. A part of him that he had been trying desperately to suppress had fallen in love with her when they were children still. But she and Théodred had been nigh inseparable as they grew, and he had easily seen in his cousin's eyes that the King's son loved her. So Éomer had buried his feelings, willing himself to forget them. It was too painful to see the girl—no, woman—he cared for in the arms of another, especially when that other was one he couldn't bring himself to challenge, no matter how much he wanted to. Somehow, he had succeeded, burying his feelings for her so deep he was able to nearly convince himself they no longer existed.

But then his most secret of hopes had been rekindled with the look in her eyes as he had faced banishment from his home. The emotions that surfaced in her warm brown gaze had mirrored his deepest, most hidden feelings, waking them as they had lain dormant in the back of his mind. He had nearly kissed her that day, almost giving into the same impulse he'd had all those years ago, when they were still children. Part of him wished he had anyway, that he either hadn't noticed Grima's spy, or had ignored him. But he hadn't been willing to risk Hilde's safety. As much as he'd hated that he'd had to place the task on her shoulders, he'd needed her to look out for his sister; Hilde wouldn't have been able to do that had Grima known of Éomer's feelings for the shieldmaiden. The worm might very well have locked her away rather than risk her causing trouble had he known of Éomer's regard for her. Worse, he might have chosen to use her as some form of leverage, using her against him as he had once hinted he would with Éowyn.

Carefully, Firefoot picked his way through the scattered bodies that lined the valley, and Éomer gave him his head to do so; the dappled stallion knew where he was going. It left Éomer free to scan the battlefield, taking stock of the carnage as he could see the King doing far ahead. But then, a flash of colour caught his eye, gleaming for a moment as it stirred in the breeze, catching the sunlight. Éomer's heart nearly stopped as fear coursed through him.

It was the same shade of red-gold as haunted his dreams.

She was standing from where she had been kneeling in the midst of the carnage, dressed for battle and covered with the grime and effluence of the bitter fight. But no sooner had the woman he longed to see stood than she collapsed, her limbs folding beneath her with the limpness that only came from unconsciousness. With a strangled cry he was down off Firefoot's back in an instant, stumbling through the churned up mess of the valley.

"No," was all he could choke out as he fell to his knees beside Hilde, his eyes darting over her features for signs of life. Relief surged through him at the movement beneath her shadowed eyelids and the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath her armour. Yanking his blood-soiled gloves off, he took her face in his hands, willing her to wake. "Hilde. Please, open your eyes for me, love." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. A shuddering breath escaped him when she opened her eyes, meeting his anxious gaze.

"Éomer," she breathed, confusion warring in her eyes with exhaustion and delight—something that brought him no small amount of pleasure—before she surrendered again to unconsciousness. His heart thrummed in his chest. Without hesitation he gathered her into his arms, holding her close even as she sighed quietly, her gloved fingers clutching weakly at his tunic where it peaked out from beneath his mail. The feel of her nestling against him soothed his sudden fear at her eyes sinking shut. It reassured him that it was merely exhaustion that was slowing her breath, not serious—or mortal—injury. She would be well with rest. His arms involuntarily tightened around her.

The movement drew a faint sound of pain. Panic welled in the Marshal as he loosened his arms. At first glance she looked all but uninjured. Her face was streaked with grime and orc blood, save for a trickle of scarlet that came from her hairline and a vivid abrasion on her left cheekbone. But upon looking closer he could pick out flashes of fresh blood seeping from her armour, and she had been cradling her shield-arm close to her body.

Murmuring words of comfort as he lifted her up, he tried to hold her as carefully as he could, fighting past his own exhaustion to bring her over to Firefoot. His dappled mount had been patiently waiting nearby, his dark eyes never leaving his master. As soon as he was up on his horse, Hilde tucked in the circle of his arms, he urged Firefoot forward, making haste toward the Hornburg. Every jolt as Firefoot traversed the field, every pained moan from the woman in his arms, felt like a knife in his heart. So he urged his grey faster, his loyal friend obliging without hesitation.

***

Part of her didn't want to wake just yet. There was little but pain waiting for her in the world of the living right now. She knew her body would ache, for even in sleep she could feel it.

More than that, she feared waking. She feared that, were she to wake, she would be alone in the world. In dreams she was with her father, mother and brother in the Halls of Meduseld, and nearby were Théodred, Éowyn and Éomer. She knew that, awake, her mother and father were dead, as was the King's son, her friend. And she dreaded learning that she was the only one of her family left; in sleep, she could still allow herself to hope, to believe, that Haleth had survived. Awake, she would not be able to hide from the truth if he had fallen like so many of her countrymen. She couldn't face learning that her fears had become truth.

Her dreams calmed her aching heart. In her sleep she dreamt that Éomer had found her on the battlefield, that he had pulled her into his arms like he never wished to let her go; that he had named her his love. A part of her insisted such thoughts were naught but dreams, that Éomer was far from Helm's Deep, for if he were there, he would have far more important things to do than to look for her among the fallen. She wasn't even supposed to be there; she was supposed to be in the caves. But they would learn she wasn't in the caves, another part of her whispered, perhaps then Éomer—no, he would not be looking for her, she forced herself to think.

