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Chapter Text

The laughter of children rang through the Golden Hall of Meduseld, leaving naught but indulgent smiles in their wake; especially in the case of the two golden-haired children. Éomer, son of Éomund was a strapping lad of thirteen, nearly too old to be running around with the others, while his sister Éowyn was only nine, her beaming smile a rarity; their parents were both recently dead, and grief had left little room for smiles in the children. But this game with the other youngsters of Meduseld had brought those rare smiles out again, and it brought a sense of joy to those around them when they saw it. Close after his cousin Éomer was Théodred, the son of the King, ten years old and, according to the old women, the very image of his father as a child. The two boys were sparring with old wooden practice swords, dashing and leaping about the main hall, brandishing the worn toys with semi-familiarity while the other children cheered them on. Among the loudest was Éowyn, but a close second was a girl of an age with the King's niece. Both were anxiously yelling out what they considered help to the boys. Gangly and tall for her age, Hilde was the daughter of the Captain of the King's Guard, the Doorward of Meduseld, Háma.

The boys, having received what little sword-training they had together, were well matched. Éomer, being older, was taller and stronger, but Théodred was quick, and they were both clever. The young Prince though, was having a slightly harder time of it today, and was trying to trick Éomer with a feint. Unfortunately the older boy didn't fall for it, and the Prince went down hard, losing his balance and toppling from the bench he had been perched on. He let out a yowl that stemmed more from hurt pride than any real injury, though he anxiously clutched at the elbow Éomer had soundly whacked. Éowyn clapped delightedly along with a few of the other children; she had been cheering for her brother. Hilde could only groan with disappointment. She had been rooting for Théodred, whom she had known for near as long as she could remember. She had long considered him her friend, possibly even her closest friend.

"I told you that wouldn't work!" she called out. "You were doing it all wrong!" All that earned was an ungrateful sneer from the Prince.

"It's not like you can do better," Théodred grumbled.

"Of course I could," she replied, "I wouldn't do it wrong." Théodred pulled himself to his feet, still glowering at the gangly red-haired girl.

"Prove it," he snapped, his pride still smarting. In an instant, Hilde had the well-worn sword handle in her hand and was being pushed by the dark-haired boy toward Éomer. She was tall for her age, but Éomer was taller still. She had to swallow back a flash of alarm when she realized just what was happening. In an instant the nicked wooden blade was flying toward her, and she almost wasn't able to raise her own sword in time. But he was going easy on her; she had seen Théodred's arm shudder earlier under his cousin's blows. He barely hit her practice-sword at all. It only served to spark her temper, driving her fear away. So she fought back.

Shock bloomed across Éomer's face at the strength of her attack; she was stronger than she looked, and she knew how to use a sword. Her grandmother had been a shieldmaiden and her father was the Captain of the King's Guard; of course she would have been taught to fight.

She also knew the move Théodred had been trying to use, and she used it to great effect. With a clever feint and dodge, she ducked beside Éomer and landed a blow to the back of his knee. He went down with a painful sounding thud, earning several groans from the crowd of young onlookers, especially the boys.

The girls all clapped and cheered save for Éowyn; she looked like she was torn between cheering that her new friend had won and groaning that her brother had lost. Hilde couldn't keep the satisfied smile from her face, boldly walking up to a now glowering Théodred and handing him back his wooden sword. Behind her, Éomer was picking himself up off the ground, brushing himself off with a jovial expression on his face. It surprised her; she had been expecting a similar look to Théodred's. After all, boys didn't like being beaten by girls, especially girls who were younger than them. Éomer didn't seem to mind, though, shooting her an admiring grin.

It was at that point that parents and the older onlookers brought an end to the games; it was nearing time for the evening feast, and the Hall needed to be prepared. The King himself had been watching, and was even now standing next to his son, speaking quietly but seriously to the Prince, who now wore a rather humbled look on his face. At the gentle sound of her mother's voice, Hilde was called away like many of the other children. Running to her side, she wrapped her arms around her mother's middle where her new baby brother or sister grew, ignoring her mother's light scolds that her hair was no longer neatly braided and that her dress was scuffed and dirty.

But looking back, she couldn't help but notice the shadow that passed over the face of the King's golden-haired nephew. After a moment, the King called Éomer and his sister away with the same tenderness he used with his own son, but even though it eased, the shadow didn't quite disappear from Éomer's eyes. Her mother had already disappeared out the Main Doors on her way out to the homes held by members of the court, and Hilde made to follow, slipping toward the shadowed entryway.

She was startled when a hand grabbed hers, pulling her to a stop just before she reached the doors. Before she knew it, she was looking up into Éomer's nervous green eyes.

"You're a good fighter," he said, his face and his shuffling posture showing how awkward he felt. Somehow Hilde murmured a bashful thanks, but before she could say anything else, he leaned down, laying a quick kiss on her lips. She was stunned, her brown eyes wide as they looked into his. Heat flooded her face.

"I might have to marry you some day," he said, a crooked grin on his face. In an instant he was gone, but not before she saw his cheeks flame red in a perfect match to her own.

After a moment a giddy smile rose to her face, and she nearly ran the rest of the way to her family's quarters.

Chapter Text

Things had been changing for a long time, but Hilde knew things had truly changed the day that Théodred was brought back to Edoras barely clinging to life. Hilde had been working in the Great Hall, but the bridle she had been cleaning fell from her hands when the Prince was carried into the Golden Hall. She felt all the colour leave her face when she caught sight of the blood staining his tunic. There was so much of it. Her breath caught in her throat, the threat of panic choking her. Lord Éomer and his second, Éothain, were the ones carrying the King's son, the Marshal calling out for a healer even as he bore his cousin deeper into the Hall. One of his éored separated from the group surrounding the Prince, running from the Hall, likely in search of the healer Fréamund.

Without hesitation, she followed the group, grabbing up cloths and hastily splashing water into a basin as she went. She caught up to the men as Théodred was being gently lowered onto the bed in his chambers. He wore only his tunic and jerkin, the armour he had ridden out in already stripped before he had even passed the walls of the city. Once again Hilde was nearly overwhelmed at the amount of blood the Prince was losing. A piteous moan escaped him with every movement and jostle, and no sooner was he settled onto the sheets than they were soaked red. Swallowing her panic and fear, she set the basin aside, rushing forward with the bundle of cloths. The ragged cloak that Éomer had been using to try and stem his cousin's blood loss was soaked through.

With hands that were surer than she felt, Hilde pulled Éomer's hands and the useless cloak aside, nearly tearing the tattered jerkin away before pressing a new bundle of cloth against the wound instead. She then grabbed the Marshal's hand again and pressed it back against the wound. In seconds it was beginning to bleed through. On impulse, she took Théodred's hand; it was already so cold. He only moaned weakly with pain, completely unaware that he was safe in his home, surrounded by those who cared about him. He looked so young, like the boy from her memories again, not the man he had grown into. She met Éomer's eyes for a moment, his dark green gaze sick with worry.

"Find Éowyn, and tell her what has happened," he said after a moment, his voice filled with the same pain as his eyes. Nodding in understanding, she stood. She paused, though, when the King's nephew reached up to grab her hand, turning her back to face him. Théodred's blood leeched onto her sleeve, but Hilde barely noticed.

"Do not tell the King just yet," he murmured. At the end of the Prince's bed, Éothain looked up in bewilderment, but Hilde only nodded again.

Something was wrong with the King. He was not as Hilde remembered him from her childhood; he was not as he was in years past. Everyone could see it. It began with the arrival of Grima Wormtongue. The unsettling man had schemed and talked his way into the King's good graces...and everyone whispered that Grima was the White Wizard Saruman's servant. Now the King rarely stirred from his throne, looking decades older than the years he possessed. Now it was only Grima he would speak with. Even his son rarely got a word out of Théoden. Éowyn got the closest, with her gentle voice, but that was truly saying very little. It was something that deeply troubled those closest to the King; Hilde's father, Háma, grumbled and worried about it constantly.

It did not take Hilde long to locate Éowyn. She had known the King's niece since she and her brother had come to live in Meduseld, and considered her a good friend. In fact, Hilde rather considered herself the friend of all three of the King's young kin. Théodred she had known longer than she had memory. He had been her friend since they were children, even though she could still whip him with a sword, something he claimed he never liked. Her father had even joked that the King's son was sweet on her. Hilde, of course, laughed off the suggestion, as she truly only saw the Prince as a friend. But she knew better than to think he felt the same. She had known for a while, first noticing it many years ago; the way Théodred would watch her, the way he would sometimes move to touch her hand. She even indulged it for a time, wondering if she did love him, or could love him, someday. But now, as she knew the truth of her feelings better, she did not know how to tell him that her interests lay elsewhere. Now though...well, things had most certainly changed.

Éowyn, of course, was in the stables, as Hilde predicted, with her horse, Windfola. The instant she saw the blood on Hilde's hands and sleeve, the fair-haired woman paled. Hilde nearly couldn't speak at the fearful look on Éowyn's face. She only managed one word.

"Théodred." Hilde had barely spoken when Éowyn pushed past her, racing to the Golden Hall. Hilde could only stare after her, clutching Windfola's lead where Éowyn had pressed it into her hands.

All of Edoras was quiet and worried. It was only a matter of time for the Prince, it was whispered. Hilde knew the truth of that better than most. She had seen the wound with her own eyes. The boy she had known since childhood, now a man, was dying. She had sat with him through the night, Éowyn by her side, sometimes with Éomer standing nearby or sitting with them. But as the day turned she couldn't bear it any longer, and needed to get away from the scent of death that hung in the air, even if only for a short time. So she sought refuge where most people of Rohan found peace; with their horses.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Lord Éomer came storming into the stables, his face black as thunder, demanding his horse be readied. None dared argue or question him and one of the boys dashed off to retrieve Firefoot from his stall, Éomer collecting his saddle and the like for himself. Hilde was stunned where she stood brushing Brytta, her father's horse. Ducking under the chestnut's neck, ignoring the petulant headbutt at being so quickly forgotten, she hesitantly edged over to where the King's nephew was hurriedly saddling his horse. He looked so angry, she almost didn't want to approach him

"Éomer?" When he didn't even glance in her direction, she wondered if he hadn't heard her, or was just ignoring her. After a moment, she was about to speak up again when he turned to her. She nearly took a step back, such was the anger in his eyes.

"What's going on, Éomer? Where are you going?"

"I am leaving Edoras," he all but snarled. She was taken aback completely. He must have seen it in her face, because his expression softened.

Much as she had hoped things would but wouldn't change after her first kiss in the shadows of Meduseld, Éomer and Hilde had stayed friends only. Shortly after that day their paths had separated. He had gone on to ride with the one of the King's éored, eventually becoming the King's Third Marshal. Hilde had stayed at Meduseld as Éowyn's companion, eventually taking on her mother's duties when she had died bringing Hilde's little brother Haleth into the world. She was not nearly so close to the King's nephew as with Éowyn or Théodred. As much as she hated to think it, they were nothing more than childhood friends, maybe even sweethearts, but that friendship had not quite made it into their adult lives. They were friendly to each other, yes, but they were not close the way she was with Éowyn or Théodred.

"What about Théodred. You can't possibly leave him now," she said softly after a long moment. Éomer took a step toward her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Nor do I want to. But the King has decreed I am to be banished, on pain of death." Hilde's mouth dropped open in shock and horror.

"What? No! That's not possible!" Somehow she managed to speak, but Éomer hushed her, looking surreptitiously around. There were few people in the stables, most too far away to overhear much of anything.

"It is Grima's doing. That is certain. But I have no choice. I ride out with whomever among the Rohirrim are loyal to Rohan, any who are ready and willing to help me stem the plague of Orcs ravaging our lands. Most of my éored is to ride with me." A grim resolution came over Hilde, and she gripped his wrist where it rested on her shoulder.

"Take me with; I can fight."

"Hilde—"

"No. You know I can. You know I'm as good a fighter as Éowyn, as Théodred, maybe better than both of them," her voice nearly broke on the name of the Prince, but she pressed on, "and I can throw a spear and use a bow as well as any man. Please, let me do something other than sit here and wait. I don't know how much longer I can watch the King do nothing but waste away." A near-smile came to Éomer's face as she spoke, and his hand moved to cup her face, his fingers entangling themselves in her red-gold hair.

"I do know it, Hilde. But you are needed here. My sister needs you now. I need you to look out for her." Her brow furrowed at the way he spoke of Éowyn. She didn't have a chance to ask, though, as he continued before she could even open her mouth.

"She grows just as discontent as you do, but there is more. Grima haunts her footsteps, wanting her, scheming to get her. I cannot watch for her if I am not here. I need you to be my eyes." A flash of anger toward the wretched snake grew in Hilde's chest as Éomer spoke.

"Do not fear for Éowyn, Éomer. Be assured, I will watch out for her. Should Grima even try to lay a hand on her—he will lose it," she whispered vehemently, completely serious in her threat. This time he did smile, but it faltered.

"Be careful, Hilde. To not underestimate Grima. He all but rules in Saruman's name now. Cross him, and you may face worse than banishment." She froze at his tone; the worry in it, and the affection. She hadn't heard any such feeling from him since that day years before. Lifting her hand from where it had gripped his sleeve, she raised her fingertips to graze his own cheek.

"You must be careful too, Éomer. With Théodred—I could not bear to lose you too." It was completely impulsive, but she immediately realized she didn't regret the words and that she meant them with everything she was. His eyes softened as they looked down on her. Then he was leaning toward her. She was a tall woman, but he still needed to lean down to bring his face to hers. Her heart began racing in anticipation. Then his eyes flicked up, and he jumped back as though burned. Hilde tensed, a flush rising to her cheeks. Clearing his throat, Éomer bowed his head sharply to Hilde after mounting Firefoot.

"Farewell, Hilde. Tell Éowyn why I go, and that I'm sorry." He said brusquely. Hilde nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Reining the dappled horse around, he charged out of the stables, nearly mowing down the man lurking in the shadow of the lintel. Hilde's expression hardened at the sight of one of Grima Wormtongue's thugs, Unferth, lingering, watching, to make sure Éomer left. Outside there were shouts and calls to ride; it was a relief to her to know that the horselord would not be riding alone.

Now to tell Éowyn.

Chapter Text

Hilde was curled up in a corner of the Main Hall of Meduseld, unable to stem the flow of hot tears streaming down her face.

Théodred was dead. The King hadn't even batted an eye.

The Théoden King she remembered loved his son more than anything. She still had memories, old and faint, of him swinging a small Théodred up in the air, smiling and laughing as the boy shrieked with joy, of him hugging a young Éowyn close in comfort to sooth her tears of grief, or patiently mentoring Éomer on the finer points of handling a sword with a proud glow on his face. That was not the King that sat upon the throne now; this new King was hunched and weak, his eyes clouded and white, his colourless hair and beard looking like little more than tangled cobwebs and dust.

She couldn't help feeling that Rohan was lost when she looked at their King.

But more than that her friend was dead. She had been there, at his side with his cold hand in hers when his laboured breathing went silent. Between one moment and the next he was gone. Éowyn had dozed off where she sat across the bed from Hilde, her cousin's other hand grasped tightly in her own even when in the clutches of sleep. Hilde hadn't had the heart to wake her; it was the first sleep she had gotten in days.

Across the Hall, her father stood at his post near the entrance of Meduseld, but he kept glancing over to Hilde, concern and sadness creasing his face. Hilde barely noticed. Théodred was the boy she had crossed wooden swords with as children, had chased around Edoras, had learned to ride beside. The boy who had tried to kiss her during the midwinter feasts when he was no longer quite a boy, and who had succeeded in kissing her and more when he'd been a man; the boy who many believed would try to marry her one day. Had he asked her, she wasn't even sure what she would have said anymore. She had loved him, yes, but as a friend. Perhaps it would have grown to love in time. But that didn't matter now.

Théodred was gone.

Éowyn had barely said a word since he died, only leaving her cousin's bedside to try and reach the King through whatever spell Grima Wormtongue had woven. The death of her cousin had crushed her. Théodred had been a second brother to her. Now he was gone and Éomer was banished.

Even as Hilde was thinking of her companion, a flash of white passed down the centre of the Hall. Before Hilde could move, Éowyn had fled the Hall, all but running into the sunlight. She didn't follow. Hilde understood the pressing need to get away, to be alone. Even once Éowyn had woken, Hilde had stayed at Théodred's side, keeping watch as Éowyn left to tell the King of his son's fate. But once she had returned, Hilde couldn't bear to stay. The clash of her memories, of Théodred warm and laughing, with the reality of him lying dead was tearing her apart. She couldn't reconcile the sight of him lying lifeless on his bed with him in life. Her mind rebelled painfully against it. Though she had loved him as nothing more than a dear friend, he had nevertheless been so much more than that; and thus she grieved.

It was several long minutes later before Rohan's White Lady walked sedately back inside, her face wet with tears to match Hilde's own as she made her way back into the depths of the Golden Hall. Hilde couldn't bring herself to move, though, or to wonder what had drawn Éowyn from her cousin's bedside. She was still caught up in her own grief.

She was only brought from her stupor by strange voices just outside the Hall conversing with her father. She could almost feel the disdain in his voice as he spoke of Grima's orders to disarm anyone who wished to see the King. Hastily she scrubbed the tears from her cheeks.

And then four strangers entered the Hall behind her father. Hilde's grief was nearly forgotten as the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise, suddenly very aware of the movements within the Hall. Many of Grima's thugs were moving along the aisles that ran along either side of the centre hall, moving to flank the newcomers.

One was a cloaked old man, leaning heavily on a beautiful walking stick as well as on a man with pointed ears who could only be an elf. She had never seen the like before; he was tall, with pale blond hair and the most graceful bearing Hilde had ever seen. Beautiful was the first word she could come up with to even marginally describe him properly. The other two walked behind the old man and the elf; one was a man, dark as his elven companion was fair with the look of the northern Rangers about him, while the other was a dwarf with a rather mistrusting look peeking out from behind his full red beard.

At the head of the Hall, Grima was already in his usual place beside the King, whispering his poison in Théoden's ear. On the other end of the Hall, the doors closed with a resounding thud.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King." The old man among the newcomers was the first to speak, his voice cutting through the anxious silence like a knife as he walked around the Hall's main hearth. Each step he took grew stronger, the guise of a frail old man beginning to melt away into something far less ordinary. Hilde was standing next to one of the Hall's painted columns before she had even realized she'd begun to move. She was transfixed on the scene unfolding before her.

"Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" Hilde almost didn't recognize the voice coming from the throne as Théoden's, it was so changed. Then again, it had been so long since she had heard him speak that she didn't quite trust her memory anymore. Grima stood, a patronizing look on his face that set just about everyone's teeth on edge. Hilde could've sworn she heard her father's jaw grinding from across the hall. By now Grima's men had begun moving close to the strangers, many of their hands conspicuously on their weapons. Hilde fought the scowl that threatened to come to her face. She wished she had her own sword or even her knife in that moment, but strangers weren't the only ones who couldn't bear arms in the presence of the King; only the King's Guards and Grima' men had that privilege anymore.

"Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear," Grima drawled, moving to stand at the foot of the King's dais, placing himself between Théoden and the old man. Gandalf, the King had named him. That name sounded familiar to Hilde, but she couldn't quite place it.

"Be silent," the white-haired man snapped. Grima froze, a flicker of fear alighting in his eyes before an expression of distaste clouded his features as Gandalf continued, "keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm." Hilde would have laughed with pleasure, as would many of her countrymen, had they not been so stunned. Suddenly the old man was no longer leaning heavily upon his white staff and, in a single fluid movement, had brought it around to point at Grima's face. Hilde's eyes widened in bewilderment even as Grima's eyes widened in anger and fear.

"His staff," Grima muttered angrily as he retreated from the old man, glancing around the hall to her father and his men, "I told you to take the wizard's staff!" It was then that Hilde understood. The old man was Gandalf the Grey, the wizard.

Hope surged within her, as did apprehension; Saruman was also a wizard, after all. But the instant Grima spoke his men sprang into action. But before they could reach the wizard, his three companions leapt into action themselves, handily taking on Grima's thugs even without weapons of their own. Across the hall, Hilde couldn't help but notice her father stopping Gamling from drawing his own sword as the wizard approached the throne, keeping the King's men from attacking the wizard and out of the fight.

