Desperation ruled Hilde as she dashed around the curtain separating female wounded from the men. Then horror took over as she got her first real look at the aftermath of the battle, crushing the breath from her chest as the gravity of it collapsed in on her.

Nearly every inch of floor space in the hall was taken up by the wounded and dying. Some were laid out on cots, but many more were arrayed on the floor, often with little or no bedding beyond a blanket and a cloak or roll to act as a pillow. The Hall was filled with moans and cries of pain. The acrid scent of blood and the cloying scent of death hung in the air, choking her. There were so many. Great stains now covered the floor, some browning and dried, while more still glistened, vivid red and fresh. Healers and women bustled around the hall, working tirelessly and desperately to tend to those who were wounded and to comfort those beyond help. Among those doing the tending she even caught a glimpse of Lord Aragorn, kneeling himself beside a wounded man as he tried to help him. There was no way she would be able to find the one face she needed to find among this multitude...if he was even there to be found...

"Haleth," she choked, utterly overwhelmed. She jumped when Éomer's hand brushed her shoulder. She spun to face him, her eyes wide and panicked in her pale face as she grabbed at him, desperate for support as she wavered on her feet. "Where is Haleth? Éomer, where's my little brother?! Is he here? Please—"

"He's here," her knees nearly gave out, her good hand fisting in his tunic, "He's alive." She bit back a sob of relief, leaning her forehead against his shoulder for a moment as his hands rubbed her back comfortingly. She pulled back, meeting his eyes again. Something flickered in the green depths, though, a sorrowful sympathy that scared her.

"Tell me," she breathed, dread settling in her stomach, "tell me what has happened to him, Éomer." He opened his mouth to speak, his gaze shifting to survey the room as he thought better of it. His hand moved down her good arm to enclose her fingers in his.

"Come," he finally said, and began leading her along the tiny aisle left clear down the centre of the Great Hall. On every side there were men and boys, each one appearing to Hilde to be worse off than the next. Every now and then there was a face she recognized, causing her to turn her head in pain. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of so much desolation. But she tried to swallow it back. These men and boys had been through enough. They deserved her strength and respect now, not hysterics and pity. With a monumental effort, she somehow managed to push her revulsion and fear away.

Éomer led her about halfway through the room before turning toward the east wall. It was then that she saw him. Seeing in her face that she had caught sight of her brother, Éomer released her hand. She barely noticed. In an instant she was at Haleth's side.

He looked so small as he lay in the cot. He had been stripped of his armour and, judging by the bandages and dressings wrapped around his thin body, he had been tended to already. Hilde had to choke back a sob yet again as she took stock of her little brother's condition. His flesh looked feverish and flushed, a sickly sheen of sweat over his skin. Every now and then he would twitch, caught in fever dreams. His normally golden hair was matted and damp, plastered to his face, which was even now, lost as he was in an uneasy sleep, pinched and twisted in pain. But that was not all that made her chest feel tight in grief. His left shoulder was a mangled mess, the bindings already soaked through with blood, and his arm was gone.

"His arm," she whimpered, unable to stop herself. Again, Éomer's hand came to rest on her shoulder, offering what silent comfort he could. Swallowing hard, Hilde dropped to her knees next to her baby brother, forcibly ignoring the throbbing pain in her right knee as she did so. Barely able to see through a mist of tears that had come to her eyes, she reached out to brush the sticky strands of hair from his face. Beneath her gentle fingers he stirred. It took every drop of effort she had to put a smile on her face as his pain-filled eyes met hers.

"Hilde," her smile nearly faltered at how weak and pained his voice was, but his eyes sharpened as he focused on her. A faint frown marred his brow, a flicker of relief surfacing in his eyes, "I asked for you, but they said you fought in the battle, and that you were hurt." Despite herself a faint laugh came to her lips. Even grievously injured, her little brother's gentleness and selflessness shone through.

"It was not so bad," she murmured gently, her hand now gently stroking his hair. His gaze fell to the sling about her neck.