But yet...

She could swear she remembered the feel of his arms around her, of the feel of his hair against her cheek as he carried her, the feel of his hands cradling her face, and the look in his eyes when she had opened hers. That had felt so real...

The ache in her shoulder and her knee grew more persistent. She was waking. She couldn't stop it. She would have to relinquish the dreams she was desperately trying to cling to.

Hilde's eyes opened.

She was in the Hornburg; she recognized the ceiling and the vaults of stone. She could not remember being brought there. She remembered nothing beyond rising from Brytta's side. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes at the memory. For an instant she thought she remembered a voice calling to her from beyond the clutch of unconsciousness, but it vanished just as quickly as it surfaced amid her muddled thoughts. Awareness came back to her. Her whole body hurt in the way that only utter exhaustion and a hard fight could manage. Her shoulder still burned and, looking down she could see someone had already fit her with a sling. She also noticed that she no longer wore her armour, instead dressed in a simple un-dyed dress and shift with a thick wool blanket tucked over her. As she breathed she could feel the fabric catching at perhaps a handful of minor wounds and abrasions all over her body from Uruk armour and blades that she hadn't quite been fast enough to dodge. There was also a gentle pressure on her right knee, leading her to believe, though her skirts and a blanket covered her legs, someone had bound it. They must have found her on the battlefield and brought her back into the Hornburg.

Tilting her head, she looked around. To her right there were a handful of cots laid out behind some make-shift curtains. All of the cots in the tiny space were full, and all the occupants were women, she noticed. With a start she also realized she was the only one of them who was not an elf. Someone shifted beside her, and she swung her gaze around at the sound. She immediately regretted it; her vision wavered at the sudden movement after being still for so long. When it cleared, though, she could barely believe what she saw.

"Éomer," she whispered, bewildered. The King's nephew sat beside her cot, shifting closer as he noticed she was awake. His green eyes were intense as they fixed on her, nothing but concern and tenderness in their depths. Comprehension surged through her as she met his gaze, slowly rising until she was sitting up, ignoring the twinge in her knee and the strain on her shoulder. "It wasn't a dream, you really did find me," she murmured with wonder. She didn't even realize at first that she had said it out loud. A wan smile came to his lips, and he reached out, taking her uninjured hand in his. Bending, his lips brushed against her bruised knuckles. Hilde's heart nearly skipped a beat.

"You gave me quite a scare, Hilde," he said quietly, worry bleeding into his voice, "why did you do it?" She couldn't immediately answer him, a flutter of guilt wavering in her chest. But then the great feeling of purpose that had driven her through the battle once again came over her, and she realized she still could not bring herself to regret her choice, and neither did she want to regret it. She shrugged absently, fighting back a wince at the movement in her still tender shoulder.

"I had to, Éomer," she said finally, her tone reasoned, without hint of entreaty or shame, "I needed to. It's in my blood. I couldn't just stand aside, not again. Not after..." her voice broke of its own accord, and before she knew it tears were streaming down her face, causing the scrape on her cheek to sting furiously. Next thing she knew, Éomer's arms were around her, and she was burying her face in his chest, clinging to him as she struggled to regain control over herself.

"I heard about your father; I am sorry Hilde. It's not an easy loss." When it had first happened, she didn't think anything anyone could say would help ease the pain; many had offered words and condolences, but none of it helped. But somehow his words did. Something in his tone soothed the ache in her heart at the thought of never seeing her father again. Or maybe it was that he truly did know what she was feeling in that moment. He too had his father ripped from him—his mother too—just as she had. Perhaps that was what she heard in his voice, that he knew nothing he could say would help, which helped in its own way. Sniffing away the last of her tears, disappointed in herself that she had lost control so easily, she managed to calm herself.

She couldn't help but notice, in that quiet moment as her tears ceased, how perfectly she fit against him, wrapped in his embrace, her cheek resting against his collarbone. He was so warm, and she could swear she still felt the chill in her bones from the rain and the terror on the battlements. Her eyes finally focused on the bundle of her things sitting beside her cot. Sitting on top was her sword, or rather, her father's sword, Léofwine. She reached out a hand without dislodging herself from Éomer's arms, her fingertips brushing against the familiar hilt.

"Gamling brought back his sword. I was holding it when I knew I had to be on the walls, that I had to fight. I had meant to bring it to—" horror surged through her, her entire body seizing as a single, devastating realization crashed in on her. Pulling back she met Éomer's eyes, shocking him with the intensity of the dread there. It frightened him. But before he could say a word, she had lurched from the bed and was flying around the dividing curtains into the main portion of the Hall. In an instant understanding flooded through Éomer, and he too was off the cot, dashing after her.

***

* Be-thou well. Go-thou, Brytta, go-thou.

From "The Funeral of Théodred," in The Two Towers, sung by Miranda Otto in the films.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

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