Hilde had no such desire to keep out of the way. One of Grima's men had been standing beside her as Grima had called out; Unferth, the very man who had been spying on Éomer in the stables. A faint smile rose to Hilde's lips. Before he'd even had a chance to move, Hilde was reaching around him to draw his sword before he did, slamming the pommel into his abdomen as hard as she could. With a wheeze and a grunt he doubled over, collapsing at her feet. With a satisfied smile, she placed a foot on his wrist, leveling the tip of his former sword at his throat.

"That's enough from you," she muttered, earning a scowl from the man.

"Théoden, son of Thengel," came the wizard's voice, powerful now as he addressed the King, "too long have you sat in the shadows." There was a look of such hatred and wickedness on Théoden's face that the hope growing in the centre of Hilde's chest faltered. But the wizard continued his steady approach to the throne, his staff pointed directly at King Théoden's heart. Off to the side Grima was sprawled on the floor, the dwarf's boot planted squarely in the centre of his chest.

As Gandalf spoke to the King, the rest of the people in the Hall began to gather behind him. Théoden laughed upon his throne, mocking Gandalf in a voice that Hilde knew instinctively was wrong. At her feet, Grima's man began to squirm, but without taking her eyes from the wizard and the King, Hilde merely ground her foot into his wrist, knowing it would send a spike of pain up his arm. Sure enough, he stilled, perhaps knowing that his master's fight was lost. A look of contempt of his face, the wizard chose that moment to throw back his grey travelling cloak.

The Hall was filled with light as the wizard revealed his full glory for all to see. Hilde could not peel her eyes away even as they watered at the luminous intensity.

Off to the side, Éowyn entered the Hall, drawn by the noise, walking past Hilde without so much as a glance. The wizard had thrown the King back into his throne and, in her alarm, the King's niece went to rush forward to him, only to be caught by the wizard's dark-haired companion.

Now when the King spoke, the voice that came from his lips was not his at all, and it sent a chill up Hilde's spine. But Gandalf was not swayed. With one last thrust of his staff, now nearly glowing with the strength of the wizard's power, Théoden was slammed back into his throne a final time. Somehow, in her heart Hilde knew it was over, and a smile of relief came unbidden to her face.

Groaning, the King began to fall forward. This time Éowyn twisted free of the man holding her, rushing to her uncle's side before he collapsed to the floor. Hilde's eyes widened and her lips parted in wonder as, before the entire hall, years melted away from the King's face, his eyes clearing as his back straightened and colour rushed back into his hair and skin. Kneeling beside him, Éowyn began to weep, smiling brightly for the first time in what felt like forever as Théoden looked down on her with recognition.

As the King and his niece shared words, Hilde was again reminded of the man at her feet. With a sharp yank, he pulled his wrist from beneath her foot, nearly unbalancing her before trying to get to his feet. Just beyond, the dark-haired man turned, noticing Hilde's scuffle. But before he could so much as step in her direction, she had kicked Unferth's knee out from under him and dealt him a sharp kick to the stomach, sending him gasping back to the floor, where she once again levelled the sword near his throat, backing it up with a harsh glare.

"That was for costing me my kiss," she said quietly. He glared right back, still wheezing.

Glancing up she couldn't help but notice a look of approval on the face of the wizard's companion. Behind him, Hilde's father was approaching Théoden, offering the King his sword. Hilde once again found herself beaming as the sound of Herugrim leaving its sheath echoed throughout the Hall. Their King had returned to them.

Then the King's eyes fell on Grima.

In an instant Théoden was off the dais, while Háma and Gamling leapt forward to grab hold of Grima's coat, dragging the King's former confidant out into the open air without needing so much as a word from their Lord. As she watched the court follow their King down the Hall, one of her father's men was at Hilde's side, taking a firm grip on Unferth's tunic even as his master yowled at being dragged through the hall. Sword still in hand, Hilde followed, stopping to stand silently beside Éowyn as her father and Gamling tossed the betrayer from the steps of Meduseld. Théoden stood at the top of the stairs, his face dark with anger as he watched Grima tumbling to the landing below.

"Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" Théoden roared, stalking toward Grima, who was trying to scramble down the stairs. Hilde could only watch in silence, a flicker of grim satisfaction playing across her features. Even as the worm begged, the King raised his sword.

Only to be stopped by the interjection of the wizard's dark companion. Hilde watched in shock as the man stayed the King's blade before offering a hand to Grima. The traitor was off the steps and shoving his way through the gathering crowd in an instant, pausing only to spit on the stranger's proffered hand. Hilde jerked involuntarily as the worm ran, furious that he was being allowed to run; he had been the cause of so much misery. Beside her Éowyn's face was dark, her eyes flashing as she too watched Grima flee.

"Hail, Théoden King!" The dark-haired man cried out and, in moments, all those who had gathered at the foot of Meduseld were on their knees. Beside her, Éowyn grabbed Hilde's hand, squeezing it tight as a smile lit upon her face, erasing her distaste at Grima's release. It was an expression that Hilde couldn't help but match. Turning, Théoden surveyed those arrayed on the steps behind him, his eyes warming at the sight of his loyal Háma and Gamling, a faint but warm smile on his lips when he met Éowyn's gaze and a flicker of amusement in his eyes when he spied the sword in Hilde's hand. Then the smile fell from his face, and his eyes scanned the steps again, and then another time before worry clouded his gaze.

"Where is Théodred? Where is my son?" Éowyn's hand tightened further on Hilde's for an instant before she started down the steps even as the King searched the faces around him for his son. She halted several steps away, stopped by the look in her uncle's eyes.

"We should return inside, Uncle," Éowyn managed to say calmly, though her voice trembled. Théoden frowned.

"No. Éowyn, where is Théodred? What has happened?" The King's voice was low and insistent. Hilde felt tears springing to her eyes once again. As soon as Éowyn had spoken, he'd known; she could see it in his eyes. No one else dared speak. Finally Hilde, unable to bear the look on her King's face, managed to find her voice.

"He is gone, My Lord," Théoden's eyes were on her in an instant, a terrible fear growing in them, "Théodred is dead. Slain, by orcs," she said quietly, unable to keep the tremor from her voice anymore than Éowyn had from hers. He didn't speak, though his lips parted in denial, forming a pained 'no.'

Beside him, the dark-haired stranger laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but the King shrugged him off.

Without another word, Théoden turned, stumbling only on the first step before stalking back into the Golden Hall, leaving nothing but a sorrowful silence in his wake.

The King locked himself in his son's chamber for the rest of the day. It was nightfall before anyone who tried to enter was permitted to do so. Finally though, it was a group of women who were allowed into the chamber so that they could begin preparing Théodred for his final journey to the tombs just outside the walls of Edoras. Hilde was among them. She felt it was the least she could do. After all, she had allowed Théodred to believe that they might have a future because she hadn't been brave enough to tell him otherwise.

It was as she was setting a basin of herb-steeped water on the table near the door that she was approached. At first she thought it was one of the other women, but when she looked up it was Théoden, watching her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't quite find her voice.

"You were with him? Before he—as he lay here?" The pain in the King's voice belied the blank expression on his face, and he couldn't yet bring himself to admit in words that his son was dead. Hilde nodded, her eyes grave. She was suddenly afraid he was about to ask after his son's last moments. That she would not be able to bear telling him. A faint flicker of relief passed over Théoden's face.

"Good," he breathed, his eyes shifting over to where the women were beginning their ministrations. "That's good, Hilde." Regret rose in Hilde's throat, nearly cutting off her breath.

"I don't know that, My Lord. I did not care for him as he did for me, yet I let him believe—" Too many words were out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. Théoden's eyes met hers again, but instead of disappointment or disbelief she saw only sympathy mingling with his grief. Slowly he nodded.

"I know, child," his words startled her, and she needed to grip the table beside her for balance as he spoke, unable to hold his gaze, though whether it was out of remorse, mortification or simply grief she wasn't sure herself. "I could see it in your eyes when you were with him. Love, yes, but that of a sister or a friend, not a wife. For a short time, some years ago now, when I saw you leave the Hall with him, I thought that, perhaps, things were changing between you. But I could see that your heart was pulling you elsewhere. I think my son knew, I do not doubt that he saw what I did, but he had fallen in love with you anyway. That you were by his side nonetheless will have given him peace." By the time he fell silent, there were tears streaming down her cheeks, and when she raised her gaze again, there were tears in his eyes too.

"I pray that is so," she whispered, "for he was one of my dearest friends, even if I could not love him as he hoped I could, as he deserved." The king's expression changed for a moment, his eyes scanning her face. She did not understand what he saw.

"Do not dwell on this, Hilde," he said softly, earning a look of bewilderment from her, "Théodred would not have wanted that."

"My Lord—" She tried to interrupt, but he silenced her with a look, reaching up to cup her cheek.

"If it truly is my nephew your heart draws you to, do not turn away from him for my son's sake. We cannot live our lives for the dead, for that is not living." Her brown eyes wide in shock and confusion, she couldn't speak even as the King turned and left her standing in his son's chambers.

Chapter Text

Hilde had expected to feel completely hollowed out following Théodred's funeral. And she had been, for a short time, at least.

She had stood beside the entrance of the tomb, clutching her midnight-hued shawl tightly around her body, as if that could banish the cold that resided within her heart. She didn't even have the will to pull the escaped strands of her red-gold hair from her face. In her hands she had held a single simbelmynë.

He had taken her out among the sprays of white flowers once, many years earlier, walking her among the tombs of his forebears, telling her of their great deeds. Théodred had known that her warrior's heart adored the stories of the Great Kings of Rohan. She had scoffed half-heartedly when he'd confided to her that he'd thought simbelmynë the loveliest of flowers. Now, though, the memory brought her some measure of comfort, for he was to sleep beneath a blanket of them now.

Her heart had nearly broken when Éowyn had begun the song that farewelled fallen warriors of Rohan, and her hands had trembled when the armoured pall-bearers had handed off the Prince into her hands and the hands of the women waiting at the mouth of the tomb. It was they who laid Théodred to rest within the earth. As the other women had filed out, Hilde had paused, laying the delicate white flower she held amid the spray already in Théodred's still hands before brushing a wayward strand of the prince's dark hair from his face. But she didn't cry. She was done crying. No, now she intended to stand strong for those left to her.

Outside she could hear the last strains of Éowyn's song thread through the air, her friend's voice breaking as she fell silent. As Hilde retreated back into the weak sunlight, the crowds of mourners were beginning to disperse. Beside the tomb, the men who had carried Théodred down from Meduseld were waiting to lay the rock that would seal the Prince inside.

Ahead of her, Théoden was staring right through Hilde to where his son now lay with unseeing eyes. Off to the side, Éowyn was weeping silently, her eyes fixed on her cousin's lifeless form where it lay hidden in the shadow of the earth just as her uncle's were. Beyond them stood her father and brother, both morosely looking on. Háma's eyes shifted briefly to the King's niece, silently asking Hilde if she was to stay with Éowyn. With a small nod to her father, she moved to stand next to Rohan's White Lady. After a quiet word to Haleth, her father turned, joining the column of mourners beginning their walk back up to the city.

Haleth stayed behind, moving to stand with his sister without so much as a word. Hilde draped a comforting arm around his shoulder, his arm going around her waist as he tucked himself into her side as he had always done; he was nearly too tall to do it anymore. She knew this was hard for him too; a boy of fourteen, he had greatly admired the Prince, wanting nothing more than to be just like the King's son. He had already been talking of the day when he could join the Prince's éored. It hadn't been far off; he was nearly of an age to do so. She could see tear tracks on his cheeks, but he was no longer crying, his jaw set as he looked up at Hilde with a faint reassuring smile. Hilde found herself smiling back, nearly chuckling with proud wonder. Trust her gentle-hearted baby brother to try and lift her spirits even when he was hurting himself.

It was a long time before Hilde was able to begin leading Éowyn back toward Meduseld, long after the men had set the heavy stone in place over the entrance of Théodred's tomb. By that time the tombs were deserted, save for the King and the wizard. She could see in Théoden's face that he needed time alone to farewell his son.

A faint whinny sounded in the distance, drawing both Hilde and Éowyn's attention as they trekked back up through the city. A small, nameless hope stirred in Hilde at the sound, but it faded when all she saw was a lone horse on the hill just beyond the tombs of the Kings. There were two small figures upon it, and Hilde's heart leapt to her throat in alarm when she realized they were children. Éowyn obviously came to the same conclusion, as she gasped in fear as one of the small figures tumbled from the tall back of their horse.

In an instant Hilde was dashing back through the hill-like tombs toward them, her dark green skirts hitched up in a rather unlady-like manner, Éowyn and Haleth close behind her. They were not the only ones who had seen the lone horse approaching. Gandalf had reached the children before the two women did, and was already kneeling beside the boy where he lay on the ground. Hilde looked up to the little girl still sitting on the great bay horse. Reaching up, she held out her arms and the little girl gratefully fell into them, her pale, frightened face streaked with tears.

Their bay was exhausted, and obviously not going anywhere, but Haleth grabbed his reins anyway, gently stroking his velvet nose before beginning to lead the horse back toward the city. Hilde nearly smiled when she heard him regaling the horse about the marvelous treatment he was going to receive in the King's stables. All Rohirrim seemed to have an inherent love of horses, but some, like Haleth, seemed born with a particular understanding of them that the horses responded to. Their mother had been the same, and when each of the horses of Edoras spent a few months in turn loose on the plains, they ran with the herd that Hilde's maternal grandfather had once cared for. It seemed to be a trait that ran in their blood, though Haleth was particularly drawn to the beasts. Even now the children's horse was following her brother like a puppy despite his exhaustion, his large dark head over the boy's shoulder.

Her urge to smile vanished, though, when the girl began shivering in her arms. Éowyn, noticing this immediately, took off her thick velvet cloak, wrapping it around Hilde and the girl, giving the child a warm smile as she did.

Under the wizard's gentle hands the boy began to stir. In Hilde's arms, the girl lifted her head to look at her brother, her face pinched with worry. As Gandalf helped the boy to sit, Théoden approached, having noticed Hilde and Éowyn's dash toward the children.

"Do you know who I am," he said gently, kneeling beside Gandalf and reaching out to lay a hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy nodded. "What is your name?"

"Éothain," he answered quietly, caught between exhaustion, fear and awe.

The little group made their way back up to Meduseld before they questioned the children, waiting until they sat before the large fire, wrapped warmly in thick blankets as they filled their bellies with hot food.

It took some encouragement, but they managed to piece together what had happened from the children's fractured tale. Éothain and Freda were from a village of the outer Westfold. Though, the village was likely gone now, burned to the ground by Wild Men under Saruman's orders. Hilde no longer felt hollow; a slow burning anger had begun growing in her belly.

"They had no warning. They were unarmed. Now the Wild Men are moving through the Westfold, burning as they go; rick, cot and tree." Éowyn's voice was quiet, but Hilde, knowing the King's niece as she did, could hear the tone of anguish and anger that ran beneath her words.

On his throne, Théoden was deep in thought, the way he held his head in his hand betraying how troubling he found the children's tale. Gandalf sat beside him, his face also showing just how troubled he was. Nearby the wizard's three companions sat, listening intently themselves, the man pensively smoking his pipe while the dwarf took advantage of the opportunity to fill his own belly.

Hilde sat beside the boy, her hand comfortingly on his back as he ate. Beside him, his sister was looking around the hall with fear, her voice plaintive as she asked for her Mama. In an instant Éowyn was at Freda's side, trying to sooth the girl as best she could, adjusting the blanket around the girl's thin shoulders. Beneath Hilde's hand, the boy trembled, but restrained himself from seconding the question. She recognized the set of his jaw from her own brother; he was trying to appear grown-up and unafraid; but she could see in his eyes that he wanted his mother just as desperately as his sister.

"This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash," Gandalf said quietly, "All the more potent for he is driven now by fear of Sauron. Ride out and meet him head on." Beside him Théoden's eyes dropped down to where the wizard's hand rested on the arm of his throne. Hilde and Éowyn exchanged a worried look at the expression of suspicion that had crept upon the King's features. "Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight."

"You have 2000 good men riding north as we speak. Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king." The dark-haired man, Aragorn, was the one who spoke, not allowing the King to respond to Gandalf's words. Though she fought it, Hilde felt her heart speed up at mention of the King's nephew, her face warming. It was an inadvertent response she berated herself for. Now was not the time for childish fancies. Up on his throne, Théoden scoffed, standing to walk toward the fire.

"They will be 300 leagues from here by now. Éomer cannot help us." From her crouch beside the little girl, Éowyn blanched at Théoden's response, her eyes widening at his almost despondent tone. The King took no notice. "I know what it is that you want of me, but I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war." From where he sat, Aragorn frowned, looking distinctly disappointed in the King.

"Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not," he said, an edge to his voice that caught everyone's attention. All eyes were either on the King or the Ranger now. The King looked positively indignant that a Ranger from the north would speak to him thus.

"When last I looked, Théoden, not Aragorn, was king of Rohan," Théoden snapped, sounding far more vexed than he should have allowed himself to sound. For a long moment the two men simply stared at each other, the tension tangible. Across from the Ranger, the dwarf continued his eating, the steady expression in his eyes the only clue that he was more than ambivalent. It was the only sound in the hall save for the dim crackling of the fire.

"Then what is the King's decision," came Gandalf's steady voice, breaking Théoden's focus on Aragorn. Théoden turned to face the wizard, his expression firm. Hilde and Éowyn exchanged another concerned look. There was a flicker of uncertainty on his face too, sending a chill through Hilde.

"We go to Helm's Deep."

The road to Helm's deep was long, and the young, the old and the injured slowed the column pouring out from Edoras. Hilde was walking the route, having lent her horse to one of the young families. Instead, for most of the journey she walked near Garulf, the great bay that bore Éothain and little Freda, doing her best to keep their spirits up. Haleth walked nearby while their father rode up near the head of the column, scouting ahead from time to time with Gamling.

It was only when they stopped that she would track down Éowyn to see how she fared. They were both worried, and they were both doing their best to be strong. On one such occasion, she found her pale-haired friend kneeling next to a pot warming over a fire.

"What are you doing, Éowyn?" She finally asked, hoping that Éowyn was not going to answer as Hilde feared she might. The blonde woman looked up, smiling a little at her flame-haired friend.

"I am making a stew, for—some of the men," she said a little too evenly. Hilde had to withhold a groan; Éowyn was not a good cook...she was not even a mediocre cook. But something in her tone piqued Hilde's curiosity.

"Some of the men? Or one?" Hilde prodded. A faint blush came to Éowyn's cheeks.

"The wizard's companions; the dwarf, the elf and Lord Aragorn," again, Éowyn's voice was too easy and too light.

"Lord Aragorn? He is the only one to merit a name, is he?" Hilde teased. Éowyn's blush deepened, but other than that she didn't react to Hilde's mischievous tone. She just lifted the little pot from the fire before grabbing up a bowl and spoon. Her cheeky grin fading a little, Hilde stepped forward, laying a hand on her friend's arm.

"Just be careful, Éowyn. We know nothing about him." Éowyn shot her a wide-eyed look full of admonishment.

"Of course. I am well aware of that, Hilde. You need not worry yourself so. I can look after myself." There was something in Éowyn's eyes as she said it that worried Hilde. It appeared to be something akin to reproach. It felt like a stone had been dropped into Hilde's stomach. Éowyn knew something, either of Hilde's feelings for Éomer or of just how complicated her relationship with Théodred had become before his death. But before she could say anything further, Éowyn had moved away, her pot and bowl in hand. There was nothing else Hilde could do but return to where she had left the Westfold children and her brother.

When she found them again, her father was sitting next to her brother, telling the three youngsters one of his stories about the Kings of Old. Hilde had grown up on those stories, and had relished in hearing every word. This time he was telling them all about the exploits of Helm Hammerhand. It was fitting, as he was the great King for whom Helm's Deep was named. A wide grin on her face, Hilde walked up to the little half circle, pausing to give her father's horse a loving pat. Brytta responded just as affectionately, nuzzling his nose into her hair.

"And with a single blow of his mighty fist, Helm Hammerhand dealt the false Lord Freca a mighty blow, a blow so hard that it killed the Dunlender, sending his followers fleeing into the night." Little Freda's eyes went wide, while Éothain looked on in awe. Haleth was grinning broadly. He loved their father's stories as much as Hilde did, especially stories of King Helm. Then, stories of the Hammerhand were favourites for her father too, and it always showed on his face when he told them. He was named after one of Helm's sons himself, just as he had named Haleth after the ancient King's second son. Even Hilde bore a name from that great family; she was named for the Hammerhand's sister, the mother of the second line of Kings and a mighty woman herself according to the old tales.