"But your arm?" he said with alarm, his lip trembling ever so slightly. Hilde had to pause, steadying her nerve. She hadn't even noticed Éomer had moved off until he reappeared at her side, a small bowl of water in his hands. He laid it next to her without so much as a word. She could only look up at him in gratitude, unable to form the words she wanted to thank him as he pulled some cloths from where he had tucked them in his belt, handing them to Hilde. Then, stepping around the cot, Éomer sat carefully at the end, his gaze jumping between the wounded boy and his anxious sister. The fresh cloth now in her hand, she dampened it before laying it against Haleth's hot, clammy skin, washing away the streaks of blood, sweat and grime from his anxious face.

"It was dislocated only. An Uruk-hai caught my shield; I wasn't fast enough. But I am well enough now." A faint chuckle came from the King's nephew, drawing the siblings' gazes.

"You have a very strong sister, Haleth. She's too stubborn to be injured badly for long; remember when Folca threw her?" he said gently, laying a hand on Haleth's leg. The boy's lips twisted up in a genuine smile.

"Father always said she was too stubborn for her own good," he said in good humour, drawing another chuckle from Éomer.

"I do believe my uncle said the same thing when he found out she snuck onto the battlements dressed as a man," responded the Marshal, his tone colored with amusement. Hilde tossed the rag at him in pretended offence, earning a slight, though mischievous grin.

"And I believe you are both ganging up on me," Hilde teased, lightly pinching her little brother's cheek. He scrunched up his nose as he always did when she did that. Something in Hilde's heart eased at the familiar expression.

In that moment, she began to hope that maybe, perhaps, he was going to make it through this.

***

While Hilde's hope had been kindled by her brother's smiles, it was doomed to be dashed. As the day wore on, Haleth grew worse. Where his flesh had been feverish and flushed before, he now grew ashen, his skin greying as all remnants of health and energy seemed to sap from his body. His breath grew shallow and, where he had been all but crushing her fingers even in sleep, his grip on her hand had now lost all strength.

As much as she was determined to remain confident that he would pull through, she felt her optimism withering of its own accord, her grief and fear surging forward at the sight of his quickly fading strength. He was fighting valiantly, she could see that and she knew it in her heart, but he was slowly losing this battle. It seemed the crossbow bolt that had taken his arm was poised to take his life as well.

And there was nothing she could do to help.

Shortly after bringing her to her brother, as Haleth had fallen again into an uneasy sleep, Éomer had been called away. Her heart had sunk a little at his departure, as he had done wonders to help lift Haleth's spirits...not to mention the way he lifted hers. But she understood why. He was now the King's Heir, and the First Marshal; he had responsibilities that needed attending, a people to bolster and lead in the aftermath of their great battle. She had seen in his eyes that he had wished to stay at her side, and that meant everything to her. For a short time Éowyn had come to sit with her, bringing Hilde fresh cloths and water to try and sooth Haleth's fever, but she too could not linger; the King's niece was also needed elsewhere.

Her brother had only woken once more since Hilde had come to sit with him, and tiny anguished part of her wanted desperately to forget it.

"I'm sorry, Hilde," it was barely more than a whisper he was growing so weak. Hilde nearly didn't hear him.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," she had hushed him gently, brushing her fingers over his hair. For a moment she could almost imagine he was a little boy again, and she was soothing him past a mere tummy ache; with their mother's death, it had often fallen to her to care for him where their mother might have. Háma had tried, but he'd had duties to the King that he couldn't easily set aside. Haleth shook his head, his dark eyes bright. She nearly started crying herself at the tears he was refusing to shed.

"Do you think Papa would be proud of me?" Even before his voice trailed off she was nodding her head vigorously, her eyes intense in her fervor to assure him.

"Yes, sweet boy, you did Papa proud, and Mama. You made me proud. You were brave. I saw you on the wall and you didn't falter. You have a warrior's heart, just like me, like Papa."

"But I was so scared," he whimpered. His fear surfaced in his eyes, reminding her just how young he was. The skin around his eyes was dark and bruised-looking, and now bore the only colour left on his wan face. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.

"So was I, dearest. So was everyone. Sleep now, you need to rest and regain your strength," she said firmly. Obediently his eyes closed with a small, weak sigh.