At the front of the line, calls were echoing out, sounding that the march was to continue. With a satisfied sigh, Háma stood, ruffling young Éothain's hair and patting his own son heavily on the shoulder. Hilde stepped forward, instructing the children to gather up the few supplies they had been using before turning to her father. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, leveling her with a worried look. She smiled reassuringly at him, wrapping her own arms around his waist.

"I am fine, Papa. We are alright here."

"You have your sword?" Hilde frowned slightly before reaching back to touch the hilt of her sword where it was lashed to her pack, just within reach. She also had a bow and quiver, which she had set over by the fire while they rested. She was even wearing her greaves; she was well armed.

"Of course I do," she said cheekily, earning a grunt from Háma. His brown eyes, however, were twinkling, just like hers did when she laughed. Where Haleth had their mother's colouring, Hilde was all their father, with the same golden hair lit with red and merry brown eyes. 'Fitting that my daughter should have eyes the same colour as my Brytta,' he'd used to jest, never mind that it was rather true; her eyes were nearly the same warm colour as his horse's coat.

"Good. Be wary, Hilde," he said, his voice going serious, "the road is a good place for an attack. Keep watch over your brother."

"Yes Papa," she answered, hugging him tightly round the middle, earning a chuckle from him. "You had better promise to be careful too." He scoffed playfully.

"You sound just like your mother when you say that," he said lightly, though his eyes dimmed ever so slightly. Even fourteen years later, he still loved and missed her mother dearly. Hilde placed a kiss on his bearded cheek.

"Do not worry, Papa. We will be all right here. The King will be looking for you." With a brusque nod he placed a kiss on her forehead before reaching around her to grab Brytta's reins. With a final smile and farewell to her and her brother, Háma swung up into the saddle before turning his chestnut mount toward the head of the column.

The rest of the day passed, and then the night, and then it was day again. And on they walked.

The second day, Hilde found herself walking near Éowyn. Her brother was off with some other boys his own age, while one of the other Meduseld women was taking time with Éothain and Freda, leaving Hilde to wander where she willed. A little part of her was wishing she were elsewhere, though, as Éowyn was all but ignoring her. Just now, she was walking next to Lord Aragorn, talking quietly with him.

That her pale-haired friend was infatuated with the Ranger was obvious to Hilde, and she worried for her friend. She feared he was already bound to someone. She was not blind; there was a jewel around his throat that could only have been a token from a woman, and a woman he loved deeply. The evening previous, when walking past the Ranger, she couldn't help but notice the tender way in which he had touched the token, as though it was a talisman for him. He had been deep in the clutches of memory, his expression one of longing and a deep love Hilde could barely fathom.

Whoever she was, he loved her very much.

But Éowyn was not to be swayed. Hilde had told her of her suspicions the night before, soon after she had seen Aragorn sitting alone. Éowyn had acted unperturbed, but Hilde had seen in her friend's eyes how the realization pained her.

Even now, it seemed she was asking Aragorn about the pendant Hilde had seen. From the snippets of conversation she could faintly overhear, he was not particularly forthcoming on the subject, the topic of his woman apparently painful to think on.

Hilde was distracted from Éowyn and the Ranger, though, when her father and Gamling rode past, scouting ahead by order of the King. With a faint smile, Háma reached down as he trotted past his daughter, catching her hand for a brief instant before urging Brytta into a canter.

Hilde watched him and his companion disappear over the hillock ahead with a trace of longing in her chest. Walking along with the women and children left her feeling weary simply from the monotony. She longed to be on the back of her bay, Folca, riding ahead with her father.

Instead she was trudging along with the rest of the column.

Then a scream pierced the calm, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot. An indistinct shout followed, along with the distinctive sound of swords. Up ahead, the elf leapt from his perch on the rocky outcropping above the column, racing toward the sound of the fighting. Tension surged through Hilde's body, and immediately she was scanning the hills and rocks around them for threat and searching the crowds for sign of her brother, a nauseating fear beginning to grow in her belly. Beside Éowyn, the Ranger thrust his reins into her hands, racing up the hill after his elven friend toward the sounds of fighting. Behind her, Hilde could hear the thundering of hooves. Turning, she was barely able to step aside as Théoden came barreling past her on Aelafel. The King pulled his chestnut horse to a halt as Aragorn came running back toward the column.

"What is it? What do you see?" Even from a distance Hilde could see the grim look on Aragorn's face as he approached.

"Warg!"

Chapter Text

"Warg! We're under attack!"

Screams echoed around Hilde as Aragorn's shout echoed over the rocks. Her heart seemed to thrum in her ears, drowning out thought. In an instant her sword was in her hand.

"All riders to the head of the column!" Théoden cried ahead of her, whirling his horse around to survey his people and what mounted men he had. Off to the side, she glimpsed the dwarf struggling to get on the horse he shared with the elf. In front of her, Aragorn was already up on his, having already retrieved it from Éowyn. Distantly the approaching snarls and shrieks of a warg pack could be heard above the panic that was beginning to take hold.

Amid the din Hilde managed to make it to Éowyn's side. The King had already angled Aelafel next to his niece, halting her from mounting Windfola.

"You must lead the people to Helm's Deep, and make haste," he said, his tone showing that it was nothing short of an order. Though Hilde was behind her friend, she could imagine how Éowyn's blue eyes must have flashed in anger.

"I can fight!" she insisted, but he cut her off before she could protest any more.

"No!" Hilde could hear the faint trace of fear in his voice, but his eyes brooked no argument. That didn't stop Éowyn from meeting his gaze with a resentful but determined look of her own. Even in the midst of the crisis they were caught in, the King's eyes softened, and he held on to his niece's gaze.

"You must do this," he said quietly, "for me." The note of pleading on his face and in his voice seemed to shock Éowyn out of her rebelliousness. Finally Éowyn nodded in acceptance, handing Windfola's reins to Hilde in a gesture of submission to her uncle's wishes, though her reluctance to do so was clear on her face. Hilde, though, was not so bound by duty to lead in the King's place as her friend was. As soon as the reins were in her hand she was up on Windfola, pulling the chestnut around to join the call for warriors. Éowyn had already moved off, beginning to direct the people onward and away from the impending battle.

"No, Hilde," her gaze snapped up to meet the King's. But before she could make the same argument Éowyn just had, Théoden held up a hand, silencing her.

"You must help her. Use your sword and bow if you need to, but look to our people. The wargs likely mean to make for the column. You and the shieldmaidens who remain are our people's last defense should any warg break through my riders." With the same reluctance as Éowyn, Hilde nodded in deference to her King's order, though she stayed in the saddle, sheathing her sword and hurriedly lashing her quiver by her knee before pulling her short bow from her shoulder. If she was to help defend the column, she intended to be mounted. With a grim nod of approval, Théoden once again spun his horse around, calling out to the gathering riders.

Fighting the urge in her belly to join the riders racing to meet the wargs, she instead turned Windfola back toward the column. It was a longing so intense her chest felt tight, and every muscle in her body was quivering with readiness to fight. Already Éowyn was urging the people to head for lower ground, putting distance between them and the howls and shrieks rising over the hills.

Circling Windfola, Hilde was hesitant to move on with the column. Somehow she managed a reassuring smile for the two Westfold children as they were led past her, their faces pale with fear. Just about every face that passed her was such; drawn and frightened. She already had an arrow nocked against her bowstring, ready should she need it. A fair way down the column from where she stood waiting, she could see two other Shieldmaidens, older than she, standing vigil as she did, bows or swords ready. The wargs and the King's riders were just over the hill. If any orcs were to break through, it would be here. Which was why she waited as the column moved past, every sense vigilant to the danger. Thankfully, the people's fear had been repurposed to urgency, and the column moved by quickly.

It was as the last groups hurried past that such vigilance proved necessary. The other shieldmaidens had moved on with the column, many being on foot themselves. But two, Gilwyn and Willa, had had the same thought as Hilde and had found horses of their own, lingering as she did. As the last stragglers descended among the rocks, Hilde and the other two shieldmaidens began turning their horses to follow. But then Hilde saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.

With a shriek a warg and its rider leapt from one of the crags, crashing into Gilwyn and her old grey. With a terrified shriek her horse was torn into and Gilwyn was thrown across the rocky ground before Hilde even managed to turn around. But turn around she did.

Then instinct took over, and her arrow was drawn and released before she had even truly processed what had just happened. Her arrow flew true, piercing the warg's thick hide near its ear. It only served to enrage the beast, though. It bucked and swung about its great head, fixing her in its chilling gaze. With a snarl it launched itself forward, barreling down on her, its rider shrieking with outrage. Beyond them both, Willa had her own bow out, her arrow finding the hollow behind the wolf's elbow. It snarled in pain, but did not stop. Beneath Hilde Windfola trembled in fear, his eyes rolling wildly. Urging the chestnut sideways, Hilde snatched another arrow to her bow, letting it fly again.

This one found its home in the throat of the orc riding the warg. With a gurgling shriek it tumbled from its saddle, its mottled hand still clutching the beast's reins. The warg stumbled, its head jerking to the side as its rider fell before toppling over itself. An enraged yowl burst from its throat as it twisted and rolled, struggling to get back on its feet as its own reins strangled it. With a yell, Hilde let loose one last arrow, which disappeared into the flesh just below the beast's jaw, stunning it. The final blow came from Gilwyn, who buried her sword deep in the warg's side with a triumphant cry.

With one last furious wail, the warg fell still.

What adrenaline had surged through Hilde when the warg attacked was all but gone as Helm's Deep came into view. Around her people cried out in relief, surging forward in eagerness, their tired steps now full of renewed energy. Hilde did feel some relief; the journey was over. But it was a small comfort. More than relief, a feeling of dread had settled over her. They were not to escape the hoards of Saruman here. That she could feel in her bones.

After the warg attacked her and the other shieldmaidens, Hilde and the other two, Gilwyn and Willa, had hesitantly caught up with the column, still anxiously watching behind them should more of Saruman's servants manage to follow.

They were lucky. The single warg was the only one to make an attempt for the people. It wasn't long before the three women had rejoined the column. Willa, having shared her horse with Gilwyn as they caught up, rejoined her family on foot. She let the other shieldmaiden—who had received a rather nasty leg wound when the warg killed her horse—continue on riding the black mare. Together with a handful of other unmounted shieldmaidens, they formed an informal rearguard, watching behind as the column surged forward toward Rohan's fortress.

Hilde, however, urged Windfola forward to the head of the column, searching the crowds for familiar faces. True relief finally did surge through her when she caught sight of Haleth laughing with his friends among the throngs of people, smiling at him when he caught her eye. She hadn't seen him earlier during the attack, missing him in the crowd as it rushed past, and worry had weighed on her. Now that she knew he was all right, she pushed forward, searching for Éowyn.

When she finally caught sight of the King's niece, she was already at the top of the causeway, about to step through the great gates as they opened for the refugees of Edoras. She considered dismounting as she rejoined the column, but instead allowed Windfola to fall into step beside Garulf and his young riders. A faint smile had stirred on both Éothain and Freda's faces when she approached, but there was still fear there.

Once inside the great walls of the Keep Hilde finally dismounted, faintly surprised when her legs didn't buckle beneath her. There were so many people. Hilde's mouth parted in shock at the sheer number of refugees already taking shelter within the walls of the Hornburg. It nearly brought tears to her eyes, the wane looks and tired, bereft expressions. A boy had appeared at her side almost the instant her feet touched the stone courtyard, collecting Windfola to take to the stables below once she had retrieved her bow and quiver from where they hung on the saddle. She then turned to the children, helping first Éothain then Freda down from the towering back of their bay.

As she set Freda on the ground, the girl wrenched herself from Hilde's arms with a soft gasp, her eyes wide in her little face. Beside her, her older brother shouted, dashing off after his sister, his eyes just as bright. Hilde spun, losing sight of them in the crowd, Garulf's reins still in her hand.

Tears truly did come to her eyes when she finally caught sight of the children again, though they did not fall as a smile lit on her face. The young boy and his younger sister were tightly wrapped in the arms of a woman who could only be their mother. With a smile Hilde began leading the great bay away, leaving the happy reunion uninterrupted. Another boy soon appeared, offering to take Garulf down to the stables as well, something Hilde allowed. She needed to find Éowyn.

She found the fair-haired woman looking over the supplies being brought into the Keep. Though the King's niece had slightly more experience with such things, Hilde knew her fair share too about the care of a Keep; there would be barely enough food to feed everyone for more than a week. Once again, worry began gnawing in the pit of her stomach. They could not hope to withstand a long siege.

With Éowyn obviously preoccupied, Hilde turned away, her thoughts now shifting to locating her brother again. It took several long minutes, but eventually she found Haleth—where else—in the stables, brushing down her Folca; he was very much a child of Rohan. She almost didn't want to interrupt him, he was so content where he was, talking quietly to her own big bay. So she didn't say anything, walking up to them only. With a low whicker Folca bumped his nose into her shoulder, whuffing contentedly into her hair. At his side Haleth smiled at her, but before she could ask him how he was, horns sounded in the courtyard above. Hilde's heart began to race as shouts echoed down to the stables that the King had returned. Sparing her little brother a last glance, Hilde turned and made her way back up to the main entrance of the Keep.

If the main courtyard was busy before, it was positively packed now. The King and his riders had returned, drawing women and children looking for friends, husbands, brothers...fathers. Even as she reached the courtyard, the King's horse Aelafel was being lead back down the way Hilde had come. Théoden was slowly beginning his climb up the steps toward the main hall of the Hornburg, and Hilde caught a glimpse of Éowyn speaking to the dwarf just off the main group. More men and horses were still trickling into the court, but there was one she did not see.

Coming up behind Éowyn, Hilde reached out, touching her friend on the shoulder.

"Éowyn, have you seen—" but she could not finish, for her friend turned to face her then, her pale face drained of all colour, her eyes wide and glistening with tears. Hilde's brow furrowed, worry flooding her. "Éowyn, what is it?"

"Lord Aragorn," was all she managed to whisper, before flinging herself into Hilde's arms, struggling to hold back a sob that left her shoulders shaking soundlessly. Hilde was shocked into silence. She had no words of comfort, but only held her friend, looking helplessly about at the King's riders around them; there were so few that had made it to the Hornburg.

Then her eye caught a flash of brown; a horse the same colour brown as her eyes.

A riderless horse.

A strangled cry escaped her throat, and in an instant she was twisting away from her grieving friend and stumbling forward to Brytta. Her father's horse walked slowly beside another rider, his elegant head dipped low and his eyes clouded in what could only be described as sorrow. That the chestnut bore no rider could only mean one thing. The fear she had been pointedly ignoring since the wargs first attacked surged forward, crushing against her heart with enough force that she staggered, her legs nearly giving out beneath her. A heartrending wail met Hilde's ears, and it took her a moment to realize the sound was coming from her own lips.

With faltering steps she made it to the horse's side before falling against him, burying her face in his mane as her arms clung to his broad neck.

"No," came a choked voice behind her. Spinning, her fingers still tangled in Brytta's mane, she met her brother's eyes. Murmuring his name, she reached out, pulling him into her arms as he began to sob into her shoulder. She looked desperately around, hoping against hope that their father was merely wounded, riding with another of the King's men. Éowyn, startled out of her own grief for the Ranger, looked on in pained horror, her hands covering her mouth as she appeared to be holding back sobs of her own. But then Hilde met the King's eyes where he had paused on the steps, halted by the sound of her grief. There was only sorrow and sympathy on his features. Her tears began flowing when she saw the confirmation of her fears on his face, and she clung tighter to her little brother. Beside them, Brytta shifted closer, huffing dejectedly as he leaned his head against Haleth's shoulder.

Hilde started as a hand landed on her own shoulder. It was Gamling, looking just as grieved as the King; Háma had been his friend. Swallowing his sobs, Haleth pulled away from his sister's shoulder, looking to the King's Captain. Wordlessly, Gamling extended his arm. Hilde had to fight back a fresh wave of grief when she saw it was her father's sword Léofwine he held. Her hand shaking, she reached out, her fingers closing around the well-worn hilt.

"I am sorry, Hilde, Haleth," came Gamling's quiet voice, "truly. Your father was a good man." She felt Haleth's arms tighten around her waist, just as she knew her own arm had tightened her hold around his shoulders. But she needed to be strong. He was all she had left now. So, setting her jaw, she met Gamling's eyes, nodding in thanks even as she fought back a sob. As satisfied as he could be, Gamling bowed his head stoically before turning away to follow the King. Lifting her gaze, she could see the King striding across the wall that loomed over the courtyard toward the Deeping Wall. Hilde dropped her gaze, her brown eyes landing on the sword still clutched in her hand. A sudden resolve settled in her stomach then.

She was done with waiting. She was done with watching.

Her fingers tightened on her father's sword.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen as she stood on the wall of the Hornburg and, as Hilde watched in horror as the hordes of Isengard drew near, the heavens opened up over her head. She was gripping her bow so hard her knuckles ached. In moments she was soaked to the bone, a chill running under her skin that only intensified the chill brought on by what marched toward her. Fear surged through her, causing her breath to catch in her chest, but she didn't regret her decision. She imagined she might before the night was over, but even in this moment, as terror owned her, she did not regret her choice to join the fight.

As she had stood with her brother, clutching her father's sword, she had resolved to no longer sit on the sidelines, though then she had not been sure how.

Then Théoden had ordered every able man and boy to arms, and she had watched, helpless as she had vowed not to be, as one of the King's men came to collect her brother.

They had been standing in Brytta's stall together, mourning in silence as they petted and stroked their father's loyal mount. She had nearly lost control of herself as the rider's gloved hand had descended on Haleth's shoulder. But her gentle little brother had fixed her with such a determined look; he would do as the King commanded, for Rohan, for their father, and for her. So, lifting her chin and banishing the distraught look from her face she sent him off with a proud smile.

It had been several long moments before she had looked down, noticing her father's sword still leaning against the side of the stall. Her breath catching in her throat, she had picked it up, thinking only that her brother should be carrying the blade into his first battle, so that their father might still protect him in some small way.

But as she had made to exit the stables, she had caught sight of her reflection on the polished boss of a shield hanging on a nearby stall. Her face had been streaked with tears and grime, her eyes rimmed with red while her hair was tangled and matted. Then a thought had struck her as she raised her hand to brush her hair aside and scrub some of the dirt from her face.

Reaching up, she had pulled her hair from her face. She had always been a handsome woman, even though she didn't have the delicate features that marked out great beauty. Her eyes were large and bright and her lips full. She was tall, and though she had a womanly enough figure she was not quite so curvy as many women she knew.

But with her bright hair pulled back, the angles of her face seemed sharpened; less feminine without the softness of her red-gold hair curling around her cheeks while the shadows of days of stress and grief dulled her complexion. The grime looked for all the world like a boy's first hint of a beard. And with armour, her female curves would vanish.

She knew what she had to do.

It had been an easier decision to make than to carry out. She was well known in Meduseld and Edoras, and thus avoiding recognition was easier said than done. The King had ordered the women and children into the Glittering Caves, even the shieldmaidens; hence her need to disguise herself as a young man. It had been an unpopular order, especially with the King's niece, though it was borne of long established and well-founded reasoning; just like with the column from Edoras, the shieldmaidens would be the last defense should the men on the walls fail. It was the wisdom of their culture, really. While the men fought the actual battles, the women would defend and protect. But this fight was different, and everyone, men and women alike, could feel it.

So Hilde had needed to get creative when arming herself. Here and there she managed to pilfer unattended bits and pieces of armour, supplementing the pieces she already had; her greaves, her bow and a bit of mail that had once belonged to her grandmother; and of course, her father's sword. Her own sword, once her grandmother's, she had silently pressed into Morwen's hands, the mother of little Freda and young Éothain. The woman had somehow understood the look in Hilde's eyes, and had accepted the weapon with only a nod of thanks. Her luckiest find was an old helmet that hid most of her face.

Once, she managed to catch sight of Haleth among the others being armed. She had decided to avoid him as much as possible, lest he should recognize her and give her away; an agonizing decision as her instincts pushed her to protect the only family she had left. But the look of terror that shone in his wide brown eyes and the uncertainty that clouded his features as he was handed an old sword nearly shattered her resolve. She had heard what the men were saying, just as she was sure her brother had; few believed they would survive this. Fewer believed there was any real hope. There had been a brief, fleeting moment, when she had wished they had the wizard to help them; surely he would have known some spell to stem the unending hordes of Uruk-hai. But Gandalf had ridden off shortly after the decision to come to Helm's Deep had been made. They would not have his help.

Because she had a bow, she had been ordered to the walls of the Hornburg, overlooking the whole of Helm's Deep. From where she stood, she could see the entire valley, the causeway and the Deeping Wall. Until the torches of the Uruk-hai had appeared in the distance, she had been utterly fascinated by those manning the great wall.

She had been about to climb up to the battlements where she was to be posted, having just retrieved the last bits and pieces she had needed to complete her disguise, when the elves had arrived. Their horns had echoed through the valley and into the Hornburg, sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine. They were magnificent. She had watched as they marched through the Gates and up to the stairs of the main keep, where their scarlet-cloaked leader had greeted the King. Their armour gleamed in the moonlight, all elegant lines and deadly promise. She had to suppress a gasp of surprise when she caught sight of their faces, each seeming more beautiful than the last...especially the female warriors among them. They moved with the same powerful grace as their male companions, marching with naught but pride and confidence upon their striking features. With the arrival of the elves she felt hope stir within her chest; a faint, fluttering flicker that bolstered her resolve.

Even now, as the rain poured down and the Uruk's marched ever closer, she still found her gaze drawn to the elves where they stood waiting upon the Deeping Wall. Aragorn walked among them, serving as their commander given that he was a friend to the scarlet-cloaked leader and could speak their language as though he was born to it; though from the story Éowyn had told her, he might as well have been, having been raised by them. She could faintly hear his voice rising through the rain, though she could not make out the words.

That Aragorn had survived the skirmish with the wargs had come as a shock to Hilde, and she had been hard pressed to fight back the resentment in her chest when she had seen him riding into the Keep on Brego. That he had survived...bitter thoughts threatened to drown her even as she wrestled them back. And that he had appeared on Brego, Théodred's beloved bay, had only served to deepen the sting that his reappearance had prompted.

Her bitterness had melted away, though, with the confrontation that had happened in the armoury. She had watched from the shadows where she had been scrounging about for some additional mail and a hauberk, stunned as everyone else in the room as the Ranger argued with his elven friend.

That they had been fighting over the impending battle was obvious; it had been Legolas' observation of the men's fear that had sparked it in the first place. Even when the conversation switched to the elvish tongue it was evident over what they argued, and Aragorn's declaration that he would die among them sent a shockwave through the entire room. Every resentment Hilde had felt toward the Ranger had dissipated in that moment, and she had seen from the faces of the men and boys around her that such a declaration, no matter how despairing it might have seemed, had still somehow lifted the spirits of those who heard it, even if only by the slimmest of margins.

Overhead lightning split the sky, bringing flashes of near daylight to those waiting below. The thunder that echoed through the valley was loud enough that the very mountains they were nestled against seemed to shake. Hilde fought back the trembling that threatened her. She was afraid, yes; she would be a fool not to be. But even as the Uruk lines slowed and stopped before the walls of the Hornburg, she did not wish to be anywhere but where she stood, and though she held regrets, she could not bring herself to regret her choice to join the battle.

She had asked Théodred, once, what it was like, the fear of battle. He hadn't said anything for a long while, his usually open face shrouded with dark thoughts. But when he had finally spoken, he had said only fools did not feel it. That it was unavoidable, but it was where courage came from. Then he had smirked and said only the greatest and bravest warriors knew how to wield such fear, impishly and not very subtly implying that he was one such hero; she had laughed, as he had intended her to, and though she hadn't quite wholly believed the truth of his words, neither had she ignored it. But she felt she finally understood what he meant now. She wasn't sure if it was really courage that had been born of her fear, but it was certainly resolve to put it aside. Perhaps that did make her brave.

Below the Uruk-hai began to roar, their spears thundering as they hammered them against the ground. A single sharp order echoed across the wall of the keep, and in what seemed to Hilde like a single movement, every bowman (and woman) drew their first arrow and set it to their bows. Then they waited.

A faint thrum sounded, down the line from where Hilde stood. One of the old men, Aldor, if Hilde remembered his name right, had lost his grip on his arrow, sending it flying into the lines of Uruks. Hilde couldn't help but grant that it was a perfect shot, her eyebrows rising of their own accord as a single Uruk collapsed, Aldor's arrow lodged in its throat.

The tenor of the Uruk's roars changed. Rage now darkened the cries, sending a renewed chill down Hilde's spine. With a roar that echoed above the rest, their commander sent them charging forward. Hilde's heart hammered in her chest.

It had begun.

Off on the Deeping Wall, she could faintly hear Aragorn shouting orders to fire, catching the fluid movements of the elven archers out of the corner of her eye. Before the Hornburg, entire lines of Uruks fell as the elvish arrows unfailingly found their marks. No matter how she wished she could watch the elves in action, she managed to keep her eyes ahead, scanning the Uruk lines for a target of her own.

Faintly she could hear Gamling giving the order to fire, and in the space of a moment, she heard the captain of her section repeat that order.

Releasing a shaking breath, she let loose her arrow. She never knew if it hit her target—the dark shafts had disappeared into the night and the rain—but before them the Uruks fell in droves. But behind those that fell, dozens more surged forth. The order to fire came again, and Hilde was ready with her bow drawn. Together with the men and boys at her sides, they sent volley after volley flying into the hordes of Isengard. But they kept coming.

Hilde's focus faltered, though, when screams pierced the night from the Deeping Wall. The Uruks had advanced far enough that they were in range to use their crossbows against the elves. Worse yet, they were bringing their siege ladders to bear upon the great wall. With a flash, sword upon elvish sword was drawn. Shaking her head to tear her focus from the elves below, she nocked another arrow. She was beginning to run low. Her quiver was empty, and she had little more than a handful left in the stockpile by her side.

Above them, the rain had stopped.

Shouts began sounding from over the Causeway. Looking toward the shouts, Hilde's throat went dry when she saw the mass of Uruk shields edging their way toward the main doors. Shifting her aim, she fired her last few shots toward the Uruk's turtle formation, noticing absently that she was not alone in her choice of target. Neither were they slowing its progress.

It was then that an explosion rocked the fortress, powerful enough that Hilde staggered as the Fortress shuddered, falling against the stone wall she had been firing over, the arrow she had been about to loose going wide. Massive chunks of stone and rock went sailing into the air, raining down upon the masses of Uruk-hai. With wide eyes she scurried back to her feet, her gaze falling to the gaping hole in the Deeping Wall. Terror surged through her again.

Never had the Deeping Wall been breached, yet now there was a great gouge breaking the wall's proud length.

She involuntarily began to wonder if they truly were all doomed.

In the back of her mind, absent thoughts surged forward even as the Uruk army did. Even as she sought to push them aside, in her mind's eye images of her father appeared, of her mother, her brother. She wondered if Haleth would survive the night as she fervently hoped he would. She wondered if her father would be proud. Memories of her and Éowyn learning to hold their swords as children flickered before her eyes, as did feasts where she sat next to Théodred, not quite sure if she should accept his kisses or push him away. Éomer's face close to hers as he gave her her first kiss in the doorway of Meduseld...and the way he had looked at her in the stable as he had been banished.

She was startled from her thoughts as the King's voice carried above the din of battle, calling for the men below to brace the gate. Reaching down, she realized with dismay that she was out of arrows. With her heart in her throat, she could only watch as a great battering ram charged through the Uruk formation, utterly heedless of their own being thrown from the causeway as they heaved toward the Main Gate of the Hornburg.

Straining to see the others lining the battlements, she caught a glimpse of Haleth making use of his own bow where he stood beside Aldor, the old man who had killed the first Uruk-hai. Her breath caught when she saw him grasping at his empty quiver as she had. But, for an instant at least, relief flickered through her; he was all right...for the time being. Beyond him, the boys stationed on the walls above the gate, younger than her brother still, were raining rocks and the odd spear down on the causeway.

Around her, many others had used the last of their arrows as well. Above them all, where he observed and orchestrated the forces of the Hornburg, Théoden began calling for the elves to retreat. Hilde watched, grim-faced, as the dwindling numbers of elves heeded his shouts, fleeing toward the Hornburg proper as Uruk-hai flooded through the gaping hole in the wall.

A splintering crash echoed through the fortress, and those on the wall, Hilde included, watched with dread as the ram punched through the main gate. Calls from the King to make for the gate flew through the air as shouts and cries came from the men struggling to brace the doors. Several of the men along the battlements rushed to answer the King's call, including a handful that had been near Hilde. Shouts began flying about Hilde too as a few remaining bundles of arrows began making their way around those still on the wall. Snatching a handful as they passed by, Hilde began firing again, intent on making every arrow count. She was so intent that she nearly didn't notice as the few surviving elves began placing themselves among the Rohirric archers, resuming their own volleys. She hesitated for a moment in awe as one of them came to stand beside her, his face calm despite the blood smeared on his armour and skin. It took a surprising amount of effort to regain her focus. But regain it she did, until, again, her complement of arrows was gone.

It was probably a good thing too, for as she fired her last shot, two figures leapt onto the causeway and began clearing the way. With a start, she recognized Lord Aragorn and the dwarf, Gimli. But then another flash of movement caught her attention. With a gasp, she jerked back, barely fast enough to dodge the crossbow bolt that flew past her. But she overbalanced, losing her footing on the rain-slicked stone. A hand came out of nowhere, grasping her cloak and all but heaving her back to her feet. Her eyes swung around, catching sight of her rescuer; it was the elf, already pulling another arrow from his back and resumed firing into the Uruks still surging up the causeway. Even as she stared with a mix of gratitude and disbelief, she caught a glimpse of something happening on the ground.

With a massive thrum, a great grappling hook came flying toward them. Flinging her hand out, she yanked on the elf's arm, pulling him toward her as the hook crashed through the wall where he had been a mere instant before. Glancing quickly over his shoulder in surprise, a faint smile came to his vibrant features and he bowed his head once, sharply. He then drew his sword in a single graceful movement. It was then that she noticed with choking fear that huge siege ladders, covered with Uruk-hai, were being winched closer to the battlements where Hilde and the elf stood. Two were already in place further down the wall. Swallowing her cry of panic, she too pulled out her sword, lifting the shield she'd had tucked away by the arrow baskets. She grabbed it not a moment too soon. Behind her, the captain was shouting furiously for swords to be drawn.

With a resounding clang, great hooks latched themselves to the battlement wall, clamping the ladders securely to the stone. Uruks began surging over the wall. Hilde froze, her stomach roiling as Uruk's began cutting down those who stood in their way. She couldn't breathe; her chest felt crushed, such was the revulsion and terror she felt in that moment. Beside her, a crossbow bolt shattered as it hit the dark stone of the battlement. The sound of it splintering was enough to start Hilde out of her stupor, unfreezing her limbs and allowing her to breathe freely again.

Sucking in a desperate breath she felt her fear churning into something else. Rage surged through her at the sight of the Uruk-hai charging toward her. With a cry that would do any warrior proud, she launched herself forward into the fray.

Chapter Text

With a bone-jarring clang Hilde's sword met the blade of the first Uruk she reached. They were big, strong and fast. While Hilde was a tall woman and strong herself, she had nothing on these monsters of Isengard. But she was faster and more agile than they were. Wrenching the Uruk's sword aside with her own, she dodged around him, slashing her father's blade across its armourless legs, drawing an anguished bellow from the Uruk as it lost its balance and toppled from the wall. But Hilde barely noticed; she was already moving on to the next one.

This was what she had been trained for, and she had been trained well; her father had made sure of that. Raised by a shieldmaiden himself, he had been the one to place Hilde's first sword and shield in her hands. She gloried in her heritage, and thus intended to make her father and her grandmother proud here on the walls of the Hornburg.

Little by little, everything fell away as her father's sword flashed in her hand, slicing through air and Uruk flesh alike in her skilled hands. She barely noticed it when an Uruk-hai's fist connected with her ribs, and jumped back to her feet when one crashed her into the stone of the battlements. She was not quite untouchable, but she felt and moved like she was, such was the ferocity and exhilaration that drove her. All she knew was the feel of the hilt against her palm and the weight of the shield on her arm. Her feet danced as she moved, a euphoria building within her with each dodged blow and answering strike of her own.

Faintly she heard the King calling for those on the walls to retreat. At first she paid it little mind, she was so caught up in her deadly dance. Then, with a jolt of understanding, she realized those left around her were beginning to flee from the wall. It was a moment of understanding that cost her. Her right foot slipped, sending her crashing to one knee, a dizzying spear of pain lancing through her leg and hip. More than that, as she struggled to regain her footing, another Uruk-hai came toward her and she was barely able to raise her shield in time.

It was an awkward block, and though it kept the blow from landing on her, it wrenched the shield away, nearly taking her arm with it. With a nauseating blaze of pain she felt her shoulder wrenched unnaturally back. But instinct drove her, and with a sharp upward thrust of her sword, she thrust the blade up into the jaw of the Uruk before her, the point jutting up grotesquely through the top of his skull. With a shark yank she pulled her father's sword free, the Uruk's carcass falling limply to lie at her feet. The throbbing pain in her shoulder and her inability to so much as flex her fingers on her shield arm surged to the front of her mind, and she absently realized her shoulder must be dislocated. But she didn't have time to think on it further. Clutching her injured arm close, she too joined the retreat, racing toward the Keep.

She was one of the last to clear the doors before they were slammed shut, men already waiting with benches and lengths of timber to shore up the doors. Hilde's heart sank to her boots when she realized how few were left. The remaining elves were helping to ferry the wounded into the back rooms of the Keep while the men worked to barricade the entrance. What remained of the boys and old men were being directed into the caves, ordered to hold it even as the rest of the King's men were preparing a last defense of the Keep itself.

Pain prickling through her, especially through her shield arm, she couldn't help but sink to the ground against the near wall, gasping through the roiling of her stomach. Her father's sword fell from her hand, clattering to the floor. Somewhere she was bleeding; she could see flashes of her own scarlet blood flowing amid black Uruk blood spattered over her armour and mail.

"You're wounded?" Hilde looked up in bewilderment at the furrowed brow and surprisingly concerned eyes of the dwarf.

"My shield arm...dislocated," she somehow managed to choke out. With a gruff nod the dwarf stepped forward, and before she could react, had taken hold of her arm and her shoulder. Hilde felt more than heard the wet pop of her shoulder settling back into place under Gimli's hands. With a strangled yelp, Hilde's body seized, starbursts of pain flashing before her eyes before clearing. The most intense pain was gone, a lingering—albeit potent—ache in her shoulder all that remained. Still gasping for air, she looked up to the dwarf as he stood over her. A satisfied look peeked out from behind his bushy beard.

"Thank you," she said, her tongue stumbling over the words. Her voice was still weak as the intensity of the pain subsided. He only nodded grimly before moving off.

Looking down to where her father's sword lay at her side, the gravity of what had happened and what was about to happen descended upon her. Léofwine's shining blade was coated in thick black blood, and she knew without looking that she was covered with it as well.

She had never truly seen battle before. But she had only faltered for a moment before instinct had taken over. Then her blood had sung when she gave into the battle fury that had surged through her. The sight of so much death, both her doing and not, shook her now as it hadn't up on the battlements. But the ease with which she had taken to battle shook her even more. Looking down to her hands, she noticed numbly how they trembled, before fisting her gloved fingers in an effort to make it stop. She couldn't dwell though. She couldn't let herself.

They were out of time. The Uruk's crashed against the doors, the sound of the wood groaning and splintering echoing through the hall. Death was trying to come through that door, she thought absently. Unbidden, Éomer's face surfaced in her thoughts, accompanied by a fleeting flicker of regret. There was so much that she wished was different. She didn't even allow herself to think on Haleth. Tears came unbidden to her eyes, but she pushed them away. Even though she knew her death was coming, she still could not bring herself to regret choosing to fight.

The doors shuddered under the might of the army on the other side. Yet still the men of Rohan, and even the odd elf, worked to hold it. Hilde suddenly felt driven to help, but as she made to stand her legs trembled just as her hands did, collapsing beneath her. Pain flared through her right knee again, leaving Hilde breathless.

"The fortress is taken. It is over." Hilde's eyes turned to the King, the despair in his voice frightening her more than the prospect of imminent death trying to break through the door. Hilde wasn't the only one looking on at the King in disbelief.

"You said this fortress would never fall while your men defend it," came Aragorn's voice over the crunch of the Uruks against the doors. His voice was angrily vehement, and his eyes were fierce in his rugged face, fixed as they were on the King. "They still defend it. They have died defending it." He paused in his efforts to help hold the door, his gaze flickering around the room as he approached Théoden, pausing for a split second on Hilde where she sat slumped against the wall. Hilde had to fight the urge to shrink away from his gaze.

"Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves?" His question was met with only despondent silence from the King. Nervous glances were exchanged around the hall. Aragorn was still searching the face of the King and of those around him. "Is there no other way?"

"There is one passage. It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far. The Uruk-hai are too many." Gamling was the one to finally speak. Latching on, Aragorn's gaze was fixed on the King's captain in an instant. Behind them, the doors shuddered again. Aragorn's hand fell heavily on Gamling's shoulder.

"Send word for the women and children to make for the mountain pass. And barricade the entrance." His voice brooked no argument as he urged Gamling back toward the end of the Hall. They both hesitated when they heard Théoden's quiet, despairing voice.

"So much death. What can Men do against such reckless hate?" The Ranger turned slowly, a fierce determination lighting his eyes. The wood of the doors shrieked.

"Ride out with me," came the quiet reply. Aragorn's voice was so low Hilde nearly didn't hear it. Others who had somehow heard as well turned to the Ranger. Some were confused, as the King was, but more looked on with a new resolve lighting in their eyes. Hilde's hand closed around Léofwine as she got cautiously to her feet. This time, her legs held, her strength returning. Beside the King Aragorn continued, his voice still quiet. "Ride out and meet them." His eyes were focused wholly on Théoden. Something flared to life within Hilde when she saw the gleam coming to light in her King's eyes.

"For death and glory," he murmured, his voice yet skeptical. Aragorn shook his head.

"For Rohan. For your people." Behind him, the men murmured in agreement, more turning their gaze to the Ranger and the King.

"The sun is rising," came the dwarf's voice. As one, all eyes turned to the high windows of the east wall. Sure enough, the first hopeful rays of the coming dawn shone down into the Hall. Hilde looked back to the King, exhilaration growing in her belly as he nodded, determination growing in his eyes as he straightened.

"Yes. Yes. The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the deep one last time!" Hilde nearly couldn't breathe as the words left Théoden's lips. As Gimli's voice rose in vindication, Hilde joined the stream of men dashing down to the stable below the Keep. Horses were saddled and being lead up to the main hall faster than Hilde had ever witnessed. Hilde was headed for Folca when an anxious whicker grabbed her attention. Brytta was looking at her with an intensity she had never seen before, his powerful body quivering with anticipation. In an instant she was before him, holding his pleading gaze. She knew what he wanted, what he was asking her.

He was a warrior too.

"Ride out with me, Brytta," she murmured, already untying the lead holding him in the stall, "Ride with me to battle one last time." With a gentle huff he bumped his forehead against her chest, eager to be released from his stall. Hilde couldn't stop the smile that came to her lips.

In mere moments she was mounted on the back of her father's chestnut stallion, holding him back even as they both longed to charge forward. She was surrounded by other riders, each as anxious as she was. Yet she wasn't afraid. Her fear had somehow been burned out of her with the first rays of the sun. She knew they were all likely to be slaughtered, but she felt some greater purpose tugging at her heart. She felt only peace in that moment. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her father's sword, the blade cleaned of blood and gleaming in the sunlight.

"Fell deeds awake," she heard the King say ahead of her, "now for wrath," the horses shifted in anticipation, each ready for battle as their riders' swords slid from their sheaths, "now for ruin," the King donned his helmet, his voice rising, "and a red dawn!"

In the deep the great horn of Helm Hammerhand sounded, echoing through the stone and into the very bones of the riders. Hilde felt it settle in her chest, coursing through her veins even as her life's blood did. Never had she felt thus. Before them the doors shattered. The King drew his sword, lifting it high.