"Papa would be proud of you," he murmured. He was so certain that she couldn't help smile. "I'll be sure to tell him all about how you dressed up as a man. He might be a little bit mad—he doesn't like it when you do reckless things—but I think he'll understand. And when I see Mama I'll tell her all about how you took care of me; I think she'll like that." Hilde pulled back, her eyes going wide as her tears began to flow, too shocked and frightened to react further. He had already slipped back into a restless sleep. He was so weak and fevered he was nearly delirious, his fever dreams becoming waking ones. Now, even in sleep, his face was drawn with an expression of sheer exhaustion; he was still fighting, she saw with relief, but she didn't know how much longer he could. Terror and sorrow were beginning to settle in her chest.

She couldn't bring herself to leave his side, not to eat, not to sleep. Save her short bout of unconsciousness in the immediate aftermath of the battle, she had not truly slept in days, at the very least not since they had arrived at Helm's Deep. She only ate when someone showed up with little bits of food and all but forced her to. Morwen, Freda and Éothain's mother, had briefly appeared to return Hilde's sword and to offer her some bread and a skin of water. Hilde had tried to demur, insisting that the wounded needed it more than she did. But in the way only mothers could, Morwen had talked her way around Hilde's objections, pointing out that she did count among the wounded and finally managed convinced her to eat for Haleth's sake. She had even offered to sit with Haleth for a while to allow Hilde some rest, but on that point Hilde had refused to budge.

Even when one of the other women had appeared to change Haleth's bindings Hilde had been almost impossible to move from his side and, a short while later, it had taken quite a bit of insistence from the healer to convince Hilde to move so that he could examine Haleth; she had conceded only so far as to move to the end of the cot, her hand resting on his leg; he needed to know she was still there...she needed him to know. She couldn't bear the thought of him being alone. She had refused to look either the healer or the woman in the eye, for she knew what she was likely to see; that it was only a matter of time. She could tell from the tenor of their voices and the care in their movements that they believed making him comfortable was all that was left to be done. Both of them had urged Hilde to take some rest herself, but she ignored them.

If he truly did have so little time left as they believed, she was not going to be parted from him for a moment.

But no matter her determination to sit in vigil by his side, as the healer had sat at Haleth's side to check on him, Hilde was soon slumping against the foot of the cot and, before she had even realized her eyes were slipping shut, she was lost to the clutches of an exhausted sleep.

***

It was a sleep she desperately needed, but it was cut short by the murmur of quiet voices. No matter how exhausted she was, though, she was awake in an instant when she realized one of the voices belonged to Haleth. There were now two figures sitting on either side of her brother's cot where there had been only one before. The Rohirric healer had long since left, and Lord Aragorn now sat in his place. Across from him, bent over Haleth's wounded shoulder, a young woman was carefully unwrapping the bandages, her pale hands steady and focused on her task though her face betrayed her sorrow as she uncovered the extent of the wound. Hilde's breath caught in her throat; the woman was an elf.

She was one of the most gracefully exquisite things Hilde had ever seen, with hair pale as frost and eyes the colour of a clear winter sky. Even as she knelt by Haleth's side she exuded a compassion and power that was undimmed by the stillness in which she sat or the remoteness of her expression. Hilde's hand involuntarily tightened on Haleth's calf and her voice caught in her throat, not that any words would have come in that moment anyway. Immediately her eyes shifted from the elf, latching onto Haleth's face. It had been a long time since he'd last woken, and Hilde had been fighting the ever-growing fear since then that he wasn't going to wake again. Her little brother's gaze was fixed on the Ranger's face and Hilde recognized a flicker of awe in his pain-filled brown eyes.

"I'm sorry, My Lord," Haleth finally said. Hilde's jaw clenched, holding back the sob that threatened at the hopelessness and sorrow in his voice. He was trying so hard to be brave. Aragorn was shaking his head, Haleth's hand held gently in his own. The elf had begun murmuring softly to herself, her hands moving purposefully over the wound. It was the first true sight Hilde had had of his shoulder. Memory of Théodred's mortal wound surged unbidden to the forefront of her thoughts; the same shadow now hung over her baby brother.

"Don't be, Haleth. You were brave, and you are strong." Aragorn's voice was soft and soothing, and he echoed what Hilde had been murmuring to Haleth all along.