"Forth Eorlingas!" came the cry from their King and, as one, every horse and rider surged forth, breaking through the Uruks as though they were no more than water. Over their heads the White Horse of Rohan billowed, unbowed against the hoards of Saruman. Around them the Horn of the Hammerhand continued to echo through the fortress and across the valley, bolstering the riders as they fought their way out into the dawn.

The King's company plowed through the Uruks, every sword slashing as they went, every horse bellowing war cries that mingled with those of their riders. Through the Keep, then the Main Gate they charged, clearing the causeway as they made their last stand. Beneath Hilde, Brytta ran with the same purpose and fervour as his rider fought, caught up in the same battle fever. Any pain lingering in her shoulder had vanished with the sound of the fortress' mighty horn as Hilde swung her sword about her, cleaving Uruk limb from body even as those beside her did.

They were out in the expanse before the Fortress, leaving a trail of Uruk corpses in their wake. Around her, the others began to circle, their charge giving way to outright battle. Horses screamed, and men cried out. In moments they were surrounded, Uruk-hai pressing in from every side. But that did not dim the spirits of the riders. They fought on, each and every one of them determined to fight to their last breath.

Off to the side, a wicked pike came thrusting toward Hilde. She automatically made to lift her shield, forgetting that she no longer carried one. Before the pike reached her, though, Brytta reared up, his scream as mighty as any battle cry made by man and his hooves as deadly as any sword. She couldn't help but grin with pride as one well placed kick broke an attacking Uruk's neck and another snapped the pike in two.

But then she felt him stumble, crumpling beneath her. Hilde barely managed to leap from his back as the chestnut crashed to the ground, his strong legs still laying about at the Uruks who pressed forward, bellows of rage coming from his throat. She scrambled to her feet, jerking her dislodged helmet from her head as she did so; she barely noticed its absence. She cried out his name as the swarming Uruks hid the stallion from her sight, but she couldn't dwell; every survival instinct she had pushed her to move. Beside her, another Rider dashed in front of her, shielding her as she lunged for one of the riderless horses, who was fighting on even as his rider no longer fought with him. Feeling the horse still as her hands grasped his reins, he allowed her to clamber up into the saddle. Around them all, the horn still sounded. Hilde could feel her strength beginning to wane, but she was still being carried by the thrill of their charge and the call of the great horn. She was not done just yet, so she kept fighting.

Then something near the crest of the valley's encircling hills caught her eye. At first she thought she had imagined it, but it was a single rider. A White Rider. Then another. As she watched, and as others, even their foes, began to take notice, more riders poured through the gap.

Nearby Théoden let out a cry that carried above the battle, not of pain or anguish, but of elation as a sound akin to thunder vibrated through the valley, a growing chorus of voices wending through the air, growing to a deafening roar. All faces, men and Uruk alike, turned to the East. Hilde's mouth parted in awe.

Driven, it seemed, by the very dawn of the sun, thousands of Rohirrim flew down the mountain, following the White Wizard to shatter the lines of Uruk-hai as though they were nothing but sand. A great victorious cry echoed through the valley as the sun broke over the mountain, flooding the shadowed gorge with light. Were Hilde to describe the sight, she could not have found the words. Around her, she could only watch in wonder as the Uruks staggered, blinded by the brilliance of the sunrise. Tears streamed down her face at the intensity of the light, but she could not look away. She could only laugh in relief.

Around her the remaining King's men joined their voices with the arriving Rohirrim, swarming to the King's side as they rode to join with their avenging countrymen. Again their King's voice carried up over the din, crying out victory as the Riders of Rohan drove the Uruks from the walls of Helm's Deep, sending them fleeing from the pounding hooves of their vanquishers.

It was over, and they had survived to see the light of day spread anew.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

With the softest of smiles the elven healer had risen from Haleth's bedside, laying a hand on Aragorn's shoulder for the briefest of moments before moving away with the gliding grace Hilde had come to associate with the elven race. But in truth, Hilde barely noticed, for as soon as the elf had risen from her brother's bedside the shieldmaiden had taken her place, her fingers brushing against her brother's now warm cheek. Across the cot, Lord Aragorn remained where he was, Haleth's hand still held tenderly in his own as he looked down on the boy with relief.

They sat like that for the longest time, Aragorn watching over Haleth and his sister while Hilde knelt at her brother's side, stroking his golden hair while tears of relief and joy ran down her face. It was finally the Ranger's quiet voice that broke the silence.

"He is lucky," he murmured, his gaze lifting to look at Hilde. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye.

"I keep wondering if I only dream this. I have this fear in my chest that threatens me with waking to find he is gone; that I have lost the only family I still have left." She barely even realized she had spoken the words aloud until a comforting hand came to rest on her shoulder. This time she did look up, meeting Aragorn's sympathetic blue eyes.

"I assure you it is not a dream. He is also lucky to have a sister such as you." A weak laugh escaped Hilde's lips, though there was little humour in it. Her eyes fell from his as shame flooded through her.

"As she lay dying, I promised my mother that I would look after him, that I would protect him. He was such a small babe—but I did my best. I cared for him, I helped my father raise him. On the road from Edoras, I promised my father the same thing; I would protect him. I failed them, Lord Aragorn; I nearly lost him. I nearly forgot him; after the battle, I did not remember to think that he might have been hurt or—as soon as the Uruk-hai fled I should have looked for him and I did not. I failed him..." now it was bitter tears that burned behind her eyes, her guilt rising in her throat to strangle her. On her shoulder Aragorn's fingers tightened, digging into the ache that still lingered there. It was a calculated squeeze, the flash of pain waking her out of the spiral of despair she had set herself on. She met his knowing eyes.

"No, My Lady, you did not. Your will was keeping him alive, of that I am certain. I have seen many men perish of many wounds, here and elsewhere, and I have some knowledge of healing myself; he could easily have perished on the wall from an injury like this, but he did not. You and your father raised a strong lad, and you sat with him here without rest or respite, determined that he not be alone, that he would make it.

"War is a harsh creature that takes many victims; yes it nearly took him, but it did not."

"I still should have been by his side," she murmured, her eyes fixed on Haleth's face. He was so peaceful now that he slept.

"You are the one who fought in the battle," it was a statement more than a question, but Hilde nodded in response anyway, even though he continued regardless. "I wondered for a short time if I was mistaken, but I do recognize you from the Hall; you were there, right before we rode out. You rode with those of us who were left. It didn't hit me that I knew you until your horse fell, and I saw your face." Her eyes lifted to meet his, a faint frown creasing her forehead.

"You do not seem surprised at what I did, though; that I fought alongside the men of my country."

"No. I remember you from Meduseld; you were in the Throne Room the day Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli and I first arrived." There was nothing but regard in his tone, and his eyes sparkled a little with approval, much as they had that day in the throne room. A near laugh tickled her throat.

"I must admit, I am a little surprised that you remember me."

"It is hard to forget one such as you; you were the only one of your people to raise a sword that day." A faint laugh rose in her throat, though it emerged as little more than breathy sigh.

"Yes, I suppose I was."

"That is no small thing, shieldmaiden."

By the time Hilde and Haleth were walking back to the Hornburg, both of them were completely worn out, each leaning heavily on the other. Though Hilde was stubbornly helping Haleth on her own, supporting him as he went, she was privately relieved that Éomer was walking so close behind her. While she was intent on getting back to the Keep under her own power, she could feel her own energy waning.

They were returning from a funeral; the last day had been little but funerals. This one, though, was one that Hilde and Haleth had been loath to miss. The Elf healer's work had been incredible, and the next time Haleth woke he had been near strong enough to walk, especially after getting some good warm food into his belly.

It also meant he was strong enough for Brytta's funeral.

Normally in the case of horses only Mearas were accorded true funerals, but knowing that Háma's loyal mount had been slain saving Hilde's life, Théoden King had deemed Brytta worthy of one. More than that, he deemed it appropriate to mark Háma's death at the same time, for the Doorward's body had been left where it had fallen during the warg attack on the road. For that Hilde and Haleth were grateful. It felt right to lay them to rest together, even if it was only the memory of their father they were burying.

It had been a small funeral, but a dignified one. Hilde and Haleth, of course, had been there, as had Éomer, Éowyn and the King himself. Even Gandalf and Lord Aragorn had attended, along with many from Meduseld who knew the Captain of the Guard well. It was Hilde who sang this time and, though her voice was not so strong or lyrical as her mother's had been, she did not falter. Nor did she weep. She had shed her tears. Instead she was remembering her Father and Brytta with pride and love. As she had sung, one of the King's men, Mérwulf, knelt to cut free a lock from Brytta's tail as per tradition, presenting it carefully wrapped in a length of green cloth to Haleth and Hilde as she had fallen silent.

Haleth had stood quietly at her side with Léofwine clutched in his remaining hand, tears of sorrow on his cheeks; he had not grieved yet as Hilde had, so though he held his chin high and his jaw firm, his tears told everyone of his pain. His eyes told everyone of his pride.

As the last strains of Hilde's song faded, Haleth stepped forward, laying their father's sword in the earth with Brytta; it felt right to do so. The chestnut had been draped with the rich green cloak of the King's Riders, something that pleased Hilde profoundly. As the words had been spoken and as Hilde had sung, Haleth had stood at Hilde's side without support, determined to stand with his own strength to honour Háma and Brytta. But as he returned to her side he leaned heavily against her, his energy waning as he fought the tide of sorrow she could see in his eyes. It was nearly enough to crack through her resolve. On her other side, Éomer reached over, his fingers finding and lacing with hers.

The King's nephew had finally returned to her shortly after Lord Aragorn had taken his leave from Haleth's side. The instant he had murmured her name she had been on her feet, her arms winding around him as news that her brother was to live poured from her lips. He had embraced her back, his expression saying he was as pleased and relieved as she was.

By then the newly arrived party of elven healers had already done great work, and within the Hall the numbers of dying had slowed and the numbers of wounded had diminished. The hall had emptied enough that Éomer had gently lifted Haleth, bringing him back to where Hilde had woken herself, behind the curtain that still stood to separate the female from the male wounded, even though the cots behind the curtain were now all empty. The Marshal had laid the boy on the cot Hilde herself had occupied before insisting that Hilde take the pallet next to him. As the female elves had vacated them, many of the cots themselves had been taken out into the main portion of the hall, leaving only pallets. Hilde had still been refusing sleep, and it had taken Éomer pulling her down to sit at his side to get her to consent to even consider taking her own rest. She had fallen asleep curled against him, her eyes not leaving her brother until her lids had slid shut.

She had only woken when the King appeared to tell her and Haleth of his decision to hold a funeral for Brytta; he had seen Brytta fall himself, and had recognized Hilde as she had pulled herself onto the riderless horse. She had still been leaning against Éomer when she woke, her fingers entwined with his.

As Háma's surviving men set to their task of burying her father's horse, Hilde's fingers had tightened against Éomer's as she fought the wave of grief that rose in her as the earth hid Brytta from sight.

Shortly after they returned to the Hornburg.

The next morning they were set to leave Helm's Deep. Hilde, Haleth, and Éowyn were to be part of the first wave to return to Edoras. The King and Éomer wouldn't follow until later; that they had business in Isengard was all Éomer would tell her.

That evening, as Haleth slept off his grief and regained his strength for the journey home, Hilde sat with Éowyn, talking quietly for the first time in what felt like an age. It felt good, and Hilde felt almost normal again. They spoke of nothing and everything. They both marveled that the sad elven healer's husband had been found alive, even so many days after the battle. Hilde could not help but feel overjoyed at the news; the Sad One, as the elf had come to be known, had been the elf that had saved Haleth. It was a debt that she knew she would never be able to repay, so it pleased her greatly that the good the elf had done for Haleth and innumerable others had, in a way, been repaid. They also spoke of the elves in general, admitting that they likely all owed their lives to the host that had fought with them, and the healers who had followed. Éowyn couldn't help but marvel at their grace and lethality, their dance-like mastery of their weapons.

One thing they did avoid talking of were those who had been lost, for it was still far to near. Eventually Hilde, under a fair bit of pressure from Éowyn, related everything she could remember of the battle. If she could have avoided doing so she would have, but there was something that gleamed in her friend's eyes, a glimmer of longing and aspiration that Hilde hadn't been able to deny.

She also heard for the first time that a group of Uruk-hai had managed to get past the barricades that guarded the Glittering Caves. By that time the people sheltering there had begun moving deeper into the caves toward the far passages, meaning that many of the shieldmaidens had moved along with them. If it hadn't been for Éowyn, who had lingered near the entrance to the caves...Hilde shuddered to think of what might have happened. Rohan's White Lady had nearly single-handedly held the detachment of Uruk-hai back until the other shieldmaidens had learned of the threat. Hilde was proud of her friend, though she could see by the set of Éowyn's mouth that she thought little of her own role in protecting the most vulnerable among them; she was pleased with herself, it was true, but she still craved the valor of true battle.

Even after having seen battle Hilde found she craved it still, even after witnessing only a glimpse the horrors and anguish of war. She was no fool; she knew she should wish never to see battle again. Yet still she longed for it with the same fierce will that she saw in Éowyn's eyes.

And that thought scared her.

That evening Hilde again took the pallet next to Haleth's cot, though she could not seem to sleep. She was bone tired and knew there was a hard march ahead of them, but still sleep would not come. So instead she watched her brother sleep. Though there was no doubt now that he would survive, she still worried, wondering if his fortune was too good to be true.

She was startled from her thoughts by a faint rustle beyond the curtain, but before she could really react Éomer's familiar form ducked into view. With a sigh of relief she shifted over, making room on the pallet for him to sit next to her. He was obviously on the verge of retiring for the night himself, his frame bare of his armour and mail. An involuntary flush rose to Hilde's cheeks. She was so used to seeing him in it that it seemed a part of him; it felt strangely intimate seeing him in only his shirt and breeches.

"It feels like everything has changed since we left Meduseld," she finally said, leaning against Éomer as her arm circled around his waist and his around hers, "it will never be the same." She could feel him nodding in agreement.

"I never thought I would leave the Golden Hall in exile and return the Heir. Nor that so many would not be there when I returned," he responded quietly, threads of sorrow wending through his tone. She knew precisely what he meant. There was never a time in her memory when her Father had not been as much a part of Meduseld as the King himself. And she was still struggling with the reality that Théodred would not be there when they returned. Not to mention the dozens of others who would never return; Fréamund the healer; Guthold, the Master of the King's Stables; Wéland, the blacksmith that served the Golden Hall; Ecgláf, the farmer who often grew food for the King's table; Láfwine, one of Haleth's friends and son of one of the King's guards; the list was far too long.

"It still does not seem real. I keep expecting my father to come around the curtain, worried about Haleth and relieved that he will be well. And part of me half-expected Théodred to be riding with you and the Rohirrim, even though I helped lay him in the Tombs myself." Beside her Éomer stiffened a little. She looked up at him in concern. She knew how close he had been to his cousin. "I am sorry, Éomer, that you were not there. It must be hard, not having had a proper farewell." His arm squeezed her closer in response.

"It is. He was a brother to me, more than a cousin. But I have made my peace with his death; saying goodbye from afar is always necessary in war, though one of the hardest lessons to learn." he hesitated, eventually looking down at her with wariness, "what was harder was realizing the possibility that, even in death, it would be Théodred you would still be bound to." She started, her eyes going wide.

"What do you mean?"

"You were always at my cousin's side, Hilde, and I knew he loved you. He told me. He even told me of his will to marry you. No matter that I—" he couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. Hilde was transfixed by the swirl of emotion in his eyes, though he would not meet her gaze.

"He was my friend, Éomer, nearly my brother."

"But can you deny that you would have wed him if he'd asked?" There was a bitterness to his tone that made her stomach flop unpleasantly. She didn't have an answer for him, not a certain one.

"I don't know."

"Yet you loved him."

"Once I thought I could, but—" Now it was Hilde who couldn't finish.

"Is that why you went with him?" Hilde froze, first out of confusion then piercing realization, dismay pooling in her stomach at his question. The bitterness had come to sound distressingly like despondency. It startled her; she had never heard him sound thus.

"You saw that." She hated how drained and emotionless her voice sounded. But she couldn't help it. It felt like a mountain was sitting on her chest. He was looking down at her, his expression once again unreadable. Obviously he had seen her that night, leaving the Hall with Théodred. The memory came unbidden to the forefront of her mind. A Yule feast years ago, with free-flowing ale and intoxicating kisses. She remembered Théodred taking her hand, and both of them stumbling from the Hall, all inhibition and thought clouded by the heady ale. She had thought she loved him then.

"I was sixteen, Éomer. I didn't know what I wanted. I thought I knew but I didn't."

"I knew what I wanted, and after that night I knew I couldn't have it. I could see that Théodred would never willingly let you go after that night." A flicker of annoyance sparked in her belly at his words.

"And what of my will?" the sharpness of her words startled the old frustration from his features. "You speak of Théodred's feelings for me, but you haven't stopped to consider mine. It was not long after that night that I knew I could not truly love him, not the way either of us deserved, not as a wife should love her husband. Yes, I thought I loved him for a time, but had you stepped forward, tried to win my affections?" Distress clouded his eyes as he dropped her gaze, but she reached up, her hand cupping his bearded cheek as she turned him back to face her; in that moment it all became clear to her.

"It would have hurt me to hurt him, but I would not have hesitated. I would have chosen you." Before he could respond she pulled him down to her, pressing her lips to his. At first his entire body tensed in shock as she kissed him, but then his arms wound around her, pulling her closer as he kissed her back. By the time they pulled apart his fingers were tangled in her red-gold hair as her hands were seized in his tunic, both starved for air.

"You said once that you might have to marry me," she murmured against his lips, a hesitant though mischievous smile grew on her face, "do you still intend to do so? Do you wish it?" He pulled back, his eyes locking with hers in surprise. Even in the dim light of the Hall she could see a faint flush rising to his cheeks.

"You remember that?" She leaned forward, leaving a soft kiss on his lips before answering.

"You gave me my first kiss that day; I remember every detail." He smiled broadly, laughing quietly as he placed his own kiss against her mouth before gathering her into a tight embrace. She liked him like this, merry as opposed to stoic and grim as he had become in recent years. His serious nature made his smiles seem all the more precious to her. Content, she nestled herself against him.

"You have no idea how much I have wished it," he murmured.

Chapter Text

It had been years since the Golden Hall had been so full. There were people crowded into every possible nook and cranny. The tables were piled high with food and a great pig was roasting over the central hearth. The walls were draped with the finest tapestries and flags, each bearing the dancing White Horse or gleaming Sun of the Mark while torches bathed the hall in warm light. The air was thick with the scent of bodies, smoke and roasting meat. Everywhere, everyone held cups and tankards of ale, each and every one of them focused on the King and his niece.

Hilde sat among the crowd gathered for the Victory Feast in Meduseld, one of the few whose eyes kept darting elsewhere. Éomer stood next to Théoden, for once not wearing his armour, but a simple green and brown leather tunic. Hilde wondered at the faintly unsettled look in his eyes, though his stance and face betrayed nothing; it still had not completely sunk in that he was to be Rohan's next King, and he chafed a little at taking what he still considered to be Théodred's place. Every now and then she would meet his gaze, a smile coming to her lips as his eyes latched onto hers.

Thus far, only Haleth and Éowyn knew of their pledge; neither Hilde nor Éomer could bear to keep their decision from their siblings. As for everyone else, they wanted to wait until after the feast to share the news. The feast was for the memory of the dead and for the living to celebrate victory. They had no desire to diminish that.

At the head of the hall, Éowyn was climbing the steps of the dais. Kneeling, she offered the goblet she held to the King before moving to stand on his other side. His face somber, Théoden looked down into the goblet in his hands. Then, with a deep breath he raised his eyes, surveying those assembled as he held the goblet out before him. Everyone in the hall who was sitting rose to their feet.

"Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country," he said, the faintest of wavers colouring his tone with sorrow. Hilde fought back her own tide of sorrow that threatened as the King raised his goblet in toast. Forcing a deep breath into her lungs, Hilde raised hers as everyone else in the Hall did the same. Glancing beside her, she met Haleth's eyes. His dark gaze held the same flicker of grief and haze of memory she was sure her own did. Up on the dais, the King continued, his voice rising. "Hail the victorious dead!"

As one, the entire Hall responded, male and female voices exclaiming together before cups were lifted to lips and everyone drank heartily. Then, with a roar of clattering tableware and grinding benches and chairs, the occupants of the Hall began their feast. Hilde couldn't help but smile; in Rohan somber remembrance always gave way to near riotous celebration, and she loved it. The people of her country had always believed that sorrow must always give way to, and indeed merited, merrymaking. Loss always made life look sweeter.

Before long instruments were broken out and songs began chorusing loudly around the hall, clashing and joining in ways that never managed to be unpleasant. Laughter and shouts echoed across tables and everywhere ale flowed freely. For the first part of the feast, Hilde stayed with Haleth, sitting near him and a few of the other families of Meduseld. There had been few words to describe the relief Hilde had felt when she learned a handful of the boys of Meduseld had survived the battle of the Hornburg; she had feared her brother would be alone among his friends to have survived. So eventually she left the boys—and handful of girls, she noticed wryly—to themselves, all laughing again as she had feared they couldn't. A few watchful mothers and the odd father remained nearby, one giving Hilde an amused nod of reassurance as he caught Hilde repeatedly glancing back toward her little brother. Finally laughing quietly at her own surge of protectiveness, she moved off into the crowd, intent on finding her own companions, claiming a fresh mug of ale as she went.

She finally began edging toward a particularly large gathering near the southwest corner of the Hall, where some particularly loud carousing was growing. As she neared, the particular shouts and cheers made her realize that a drinking game had broken out. As she jostled her way through the gathered men and women toward the centre of the gathering, she discovered with no small amount of amusement that it was between the dwarf and the elf. Already a small pile of tankards had begun collecting before the two companions, Gimli enthusiastically throwing himself into the contest while the elf was somehow patiently matching him cup for cup. She couldn't help but smile widely when she caught Éomer's eye where he leaned against the ale cask; he was overseeing the contest, handing the elf and the dwarf full cups as fast as they were emptying them. Judging by the way his eyes twinkled at her, and the near empty cup in his hand, her horselord had already had a couple himself.

Even when he turned back to the cask, handing the dwarf yet another cup, her eyes stayed on him. She couldn't help but watch him appreciatively; he was a fine specimen of a man, well muscled and strong with dark blond hair that gleamed like burnished gold in the low light. The simple cut of his tunic somehow only emphasized his height and the broadness of his shoulders, while the colour intensified the dark green eyes that made her breath catch. More than that he was a good man. He was bold, fierce and true like many men of Rohan—though perhaps not so merry as many upon first meeting him—with a due pride that came from being a Marshal of the Mark and one of their land's greatest fighters. But beneath that was a man with a kind and generous spirit, who loved his sister and his uncle dearly, and a man who looked on her with tenderness, admiration and respect. Her heart fluttered like a young girl's when she realized with a flash of true understanding that she was actually going to marry this man.

And she was not the only one eyeing the King's nephew appreciatively. Many of the young women scattered through the crowd were watching Éomer with equal admiration, and every now and then one would try her luck, edging forward with a coy glance, a seductive touch or an enticing murmur. But every time one of them tried, Éomer brushed them off, barely seeming to notice their advances. That pleased Hilde to no end...but that didn't stop the jealous urge to teach them not to make moves on her man from heating the blood in her veins.

As she watched the game, an arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her down into a waiting lap. A flicker of annoyance surfaced in her. Instantly Hilde was ready to fend off the amorous advance—she had already fended of a few on her way over to where the game was being held—and deftly twisted out of the man's arms, before dumping what ale remained in her cup over his head when he tried to pull her back to him. A loud chorus of laughter rang around her as she twitched her blue skirts out of his grasping fingers. Glancing back over at her betrothed she felt a pleased blush rising to her cheeks. As the rider had grabbed at her, Éomer's face had darkened and he took an unconscious and aggressive step forward. Now, as she flicked the spilled drops of ale from her fingers, his expression had cleared, one of pride surfacing on his features as he laughed along with the others around them. His eyes dancing with mirth and pride, he filled another cup, this time handing it to her. His gaze didn't leave hers as she accepted it, a grin playing about her own lips as she took a long drink. She'd had a fair bit to drink already, and the room was starting to glow.

"Aarrr! It's to dwarves that go swimming with little hairy women, eh-ha," Gimli's gruff, and very drunk, laugh sounded amid boisterous laughter, followed by a loud belch that invariably drew cheers from some of the equally drunk men who were gathered around him. It was enough to break the spell growing between the shieldmaiden and the horselord as their gazes had locked. Hilde couldn't help but laugh along with the rowdy onlookers as Gimli eagerly reached for another cup. The dwarf was a favourite among the crowd, but though Hilde was rooting for him herself, she couldn't help but think the elf was going to win. He seemed just as calm and poised as ever.

All eyes were suddenly on Legolas as he hesitated in reaching for his next cup, looking at his fingers in troubled wonder.

"I feel something, a slight tingle in my fingers," he said quietly. Across from him Éomer's eyebrows rose probingly, his expression echoing the bewilderment around them; Hilde was desperately trying to stifle her laughter. The elf glanced between Éomer and Gimli, his expression one of deep concern. "I think it's affecting me." Beside him Gimli rumbled with drunken amusement.

"What did I say," he slurred, drawing more laughs, "He can't hold his liq..." The entire crowd positively howled as the dwarf's eyes crossed before he keeled over completely. With the most amusingly mild look of surprise, Legolas' gaze shifted from his unconscious friend over to Éomer, who was himself stifling his laughter.

"Game over," the elf shrugged, the barest hint of a smile coming to his features. Of course, that only sparked more uproarious laughter before the crowd began to move on. Unfortunately, no matter how she tried, Hilde somehow got dragged along with the crowd, losing sight of Éomer where he and the elf were picking up the dwarf from where he had fallen. Somewhere along the way she had lost her nearly empty cup.

A few tables over, the Halflings that had been retrieved from Isengard were rousing the crowd with a high-spirited song and dance, drawing the crowd from the drinking game. Hilde had never seen a Shireling before Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took had accompanied the King's party back from Saruman's fortress. In fact, though she had heard of them in tales, she wasn't entirely sure she had even believed they were a real people. But, like everyone else, upon meeting them she had liked them almost immediately. They were such endearingly good-natured little folk, and were almost impossibly lively. It wasn't long before she was joining everyone else in clapping along with their energetic tune.

She was enjoying herself so much that she almost didn't immediately notice when someone grabbed her arm, pulling her over to one of the more shadowed corners before falling back onto an empty chair, drawing her into his lap as he went. Grumbling with exasperation, she struggled for a moment before she realized just whom she was being pulled up against. With a smile and a lightly annoyed swat she settled herself on Éomer's knee, her own arms finding their way around his neck.

"You are lucky I lost my mug of ale, horse-master. Or you would be covered in it right now." Éomer laughed, holding the cup he held in his hand teasingly before her before taking a slow, taunting drink. Of course she played along, grabbing at the cup, giggling a little when some of the dark brew sloshed over the edge. He was too fast though, pulling it out of her reach. What he didn't expect was for her to lean forward and place a hard kiss on his lips. Thus distracted, she easily snatched the cup from his fingers, pulling away to drink with a triumphant laugh.

"That was not very nice, Hilde," he chuckled, reaching to retrieve it, but this time she was the one snatching it back before he could grab it, grinning wickedly. His eyes darkened as she teased him by taking another drink from his stolen mug, his hold on her waist tightening. Her breath hitched. Before she knew it his hand was fisted in her hair, his mouth was on hers and she was hungrily kissing him back, her own fingers tangling themselves in his hair as she pressed herself closer.

The cup of ale was quickly forgotten, falling to the floor with a dull thud, its remaining contents sloshing over the floor.

The Hall was nearly empty as the King stood in conference with Éomer, Gandalf, Aragorn and the others the morning after the Victory Feast. Hilde knew she wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping in such a manner, but she was curious what was going on.

It had been early when Théoden himself had woken Éomer, insisting that he come to the Hall at once. That it was something important went unsaid; he hadn't even spared Hilde a glance where she lay tucked against Éomer's side. As the king strode out of his nephew's room she had met Éomer's gaze with concern; that the Marshal was as startled at the King's behavior as she was was clearly written in his eyes. He hadn't wasted a moment. As soon as he was dressed he had left her with a kiss, urging her to go back to sleep saying that it was likely nothing. Hilde had wanted to believe him, but he was barely gone before she was dressing herself, following him to the Main Hall, stepping over sleeping bodies as she went; it seemed almost every bit of floor space was taken after the revels of the night before. He shot her a disapproving look when he caught sight of her behind him, but said nothing beyond a warning to stay out of sight.

In the Hall, Gandalf was already speaking quietly to the King and the others. Before she and Éomer had even reached it they could just make out his voice. With a gentle squeeze of her fingers, Éomer stepped around the corner, joining his uncle. Hilde waited a moment before moving forward herself, peeking around the column in whose shadow she hid.

"Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat at Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing. He knows the Heir of Elendil has come forth," Hilde frowned for an instant at the wizard's words, something niggling at her memory as Gandalf nodded toward Lord Aragorn. "Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still; strength enough, perhaps, to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the peoples of Middle Earth uniting under one banner. He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a King return to the throne of men." Hilde had to quickly stifle a gasp at what Gandalf said sank in, her eyes widening in shock not just at the new threat against Gondor.

The Heir of Elendil, the Heir to the Throne of Gondor. Aragorn was the Heir to Gondor's Throne. No one else seemed surprised by the wizard's statement; they must all have known already. She caught sight of Éomer glancing in her direction for the briefest of moments from where he stood near Théoden. A part of her wondered why he hadn't told her, but then common sense took over; of course he wouldn't have. If Aragorn's lineage was meant to be general knowledge, he would have been introduced to all as the Heir of Elendil. No. It had not been Éomer's secret to tell, Hilde concluded. Out in the Hall Gandalf had turned to Théoden.

"If the beacons of Gondor are lit Rohan must be ready for war." Hilde's heart began to thrum in her chest. As much as she had hoped their part in this war was over, Hilde had known in her heart that such a thing was impossible. She found herself unconsciously nodding in agreement with the wizard; it was the right thing to do. She could see in the way Éomer straightened that he accepted such a reality himself. Théoden turned, fixing the White Wizard with a questioning glance. Something Hilde didn't like swirled in his eyes as he did; bitterness.

"Tell me, why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?" Hilde's jaw dropped. At first she thought she had heard wrong. Could he have really just said that? Around the King the others watched him with similar disbelief, save the wizard; Gandalf watched Théoden with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. The casual resentment in the King's tone stunned her. She couldn't listen anymore, and stumbled away from the Hall.

Chapter Text

It was usually Éowyn who stood on the terrace of Meduseld, staring out over Edoras and the valley beyond, deep in thought. Normally, Hilde might have considered her unintentional mimicry of her friend amusing, but she was in no such mood.

Her thoughts were in turmoil. Could it have only been the night before that she, Éomer and all of Edoras had celebrated their hard-won victory? Already so much seemed to have changed. From where she stood she had watched as the White Rider had departed Edoras for Minas Tirith, one of the halflings riding with him. It had come as a small relief; at least Gondor would know how close they were to war. She could not believe Théoden would shy away from battle in the way he was. It was petty, the way he had spoken of ignoring Gondor because they had not come to aid Rohan. She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice when the King himself joined her.

"I hear you and Éomer plan to be wed," he said quietly, startling Hilde from her trance. Éomer must have told him. The shieldmaiden whirled to face him, not sure what to expect in his face. It was hard to read what he felt in that moment, though she could pick out a shadow of approval, as well as sorrow. She nodded her confirmation. A faint pleased smile came to his face.

"It would seem that you are destined to become Queen of Rohan, Hilde. At one time I believed you would marry my son, and now you are to be joined with my nephew, who is—who is now to be King once I am gone." He hesitated a little, struggling for a moment with admitting that Éomer, and not Théodred, was to be the next King. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I must confess that such news does not surprise me, nor does it displease me. I have noticed your affection for each other for a long time now. That you have decided to marry pleases me. Éomer is a good man. I am sure your father would approve. He would be happy for you," he finished gently. A faint smile of her own had come to her lips as a he spoke.

"I must admit, I have given little thought to ever being Queen, My Lord. It was never a dream of mine. I have only ever wanted to find a man I could love to marry. And I have found that in your nephew." They stood quietly together for a few moments before Hilde decided that she had to speak her mind.

"I am sorry, My Lord, but...how can you not agree to ride to Gondor?" she said quietly, her eyes turning to search the King's face as she did. His expression shifted.

"You followed Éomer to the Hall this morning." Hilde dropped her gaze for a moment, a faint flush of shame rising to her cheeks. But she was not sorry she asked, and raised her brown eyes back to meet his. At first he didn't say anything, turning to look out over the expanse that surrounded Edoras.

"Gondor will not fall, Hilde. Lord Denethor will guard his City to the last. He will not let it fall." Hilde stared at him with incredulous dismay.

"That is no guarantee. What happens if it does fall, what then? What happens when the legions of Mordor come knocking at the gates of Edoras? My Lord, we barely survived the Battle of Helm's Deep, and we had the Rohirrim to ride in and save us at the last. We had the elves come to our aid. There is nothing between Mordor and The Mark save Gondor. Should Minas Tirith fall Mordor's forces will only move west. The Dark Lord will not ignore us. Every whisper I have heard says that as compared to the army that grows in Mordor, Isengard's forces were nothing. Sauron has his armies of orcs, the Nazgul; it is whispered that he has Haradrim allies, Corsairs. Should Gondor fall we will be left to face the might of Mordor alone. They will rip through the Riddermark and crush us. There will be no Rohirrim to ride in as we lay surrounded, no elves. We will be alone, and then we will fall. And then there will be no one left.

"And then the darkness will have won," she finished quietly, unintentional despair colouring her tone. She hadn't thought such a speech was in her, but it had all poured out before she could stop it. Théoden looked to her then, his expression guarded despite the riot of emotions in his eyes. Silently he turned to walk away.

"We cannot let them stand alone," she pleaded, trying one last time. Théoden hesitated as she spoke, nearly turning back to face her, before striding into the Hall. Tears of defeat prickled in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She turned, watching her King retreat back into the Golden Hall, brushing past Éomer as he disappeared into the shadowed entrance. As his uncle passed, Éomer's brow creased into a frown, his gaze questioning her silently when he turned to Hilde. She could only shake her head in frustrated response, turning back to the vista before her.

After a moment she heard Éomer come to stand beside her, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. With a heavy sigh she leaned into him.

"Marry me, Hilde," his quiet voice was thoughtful as it broke the silence. She turned to face him, a faint playful smile on her lips.

"I thought we had already agreed to that?" Her smile faded a little at the serious expression on his face. "What is it?" He drew in a deep breath, obviously debating the right way to say what he meant. His hands came up to rest on her arms, his thumbs brushing against her shoulders. A faint shiver went through her at the sensation. Instinctively her own hands rose to rest on his arms, her fingers gripping the fabric of his tunic.

"War is coming, Hilde. My uncle will come around. The Rohirrim will ride to Gondor. But many won't come back...I want you to be my wife, that I may at least have had some time as your husband..." What he didn't say hung between them, but she knew exactly what he meant; if the worst should happen. Hilde felt all the blood leave her face. It was a fear that had been growing in her belly since Gandalf had first spoken of Gondor's danger.

"You will come back, Éomer." Inwardly she marvelled at how confident she sounded, how sure. A corner of his mouth quirked up. Leaning forward he placed a quick kiss against her hairline before resting his forehead against hers. One of his hands came to cup her cheek.

"I want to marry you before I go." She drew back a little, firmly meeting his gaze. His brow furrowed again as he realized what that look meant. He cut her off even as her mouth parted to speak.

"Hilde, no. You can't ride with us." A stubborn light appeared in her eyes, and Éomer didn't miss the flicker of resentment she pushed aside.

"Why not, you know as well as I that I can fight. I held my own at Helm's Deep, you know I did. You know I am more than capable." But he was shaking his head, his fingers tightening painfully on her arm as a flash of panic appeared for a split second on his face. It was enough to startle Hilde from the anger growing in her chest.

"No, love. I don't want you on that battlefield. I need to know you are here, safe. I couldn't bear—" his mouth snapped shut, trapping his fear behind his teeth before he could say it aloud. Hilde sighed. She knew she couldn't deny him this when it obviously distressed him so. But she still couldn't quite let it go so easily.

"Would you stay behind if I asked?" she said quietly, her own fear threading through her voice. A sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh escaped his throat.

"If it were just my honour, were it any other battle, Hilde, for you I might. But we both know why I must go." A sigh escaped her then; she didn't want to fight him. She took a step forward into the circle of his arms, her hand rising to cup his own cheek as she looked into his dark green eyes.

"Then I will marry you before you go, but only if you promise to come back when the fighting is done." His breath shook with barely suppressed relief as he exhaled, his arms tightening around her.

While Hilde's father had been the Doorward of Meduseld and a Captain of the King's Guard, her mother Eagyd had been one of the ones to run the Golden Hall, helping oversee food supplies, labour management, and to provide guidance and oversight to the many intricate parts that kept the King's Hall running; a administrator of sorts, one could say. Quite often she had taken up the tasks and responsibilities usually reserved for the Queen of the Mark; of course, since Théoden had not remarried after his wife Elfhild died birthing their son, the Golden Hall had no queen.

Though she was not terribly fond of such things, when she had been old enough, Hilde had taken a place in the court very similar to her mother's role, having learned a little about some of the roles at Eagyd's side. Similarly, Éowyn had also been taken under Eagyd's wing, learning alongside Hilde for a short time. Many of the Queen's duties had ultimately fallen to Éowyn, being the King's only female relation, but Hilde had taken on some of them as well over the years given that her mother had done so and had been teaching Hilde to do so before she had died.

So it was that on her first morning as a wife, Hilde found herself tending to some of the duties she had been looking to for years already. She sat in the Great Hall with the stewards and keepers of the Hall, going over supply lists and discussing general upkeep. In some respects, it was a lucky thing that she had already held such responsibilities for a time, for now that she was Éomer's wife and Éomer was set to inherit his Uncle's throne, Meduseld was going to officially be under her care in years to come. Because she had looked to many of the Queen's duties already, there really wasn't much for her to learn when it came to running the King's Hall. The Golden Hall was to have a Queen's care again, and she was going to be that Queen.

Hilde still couldn't quite believe it. It had been less than a week since Éomer had asked that they marry before things were decided about Rohan's place in the coming war. The Victory Feast had only been the day before that. When dawn came on this day, she had woken beside her husband, still not quite believing that it was more than a dream. The King had been startled when they had approached him about arranging a quick, quiet ceremony but had acquiesced without reserve, though he pointed out that they might have to hold a larger celebratory feast than they could manage at present later on to mark the occasion for more political reasons. Hilde had wondered then if some of what she had said to him earlier had gotten through to him, for as they spoke, the King had been looking at her with a sort of consideration that seemed out of place with talk of weddings.

It was only yesterday that she and Éomer had been married. It had been a simple affair. Hilde had worn her best blue dress and Éowyn had woven a few snow-white simbelmynë into her vibrant hair, smiling knowingly when Hilde grew emotional at the sight of the pale flowers. It felt right, though, to be wearing the blooms of remembrance and those who were gone. To her it felt like she was carrying the memory of those who were lost with her. Very few had been present; only Éowyn, Haleth, the King and a few others they were close to in the Golden Hall had attended. Éomer had stood at her side, her fingers woven tightly with his. He had looked positively regal in his new tunic, a rich near-black green with gold and red embroidery about the collar, his long golden hair freshly brushed and tied neatly back from his face; he truly looked every inch like the next King of Rohan. Hilde had barely noticed that, though. She had been caught up instead in the intensity of the love in his eyes and the elated smile tugging at his lips. It had set her heart racing. What she had gotten on that day was all Hilde needed for her wedding. A part of her was quite happy that it was such a small event; it belonged just to them, that way.

Hilde sighed heavily, reluctantly pushing the memory aside, absently brushing her hair out of her face as she tried to reconcile the information she was being bombarded with instead...she would far rather be basking in the memory of her wedding day. The exodus to Helm's Deep and subsequent return to Edoras had severely complicated things that should have been quite easy to deal with, like the aftermath of the Victory Feast or preparing for a potential impending muster. Across the Hall Théoden was gathered with Gamling and two of his advisors, Orwold and Déyall, taking stock of the damage wreaked by Isengard and looking to defenses and strategy should Rohan face another attack. Elsewhere around the Hall, men and women went about their work, some for the Hall, some for Edoras and Rohan in general. Officials and Merchants milled about, waiting for some time with the King. Behind her she could hear Éomer speaking quietly with Éothain, his second-in-command. For some reason it helped her relax knowing he was close by. Yet even with so many people about, all was quiet.