Even as he slept she had spoken to him, talking of anything she could think of until her voice was hoarse. She recounted stories their father used to tell them, and told him stories of her own, of growing up in Meduseld with Théodred, Éowyn and Éomer. She told him every detail she could remember of their mother, how quiet she had been as compared to many women of Rohan, but how she had been one of the strongest women Hilde had ever known, how warm her hugs had been and how lovely her voice had been when she sang lullabies. Hilde had even sung those lullabies, reminding him how she'd done her best to make sure he'd heard them too, even if their mother hadn't been there to sing them. She'd told him of how she remembered pressing her cheek to their mother's belly when he'd been growing there, and how small but strong he had been when he was born. She had been so excited to have a little brother. Even when childbed fever had taken their mother from them, she'd never once blamed Haleth as other children sometimes blamed their infant siblings when their mothers died in childbirth, and she had told him that. All of it he had heard before; he had always asked their father for the old stories, and had always asked Hilde for stories of their mother. Haleth's eyes were still fixed on the Ranger.

"I'm going to die, aren't I." At his side the elf hesitated, a look of utter sorrow blooming on her delicate features. He sounded so resigned. Hilde struggled against the wail of grief that rose in her throat, unable to stop the moan that escaped instead. To hear him say so bluntly what she had been fighting from even thinking nearly shattered her.

"No, Haleth," Aragorn's voice was firm and yet so very gentle. Hilde felt the pressure of grief against her heart ease; such was the strength of the assurance in the Ranger's tone. "You said the men did not think any of us would live through the night, and yet here you are. You will make it through this night, and through many that follow. Do you remember what I told you?" Slowly Haleth nodded before a feeble yelp of pain escaped his pale lips, his eyes squeezing shut. A few stray tears leaked from beneath his lids. At his shoulder the elven healer, for that was what she had to be, was once again focused on her work, cleaning his wound with nimble fingers. Hilde nearly jumped forward when Haleth's eyes left the Ranger, turning to the elf and her grisly task. Before she could, though, Aragorn reached out a hand, firmly turning Haleth's face to meet his gaze.

"Do you remember?" the Ranger prompted, keeping Haleth's attention focused on him.

"You said there is always hope," Haleth murmured, his eyes barely focusing on Aragorn's faintly smiling face through his pain and exhaustion. Slowly Aragorn nodded.

"Indeed. There is."

Hilde nearly began sobbing at the change in her brother's eyes. Now hope once again fought against despair. The healer now had her hands pressed against the wound, her voice quiet and lilting as she murmured whatever spells elves used for healing. As potent as the hope that had begun rising in Hilde's chest, a pall came over her when she caught a glimpse of the healer's face. Her pale eyes were closed as she concentrated, hiding whatever expression might have lingered there, but her face lost every semblance of reserve it held only moments before, revealing the most distressing grief Hilde had ever witnessed. It brought her to wonder what this elf's story was, and what made her so sad.

But even as she absently wondered about the elf, Hilde's gaze was drawn back to her brother, and curiosity was soon replaced with astonishment and hope. Under the elf's healing hands and melodic whispers Haleth was improving before Hilde's very eyes. As her voice rose and dipped, colour began seeping back into his skin and the purple bruises around his eyes eased. His breathing evened out and slowed while the pain that had suffused his features melted away. Under Hilde's hand a soothing, restorative warmth had grown where he had been growing cold before, flowing through Haleth's body, even rising through the blankets and into Hilde's own skin, thawing the cold ache of fear that had been steadily growing within her when she first caught sight of Haleth laying on this cot. Even her own pains seemed to lessen as she watched him heal before her eyes. With a quiet sigh, Haleth surrendered himself to a deep and tranquil sleep, all trace of fever vanquished.

And then it was gone. Releasing a profound sigh of her own, the elf seemed to wake, her eyes blinking rapidly as though clearing away sleep—or tears. Then, with a quick but gentle efficiency that could only have been borne of a great deal of experience, the elf bound the half-healed wound. If Hilde hadn't seen her healing him with her own eyes, she would have believed the injury had been allowed to heal for weeks, not moments. Her eyes snapped to the elf, who sat quietly looking down at Haleth's peaceful face. Hope surged within her chest, making it hard to breathe.

"He will live." The elf was so quiet Hilde nearly didn't hear the words as the healer spoke them. Before she could stop herself, tears began streaming down Hilde's face. There was nothing she could say, for there were no words powerful enough to describe what the elven healer had done.

She had given Hilde her brother back.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

Don't forget to vote and comment! I'd love to hear what you thought!