Nearly everyone in the Hall jumped when the Main Doors opened with a thunderous crash. Eyes all over the Hall were drawn to Aragorn as he burst into the Hall, flushed and out of breath with a wild look about him.

"The Beacons of Minas Tirith!" He barreled through the Hall, shouting as he went. "The Beacons are lit!" Eyes wide as she spun to see what the commotion was about, Hilde was too stunned to even rise from her seat, her gaze flying to meet Éomer's for a split second before being drawn back to the Ranger. As Aragorn came to a sudden halt before the King, Hilde felt Éomer come to stand beside her, a hand coming to rest protectively on her shoulder.

"Gondor calls for aid," the Ranger blurted out, looking less composed than Hilde had ever seen him in the short time she'd known him. All eyes turned to the King, especially Hilde and Éomer's. Théoden's expression was guarded, his brow creasing slightly with thought. Hilde nearly forgot to breathe. The moment dragged on, the entire Hall silent as they waited on their King's response. Hilde glanced briefly around at the sound of Éowyn rushing into the Hall to stand beside her brother; she must have heard Aragorn's shouts. The two friends looked to each other for a moment before looking expectantly to Théoden. The King's gaze lifted, clearing as he met Aragorn's anxious eyes.

"And Rohan will answer." A sudden fierce resolve had appeared on Théoden's face. Nearly the entire Hall exhaled with acceptance as Théoden spoke. Hilde's own pent-up breath nearly felt like it was crushed from her chest. Relief flooded her that Rohan was not going to sit back and watch Gondor fall, but at the same time the gravity of what Théoden's proclamation meant descended on her like a great weight. Trepidation began pooling in her belly. Éomer's hand tightened on Hilde's shoulder as she reached up to cover his fingers with her own.

Across the Hall the King straightened, looking determinedly ahead as he called for a muster. As the order echoed through the hall both Hilde and Éowyn's gazes were drawn to their husband and brother. Between them, Éomer's head dipped in a sharp nod in the King's direction before he turned, sparing Hilde and his sister each a quick glance before he made his way from the Hall. His eyes were grave, Hilde couldn't help but notice as he laid a quick hand on Éowyn's shoulder as he moved past her. Reserved but pleased. It was a dark sort of relief that had flooded through the Hall, she realized with a pang. As the King's Heir strode through the doors, calling out orders as he went, Hilde stood, her eyes again meeting Éowyn's as the Hall around them burst into action. Without consciously thinking to do so, they both reached out, grasping each other's hand tightly for a measure of reassurance.

As Éowyn's eyes scanned the now bustling Hall, Hilde found her own gaze shifting to look at the King. She was startled to find he was already looking at her, a flicker of something she didn't recognize in his eyes. It was only when he discreetly nodded his head to her did she realize what it was.

Thanks.

The anxiety in Hilde's stomach churned.

Chapter Text

As was to be expected, the muster threw Edoras into chaos. Men and horses weaved and charged in every which way. All over the city armour was donned and saddles were adjusted while last minute swords were sharpened and old bowstrings replaced. The Armoury was a headache-inducing beehive of activity and the stables were even worse. Yet it was such a purposed chaos that even despite the apparent disorder everyone moved with efficiency.

For the first time Hilde was helping Éomer with his preparations. It was familiar and reassuring in a way. As the woman of the family, she had periodically helped her father as he readied for battle; tightening straps and holding pieces of armour in place that one pair of hands couldn't quite manage alone, collecting up assorted weapons and supplies, making sure he didn't forget anything important. She had always supposed that she would one day help her husband prepare for battle, and she had always resolved to do so with pride. But she had never dreamed that she would be doing so barely a day into her marriage. The realization weighed like a stone in her gut...so much so that every now and then she caught her hands trembling.

She had taken a moment to gather up some odds of her own for the journey to Dunharrow when she heard Éomer step through the doorway of their room. Most of her belongings were still in her father's old house, so there was little of hers just yet for her to search through; there hadn't been the time yet to do much more than think on their living arrangements, and she hadn't yet been able to bring herself to return to her father's house, the pain was still too near, so she had been staying with Éomer in Meduseld. He just stood there for a moment watching her, his eyes fixing with concern at the anxious shaking she was struggling to tamp down. As soon as she heard him she turned. Without saying a word he stepped forward, catching up her fingers in his.

For a moment she could only stare at the way his hands held hers. Compared to his gloved hands, her long fingers, rough from years drawing a bow and wielding a sword and still marked by a few nearly healed scrapes, seemed almost small and delicate. But then she lifted her eyes to his, her own gaze steady. She was strong, and thus she would not allow herself to waver. Still, he looked down at her with concern for another moment before placing a brief kiss against her brow as he turned to search for the last few odds and ends he needed. Repressing the sudden urge to cry—an impulse for which she was not at all impressed with herself—Hilde turned back to what she had been doing, studiously ignoring the way her new husband's concerned eyes followed her.

Even later, as she saddled Folca with Haleth's help, she swore she could feel Éomer's gaze even across the stableyard. This time, she allowed herself to stare back. Even before, when it had been secret feelings alone that she harboured for the King's nephew, she had been unable to help but stare when he was about to ride out to battle. There was an unconquerable confidence about him when he sat on Firefoot in full mail and armour, a sort of legendary nobility to his bearing that always reminded her of the Warrior Kings of Old from her father's stories. Her heart thrummed with a girlish pleasure that she couldn't control when he shot her a faint smile before turning to survey his gathering men.

Not far away from Hilde, Lord Aragorn was adjusting the last few straps of Brego's tack, his back to the shieldmaiden. He only looked up when he caught sight of Éowyn leading Windfola out of the stables, halting her chestnut between him and Hilde. He paused what he was doing, looking over to see Hilde standing just beyond the King's niece. A questioning frown appeared on his face.

"Do you ride with us?" He finally said, his voice barely making it over the noise of the stableyard. Over her horse's back, Éowyn briefly caught Hilde's eye, sending her friend, now sister, a faint reassuring smile, one that Hilde sent back. They had both done this before; sent the men in their lives off to war. Only this time, instead of farewelling her father, Hilde was about to farewell her husband. The stone of dread in her stomach churned again.

"Just to the Encampment," the King's niece said, half-turning to Aragorn as she began her own check of Windfola's trappings.

"It is tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men," Hilde added at the confusion that had appeared on the Ranger's face. Understanding flickered in his eyes before something else caught his attention. From where she stood, Hilde couldn't see what he reached for on Éowyn's saddle, but she didn't miss the hurried way Éowyn snatched at whatever he had seen. Whatever she said to him next, Hilde couldn't hear, but the concerned look that appeared on Aragorn's face did nothing to lighten the dread Hilde was still fighting. Her pale face set, Éowyn pulled Windfola forward, leaving Hilde and Aragorn behind to exchange looks. He sent her a quick smile, though it didn't erase the unease in his eyes.

"I heard about you and Lord Éomer, Lady Hilde. I offer you my congratulations." Despite her grim mood, it drew a smile to Hilde's face.

"Thank you, My Lord," she responded simply, gathering her skirts in preparation to mount. At Folca's head, Haleth was speaking quietly to the bay. He was still adjusting to only having one arm, and was having trouble keeping the excited horse steady as Hilde finished her adjustments. Reaching over, Aragorn grabbed hold of Folca's reins, helping to steady the eager bay as Hilde hoisted herself into the saddle. She was about to say something else when she caught sight of the same concerned look on his face he'd had with Éowyn a moment before. Looking down to what had caught his eye, she realized he was looking at her sword and bow where she had attached them to her saddle.

"You plan to fight this time too, My Lady?" he asked probingly, his tone lighter than his meaning. Reluctantly Hilde shook her head.

"I am a shieldmaiden, Lord Aragorn. I am always prepared to fight," she said quietly, "But, no. This time I do not." Not only had Éomer asked that she stay behind from the battle, Théoden had approached her about it as well.

"I need you to stay in Edoras with Éowyn," he had said quietly while the Hall around them had sprung into action after his pronouncement. Éowyn had just left her side and Hilde had been about to leave the Main Hall herself when the King had walked purposefully over to her.

She had been a little surprised that Théoden had singled her out, and even more so when he cut off her protestations. But he had laid a hand on her shoulder, his voice grave as he spoke.

"This battle is far from a sure thing, much like the Hornburg. Rohan will need leadership should Éomer and I fall," she had barely been able to withhold a sound of alarm when he had spoken so bluntly of such a possibility. But he had continued unnoticing, "If you already carry Éomer's child, your babe will be next in line, and you would rule until he is old enough should neither of us return. Éowyn will help you should that come to pass, I am certain. But if you are not pregnant, Éowyn is the next Heir, and she will need your help. Either way, together the two of you must protect our country, our people. From whatever comes." Hilde had felt her cheeks burn and then pale as her King, now uncle as well, had spoken so directly. But through it all, the dread that had been sparked with the muster had solidified into icy hands that had clenched themselves around her heart. She hadn't even had time to process that any children she bore would be Éomer's, much less consider that any such child would be in line for the throne. Then Théoden had prompted the additional revelation that, should the worst happen, she could soon be responsible for all of Rohan regardless; it was terrifying.

At her foot, Aragorn's concerned frown deepened. Hilde realized with a start that her troubled thoughts had allowed the anxious tremble back to her fingers. Clearing her throat, she tightened her grip on Folca's reins, causing the bay to shift anxiously beneath her.

"As Éomer's wife, Meduseld and Edoras are to be left in my care, and Éowyn's, while the King and his Heir ride to battle." She explained calmly at the faintly disbelieving way Aragorn was looking at her. After a moment he nodded in understanding, though he still held his concern in his eyes. He was satisfied enough with her answer, though, and turned back to his mount.

With nothing left to do, she turned to Haleth for a moment, grabbing his hand tightly with farewell. They didn't say a word, but there was something in his eyes that caused her to frown. It was an expression of urging, almost; she couldn't quite place it. There was also worry there.

With a faint smile that was intended to be reassuring, Hilde nudged Folca forward with a final small wave to her brother, joining with the group of women riding to Dunharrow. They were to ride directly to Dunharrow with the supply wagons, along with most of the main column. The King and his company would split off, as would Éomer and his part of his éored, both travelling more widely in search of more men to call to the muster before meeting them at the camp in two days time. Éowyn was already among the other women, her expression distinctly somber as she swung up on Windfola's back. Hilde easily picked out the faces she recognized; Gilwyn, her leg somewhat healed from the warg attack, rode along to farewell her husband; Eldyn was going along to farewell her son while her husband Orwald, Théoden's advisor, stayed behind to manage Edoras in his Lord's—and Ladies'—absence; Illeyen, the late Master of the Horse's wife rode to support two of her three sons. They all had one thing in common, each of them held the knowledge that they might be sending their men off to die in their eyes.

Over their heads pennants and flags snapped in the wind, the White Horse prancing as it gleamed in the sun. Horses shifted and whinnied in anticipation, and crowds of women and children were beginning to line the roads to bid the men farewell. Around them men were mounting up, and Hilde caught sight of Théoden in full armour descending from Meduseld to join the column. From the centre of the yard, Éomer's voice rose over the wind and the sound of the Riders.

"Now is the hour: Riders of Rohan, oaths you have taken. Now fulfil them all, to Lord and Land!" With a shout he surged forward beside the King on his white stallion, and the men followed.

They were off to Dunharrow.

Hilde looked around with satisfaction. As the two highest ranked women in Meduseld, Éowyn and Hilde had been largely responsible for overseeing the prompt setup of the King's encampment at Dunharrow, overlooking the fields of Firienfeld. Tents were erected and supplies organized, while men and horses streamed up the Stair of the Hold. Off in the distance she could see the King's company riding through the ranks of men who had answered the muster, their banners snapping in the wind among the sea of tents. They had been riding through the entire camp since arriving at the ancient refuge, winding their way through the lines of tents that had sprung up on the fields before Dunharrow. It had been two days since the muster had been called, and a day since the supply line had reached the camp.

Even as she watched the King's party, they were turning toward the foot of the Stair of the Hold. She couldn't yet tell if Éomer had rejoined the King yet or if he and his éored still hadn't arrived. She was shortly after called away by one of the King's stewards to attend to some matter of how to organize evening meals. By the time she was able to sort out the mess, the King's party had dispersed among the cliffside encampment.

As she wandered through the maze of tents, she spotted Théoden King and Lord Aragorn surveying the camp below much as she had been doing, speaking quietly and intently as they did. But it was not them she was looking for.

She was distracted, though, when she came upon the area where many of the women's horses were tethered. It was her Folca that caught her eye, shifting nervously, his dark eyes rolling with his anxiety. Others around him were no better. Many even were worse, twitching in distress, neighing and squealing with their disquiet and fear. Walking up to her mount, she did her best to calm him, soothing and stroking his broad cheek and neck until he began to relax under her hands. She couldn't help but wish then that Haleth had been recovered enough to ride along.

It was not her first time to Dunharrow. She knew the effect the mountain had on those who rested under it. The last time there had been a muster here, far smaller than this one, Haleth had accompanied her and their Father, and he had been indispensible in helping to keep the horses calm even though he'd been quite young at the time. He hadn't even been old enough to ride on his own, riding behind Hilde during the journey.

As she left Folca with a final pat she caught sight of the elf and the dwarf walking sedately along the path being worn through the camp. Just beyond, she saw the man she'd been looking for securing his dappled horse. Already Éomer had divested himself of some of his armour, and was lifting the saddle from his loyal mount's back. With an unconscious sigh of relief, she began making her way through the milling men toward her husband. As she approached, she began to overhear the elf speaking quietly to Éomer as he walked by the two companions, settling Firefoot's saddle on a waiting stand.

"The horses are restless, and the men are quiet." As Hilde approached Firefoot, her husband's face was closed and wary as he stood with the elf and the dwarf. It was a common expression borne on the faces of many men here; Hilde recognized it immediately.

"They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," the Marshal said soberly, his eyes shifting from the elf to look up on the mountain that rose above the camp. He caught sight of Hilde then, a flicker of relief lighting in his eyes. She responded with only a reassuring smile as she stood with his horse, working to calm the grey as she had with Folca.

"That road there—where does that lead?" The dwarf asked then, drawing back Éomer's attention. It was the elf who answered, though.

"It is the road to the Dimholt, the Door under the Mountain." Even mention of that place was enough to send a shiver through any sane person. Hilde was no exception, fighting off a shudder. Firefoot, sensing her own discomfort, bumped his head into her chest, his body quivering with his unease. Éomer's brow was furrowed with his own disquiet, his shoulders visibly tensed with it. He turned back to Legolas and Gimli.

"None who venture there ever return," he said quietly, beginning to turn away with one last wary look at the fissured mountain face, "that mountain is evil." As he turned toward Hilde, he caught her gaze for a moment before returning to his care of Firefoot. Hilde reached forward as he began brushing down the grey stallion, placing her hand over his where it rested against Firefoot's broad neck. With a heavy sigh he looked up at her, a faint smile coming to his lips. Then, picking up a brush of her own, Hilde joined him. Beneath their care, Firefoot hummed with contentment, though his dark eyes still watched the mountain warily.

It was a brief moment of quiet before the coming storm of the 'morrow. Yet for all the good it did Hilde and Éomer to forget for a moment what was coming, it did little to still the dread that still rested in her belly.

For with the coming of the dawn was coming the time for the Rohirrim to ride to war.

Chapter Text

Night was falling fast over the camp of Dunharrow. As dusk had fallen, fires had sprung up all over the encampment, bathing it in warm light. Along with the other women who had accompanied the muster to the camp, Hilde was quickly enlisted with helping to distribute food to the hungry soldiers. Really she didn't mind.

Rank was always quickly forgotten around the cookfires of the war camps; here women of Meduseld, Edoras and the rest of the Mark worked side by side to send their men off with comfort. Hilde prized the look that appeared in the men's eyes when they received what could be their last warm meal from a friendly—and often pretty—face, just as she knew the other women did. It made her feel a little better about not riding with them, even though her heart longed for nothing more. It obviously lifted the men's spirits to smile and sometimes flirt with the women as they gathered their meal, and who was she to deny them that. Their cheer helped her fight off the gnawing realization that many of these men would never see home, or a friendly female face, again. Her place sending the men off with smiles and good food was a painful truth of war that Hilde wished she had never had to learn. But she was a woman of Rohan; such was her reality and the reality of nearly every woman of her country and she bore it with grace.

It was growing late, and finally the streams of men collecting their food had thinned. Hilde was finally satisfied that she could disappear. Gathering up a smaller cookpot and a bowl for herself she took her leave, wending her way through the camp in search of Éowyn or Éomer.

She had finally found the King's nephew amid the circle of tents not far from the King's own marquee, where Hilde and Éomer's own tent was located. She was distracted from her approach, though, when she caught sight of Lord Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli sitting quietly before their own shelters, just within sight of her destination. She faintly overheard the dwarf complaining about still being hungry as she approached. She was fond of the dwarf for his congeniality despite his gruffness and was still grateful for his help in the Hall of the besieged Hornburg. And she couldn't help but respect Lord Aragorn, even going so far as to think of him as a friend. She didn't really know the elf well enough to have formed much of an opinion of him, but he was always kind and was easily one of the best warriors Hilde had ever seen.

"Are you ever not hungry, Master Dwarf," she called out, drawing their attention as she stepped into the firelight.

"Being a dwarf is hungry business, lassie," he said seriously, though the skin around his eyes crinkled impishly. She couldn't help but laugh. She had spied a cookpot over the fire where Éomer and Gamling sat, so with little thought, she approached the fire before the trio, setting the now cooling stew over it to warm up again. A look of anticipation on his face, Gimli stood, approaching to stand at Hilde's side as she checked the stew. As soon as the bowl was in his hands, the dwarf was already beginning to dig in, his murmur of thanks nearly lost amid his quiet grumblings of being famished. Hilde nearly laughed again and Legolas' smile was indulgent as they watched the dwarf resume his seat as he all but began inhaling his food. She could have sworn the Elf rolled his eyes at Gimli's antics before politely demurring when Hilde offered him a bowl.

She turned then to Aragorn, offering a steaming bowl to him. While she had seen the dwarf collecting some food earlier in the evening—along with Legolas, Éomer, Gamling, Grimbold, even Théoden, among myriad others—she hadn't seen Aragorn at all. His face had grown serious again, and his eyes kept wandering to the road through the mountain. She had to call his name quietly to catch his attention.

"Do not fear, My Lord," she said quietly, an impish smile of her own coming to her lips, "Éowyn had no hand in making this." In Meduseld Éowyn's poor cooking was well known, and the source of much affectionate teasing. Hilde remembered her friend had tried making a stew for Lord Aragorn on the road to Helm's Deep, and had seen that he had been guilted into eating said stew from the expression on his face back in Edoras as the other women teased Éowyn. She figured amiable mention of it would bring a smile to his face. It relieved her that she had guessed right, a ghost of amusement breaking through the concern that had been darkening his features. He glanced at the bowl in her hand before taking it with hesitation.

"This isn't your meal, is it My Lady?" he asked softly, a knowing light in his eyes. Hilde shook her head.

"Eat hearty, My Lord. I can get more. Do not worry for me." With a smile and brief toast-like lifting of his bowl, he too began eating, though the distracted look soon returned to his face. With a quiet goodnight, she took her leave, making her way over to where her own companions sat.

That Éomer and Gamling had been sitting to their own dinner was obvious; Gamling was still eating at the fire's side, while a half eaten bowl sat where Hilde had seen her husband sitting before she had paused by Aragorn and Gimli's fireside. Just beyond she saw the hobbit Merry bounding off on some errand, arrayed in armour of his own and brandishing a short sword. Éomer and his sister stood just inside the light thrown by the fire, speaking quietly but intently. She was paused in her tracks in the shadows beyond though, when she caught sight of the look on Éowyn's face and heard her husband's words as he spoke, his tone grave but insistent. She had obviously missed what triggered the conversation, but the topic was painfully clear.

"Do you think he would stand and fight? He would flee. And he would be right to do so." His voice had dropped so that Hilde almost couldn't hear it over the crackling of the fire and the low hum of voices from the surrounding camp. His hand lay heavily on Éowyn's shoulder, and Hilde could see from the way her friend tensed that she was on the verge of shrugging it away. "War is the province of men, Éowyn." Hilde's breath caught in her throat at the words as they left his mouth. That Éomer—the only boy when they were children not to resent her skill with a sword, who said he loved her warrior's heart—would say such a thing made her skin go cold. With a final stern look at his sister, Éomer turned away.

"I can't believe you said that," Hilde said quietly as her husband resumed his seat by the fire, his gaze not leaving his sister as Éowyn followed after Merry. Éomer spun, his expression of unhappy satisfaction melting to one of disheartened shame as he realized she had overheard, his forehead falling to his hand with a heavy sigh. At his side Gamling flushed, not saying a word as he quietly stood and disappeared beyond the grouping of tents.

Éomer drew in a breath to speak, but Hilde had spun on her heel before he could give her some excuse and retreated to the tent they were sharing. She needed to regain control of herself before she said something she'd regret. A moment later he too ducked inside the tent, having chased after her almost immediately.

"Hilde, I didn't—" He sounded so tired, his voice faintly pleading.

"Why did you say it then?" He'd barely begun speaking as the words escaped her lips. She was fighting back a sudden rush of hurt and anger, though her voice sounded only sad as she turned back to face him. Taking a tentative step forward, his hands reached toward her in entreaty.

"Because she isn't like you, Hilde." He was trying to be calm, but his temper was warring with his anxiety. She froze, not quite sure what to make of his words. He took it as a sign to continue, his tone calming. "You have seen battle, you know of its horrors. She does not; she sees only the opportunities for renown and great deeds. Even before the Hornburg you had some idea what true battle means; I heard you ask Théodred about it, I remember you asking me, and we told you and you heeded what we said. Éowyn has never considered such questions. She thinks only of the Great Tales and the Kings of Old.

"She does not fully understand how every battle shatters even the most seasoned warriors anew." As he spoke Hilde soon found she was trembling. Every word he said was true. Though she still craved battle, she hated the idea of ever seeing it again. And she knew he was right about Éowyn; Hilde was nearly as close to her new sister as Éomer was. She knew how Éowyn craved battle but had always privately wondered if her friend truly understood what battle meant. Yes, Éowyn had had a taste of battle in the Glittering Caves and had seen the outcome of the bloody fight over Helm's Deep, but still Hilde wondered how much of that horror had truly sunk in with her friend and how much of it had only whetted her appetite. Even before the Battle of the Hornburg Hilde had understood there was a darker side of war that was lost amid the songs of glory and honour.

"But did you have to say it thus?" His expression hardened a little at how disappointed she sounded as she spoke. But she already knew why. His sister was his only family beyond his uncle and now Hilde; he couldn't bear the thought of something happening to her. Hilde, though, knew that Éowyn would not be so easily swayed; Hilde feared that her friend would see Éomer's fear as doubt and resolve to prove him wrong. She sighed, stepping toward him in concession. His expression softened.

"She is stronger than you think, Éomer. You forget what she did in the Glittering Caves," was all she could say as she stepped into the circle of his embrace. As his arms closed around her she could feel some of the tension seep from his body.

"You are probably right, but that does not halt the panic that grows in my heart when I think of her riding into battle. I have seen how strong you are, I know of your skill, but that does not stop the same fear from overtaking me when I think of you riding too." He sounded so vulnerable as he spoke. Hilde could only tighten her arms around his waist, nestling her face against his collarbone, his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek.

"And you think I don't feel the same fear for you?" she finally asked, her voice little more than a whisper. As he drew back, his hand came up to cradle her cheek, tilting her head to meet his gaze. A faint smile had come to his lips, though his eyes were distinctly wretched.

"I know, and that pains me, Hilde. Would that I could give you no reason to fear." She leaned forward, kissing him softly as her fingers reached up to cup his cheek in return.

"Would that there were no more reason to fear," she said softly before he began kissing her back.

It was still dark when Hilde was woken by a soft hand on her shoulder. Suddenly wide-awake she shifted, careful not to jostle Éomer, who was still sleeping soundly with an arm draped over her hip. The face looking anxiously down on her was familiar.

"Éowyn, what—" she started, but before she could whisper much more, Éowyn clamped a pale hand over Hilde's mouth, gesturing for Hilde to follow her outside. The shieldmaiden was stunned; what could she possibly want at this hour? Fighting back her annoyance at being woken so early, especially this night, Hilde somehow managed to extract herself from her husband's embrace, leaving him snoring softly as she followed her friend outside, pausing only to wrap a blanket around herself to ward off the early morning chill.

"What is it?" she hissed as the tent-flap fluttered shut behind her. Éowyn nearly flinched back at the intensity of Hilde's look, but straightened after a moment, squaring her shoulders as determination lit her pale features. Hilde's frown deepened as she realized what was going on. Éowyn stood before her, a familiar but faded green cloak in her arms hastily wrapped around what looked to be mail and perhaps some greaves or a tasset. Hilde began shaking her head.

"No, Éowyn, no. You cannot be serious. You cannot do this." Éowyn's jaw clenched at Hilde's words, her determination hardening into fierce resolve.

"Why not. Why can I not join the men; you did. You fought on the walls of the Hornburg."

"That was different," Hilde tried to interject, but Éowyn didn't allow her to continue.

"No, it's not," she stopped herself, clutching her bundle closer as she sucked in a deep breath. Hilde sighed, grasping the blanket around her shoulders tighter, faintly wishing she had taken a moment to pull on a dress over her thin shift as a shiver ran through her. "I need to do this, Hilde. Something in my heart urges me forward, pushing me along a path that I cannot deny I have longed to tread from the first time a sword was placed in my hand." Hilde didn't have words, or at least, no words that wouldn't make this worse.

"Come with me." Hilde looked up as Éowyn began speaking again, her voice soft and plaintive, "Ride at my side. You have gone to battle before. You cannot tell me that you do not desire to ride to Gondor." She did desire it...she desired it a great deal.

"You know I can't, you know you can't. Your uncle is counting on us to care for Edoras in his stead while he is gone, to care for Rohan."

"But you do wish it nonetheless," Hilde closed her eyes, fighting back a heavy sigh. She couldn't say no, but neither could she allow herself to say yes. She didn't need to though. When she opened her eyes again, Éowyn was looking at her with a faint expression of satisfaction.

"Can you really shy away from this fight? You couldn't at Helm's Deep. You dressed as a man and you fought at their side. I cannot believe that it sits easy with you that you must stand aside now through a battle that will decide all our futures. I know I cannot. I will not stand apart." Off in the east the horizon was beginning to lighten; dawn wasn't far off.

"Éowyn, think, please. You are needed in Edoras. I need you in Edoras." As Hilde spoke, Éowyn's steady gaze faltered, dropping to the bundle in her arms. Hilde pressed on. "The pursuit of valour is a noble thing, and I know you crave it, but at what cost? Your uncle and your brother are already riding. Should they fall—" Hilde nearly choked at the thought, but she needed to get through to Éowyn, "—should they fall it will be only you left of your line. More than that, what if you fall? What will that do to your brother, Éowyn? It would destroy him. It would destroy your uncle. There is far more at stake here than renown."

"It is more than a desire for renown," she whispered, her voice wavering. But despite her uncertainty, her pale eyes hardened, the steel of her resolve showing through. In that moment Hilde realized there was nothing more she could say. The decision, though not yet quite wholly made, lay with Éowyn alone, though Hilde feared she knew which way her friend's thoughts were turning. This time she did sigh, turning back toward her tent.

"You cannot tell him. He will try to stop me," Éowyn said softly behind her. Hilde paused. She knew exactly what she meant.

"You know I should. You know you are likely riding to your death?"

"And my brother isn't?" Her soft words, only the naked truth, still cut Hilde deeper than anything else she could have said. Hilde didn't have a response, and Éowyn knew it. Soft steps sounded behind her, and after a brief, hesitant moment, Éowyn's gentle hand lighted on Hilde's arm.

"It is my decision, my choice," she murmured, a thread of apology for her earlier bluntness in her tone.

"I know," Hilde said softly, continuing forward to the entrance of her tent. Hilde pulled the blanket tighter still around her shoulders. She knew she shouldn't keep this from her husband, but something in Éowyn's voice told her she couldn't tell either. As she reached for the flap, though, she turned. Behind Éowyn, dawn was on the verge of breaking.

"Though I pray your mind is not so made up as I fear, if you do choose to ride, take Folca," Éowyn's eyes snapped to Hilde in bewilderment. Hilde nearly couldn't continue, her voice had begun shaking so, "He is stronger, bolder, and more suited to battle than Windfola. He will protect you, sister." Choking back the final plea to reconsider that struggled to surge up past her lips, Hilde turned and ducked back inside the tent.

Through the thick fabric the faint noise of the camp waking with the growing light could be heard. On the cot Éomer was beginning to stir, looking around with confusion when he realized Hilde was not beside him. Holding back the tears that suddenly threatened, Hilde was at his side in an instant, burrowing into his arms before he could rise from the cot or even say a word. He hesitated for a moment before relaxing again, his hand tracing idle circles on her back.

"You know Éothain will appear any minute to rouse me," he murmured half-heartedly against her hair, his lips placing fleeting kisses against her hairline. She nestled herself closer, wishing with everything she had that he was wrong, even when she knew he was not.

"I know," she finally whispered, "I just need you to hold me until then."

Chapter Text

Only the day before she had been standing in this very spot as the King's company had ridden toward the winding path that led to the camp. Now she was sitting on Windfola's back, watching as the supply train was winding its way down.

Barely more than an hour ago, she had watched with her heart in her throat as her husband had ridden out with the King for Gondor. If it had not been for the lingering dread that still clutched at her heart she would have thought the sight magnificent. Thousands upon thousands of Riders had surged across the plains after their King with a roar like thunder from thousands upon thousands of hooves, their spears glinting in the rising sun as banners snapped and flew overhead.

But watching the King's Army leave had been one of the hardest things she had ever done. No. Saying farewell to Éomer held that dubious distinction. He had been right; mere moments after she had asked only to be held, Éothain had indeed appeared in the tent's entrance, ready to wake Éomer if need be. Things progressed far too quickly after that. It felt like a blink of an eye later he was clad in full battle array, giving Hilde her final private farewell. She almost couldn't bear it, especially when she caught the flicker of sorrow in his eyes beneath the assured First Marshal he appeared.

But she did. And then she watched him mount Firefoot, his thoughts already ahead on the ride and the coming battle, sparing her only the faintest of smiles as he pulled away from her. She hated that he seemed almost unaffected, but she understood, for she was the same. She had her own emotions under such tight control that she could barely manage more than a wan smile and quiet farewell. But their grips on each other's hand as he urged his dappled mount forward were tight enough that she was almost pulled along with the grey as he bore her husband away from her.

Absently she had wondered then if Éowyn rode with them, or if she was just avoiding her. But later, as she was preparing for the journey back to Edoras, she learned that Folca was no longer with the remaining Edoras horses while Windfola was, and Hilde had her answer. So now she was riding her friend's horse, preparing herself to return to Edoras alone while her new sister rode her Folca into battle. And it looked like Éowyn wasn't the only stowaway rider either; Hilde couldn't find the hobbit Merry, either, even though his pony Stybba was still in the camp.

With a final sigh and final look over the trodden ground that had once been a bustling camp, Hilde finally admitted to herself that it was time to go. It hadn't even been an hour after the army had ridden out that the camp had been dismantled and packed away; there was no reason to linger. Turning Éowyn's chestnut mount she joined the last stragglers descending from the cliffs.

No matter how hard she was trying, though, she could not help but dwell on what faced those she loved in Gondor as Windfola plodded down the near treacherous paths of the cliff-face. She could not fight the fear that she had spent her last night at Éomer's side, or that she had kissed her husband for the last time. She couldn't seem to fight the regret that some of her last words to Éowyn sounded so harsh, or that she hadn't told Éomer what she feared his sister planned. Now it was too late. She feared the expectation placed upon her to rule the Golden Hall while the King rode to battle, and feared that the duty was to fall on her alone; she was not born to be a ruler, not by herself.

She was startled from her dark thoughts as she reached the foot of the path, her attention seized by the sound of a host of riders riding over the hills into the plains of Firienfeld. A faint flutter of aggravation flickered through her at how late these riders were. Urging Windfola forward she didn't hesitate to meet them just beyond where the supply train was turning toward Edoras. They had not missed the main army by much, and should be able to catch up before too long without exhausting themselves or their mounts. Over her shoulder, she noticed a small group of the women with the supply train had split off too, riding to meet the newcomers as Hilde did. It only served to fuel her confusion.

It was then that she realized there was something odd about the approaching host, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She urged Windfola to go a little faster, something the chestnut happily complied with; Hilde couldn't help but think the horse was disappointed to have been left behind. As she got closer to the arriving host, she began recognizing faces she hadn't anticipated seeing. One in particular rode forward to meet her.

"Willa? What is this," Hilde exclaimed as the older shieldmaiden pulled her horse to a halt beside Windfola. Taking off her helmet, the other woman brushed some of her greying hair from her eyes. Behind them, the group from the supply train, including Gilwyn, Illeyen and Eldyn, pulled up with them.

"The women of our country have always taken great pride in our ability to fight for our homes and keep our children safe while our men rode off to war." It was Eldyn, the wife of one of Théoden's advisors who spoke, her voice calm and assured.

"But this time is different," Willa spoke up, nodding in agreement with Eldyn's words, "if this battle before Minas Tirith fails, and Gondor falls, Rohan will soon follow."

"It is time we fought with our men," called one of the women in Willa's company, a dark-haired woman only a little older than Hilde herself. Around Hilde other women—shieldmaidens all, Hilde realized—nodded and shouted their agreement.

"The King needs every spear he can get, and so we have been gathering what shieldmaidens we could, riding out behind the men across the Mark; calling a muster of our own, you could say," Willa resumed, her dark eyes sparkling with eagerness. Hilde was still too stunned to speak. Arrayed behind Willa were at least another thousand, maybe even two thousand women from across the Mark, ready and armed for battle. Eldyn urged her mare closer to Hilde, laying a hand on her arm. Beyond her, Hilde noticed several of the women who had been at Dunharrow wore armour beneath their cloaks, their swords and shields lashed to their saddles.

"You inspired us, Hilde. Many of our women have longed to go to war beside our men since we first picked up swords alongside them, but knew our duty was to protect our children and our homes. So we did with pride," Eldyn raised her chin, her head held high as an assenting murmur spread around them, "But you weren't content to stand back at Helm's Deep when it mattered, just as we all realize that we can't afford to stand aside now."

"The King will send you back," Hilde said quietly, her heart already beginning to sing with anticipation. Eldyn smiled, shaking her head.

"By the time we catch up it will be too late to turn back."

"And our King is wise; he knows he needs as many spears as he can get. Rohan's shieldmaidens can help, and will help, in this battle," Another woman, Fréahild, who Hilde faintly recalled from Edoras spoke up. Eldyn turned back to Hilde.

"You should ride with them, child." Hilde's breath caught. In her chest her heart thrummed with anticipation heedless of the way her mind insisted she shouldn't.

"I cannot, you know this. I have a responsibility to my King to guard Edoras in his absence; you know that." Eldyn's smile didn't fade as she patted Hilde's leg.

"Orwold and I can see to Edoras and the Golden Hall; we've done it before. But you are needed in this fight. You are a skilled warrior in your own right; a veteran of Helm's Deep. Every spear," she emphasized.

"Besides," Willa piped up, a mischievous grin on her face, "we need you to sweet talk the King and your Marshal husband." Hilde felt her cheeks flame for a moment. Apparently the news of her impromptu wedding had spread farther than she thought. But the dread in her stomach flopped again, reminding her that she'd told Éomer she'd stay away from this battle.

But it called to her in sweet, glorious tones that she could not ignore.

"I have no armour, only my sword and bow," she countered half-heartedly, knowing she was losing the fight. Again Eldyn smiled gently.

"Haleth saw to that," Illeyen, the Master of the Horse's wife answered from where she sat beside Eldyn. Hilde's gaze spun to the Stablemaster's widow, her eyes wide with shock. The older woman was paying little attention, though, turning and waving back at the supply train. It was then that Hilde noticed one of the wagons was moving far slower than the others, and at Illeyen's wave had stopped altogether. Illeyen had continued speaking even as Hilde watched the wagon slowing with bewilderment.

"Your brother caught several of us preparing our things, hiding mail and spears for ourselves among the supplies and guessed our purpose," she explained, drawing Hilde's gaze. Haleth had always been close to Illeyen's son Eármund, and knew Illeyen and her late husband well thanks to his time in the stables. "He asked that we take your armour along; he knew you would wish to fight, but wouldn't because of the King's task for you and because of him." It certainly sounded like something her brother would do; Hilde fought back the tears that prickled behind her eyes. Mutely she nodded, though only enough for those closest to her to see.

Éomer was going to be furious with her.

"Then we mustn't waste a moment. Make haste; the King's army moves quickly, and we will have a lot of ground to cover to reach them. There can be little rest between here and Gondor." Around her, women began to smile with excitement. In her belly the heady rush of anticipation soon overpowered the roiling feel of dread.

She was riding to Gondor, and to war.

It had not been hard to follow the Rohirric Army; they left a trail in their wake that even the blind would be unable to miss. They had made good time, and their mounts were doing well, needing only the shortest of breaks as their riders were generally lighter than the grown men their kin bore in the main army. They had mostly kept pace with the main army, holding back from joining them just yet to lessen the chance that they'd be turned back, the scouts Hilde and Willa sent ahead keeping them appraised of the main Army's movements.

Willa had been a great force in this Shieldmaiden Muster, but she quickly insisted on sharing leadership with Hilde. 'After all,' the older woman had cheekily pointed out, 'you are to be my Queen one day.' Hilde couldn't help but be grateful for the woman's optimism; Willa had no doubt that the Army of Rohirrim would win the day thanks to the shieldmaidens, and they would all return home in glory to 'celebrate and make babies to tell our great tales to.' Hilde found her own optimism growing as she rode beside Willa. But she was not entirely fooled; she could see in Willa's eyes that the older woman knew it would be no easy battle, and that victory was far from assured. But that didn't dampen the older shieldmaiden's confidence in the slightest. What admiration Willa had earned in Hilde's eyes on the road to the Hornburg grew tenfold on that nearly three-day ride to Gondor.

It was late on the last day that the women finally decided it was time to join up with the men. One of their scouts, a quick, flinty young woman named Aéllen, returned saying the main army was taking rest on the banks of a small lake before the final push to Minas Tirith. The women had already taken their rest, and were preparing to move on themselves. After some quick conferring between Hilde, Willa, Illeyen and a couple others, the decision was made to close the gap between them and the main army.

As they approached the lake Aéllen had spoken of, Hilde could already hear the din only a rousing army could make before they even crested the hill that hid the King's force from sight. Faintly they could hear voices calling for the men to ready to continue on and horns being blown.

Exchanging a brief reassuring look with Willa, she urged Windfola forward, the chestnut eagerly obeying. Hilde hadn't been imagining the horse's disappointment at being left behind. The instant Hilde had attached the thick leather face-guard Haleth had sent to Windfola's bridle a change had come over him; he was just as ready for battle as any other, his muscles tensing and quivering with anticipation. Windfola might not have been born for battle as Folca was, but Hilde could see in his dark eyes that he was not about to shy away from it. It gave Hilde courage, as did the horsehair crest attached to the faceguard where it lay between Windfola's ears. As soon as Eldyn had pulled the guard from the wagon Hilde had nearly cried; only one horse had had hair the same shade as her eyes. And of course Haleth had thought to attach it to the faceguard her mount was to wear into battle. It strengthened her heart to know that, even in that little way, Brytta was riding with her into battle again.

As they crossed the crest of the hill they finally caught sight of the army they had been chasing, their own pace slowing as they took in the sight before them. The banks of the lake could not be seen for the army that rested upon them: a sea of horseflesh and men that seemed to stretch on forever. Though her eye was not so practiced in such things, Hilde could easily see that the ranks had grown; they must have picked up more riders as the army crossed the Eastfold. Her suspicions were confirmed when she caught sight of a few shields she faintly recalled belonged to settlements and families from the eastern portion of their country. The army was already beginning to move.

She also caught sight of the King and his closest men where they gathered to confer near the banks of the lake, among them a familiar dapple-grey horse. Nearly the same time she noticed them, the King and his Marshals turned their mounts in the direction of the Shieldmaidens. They had seen them. Hilde drew in a deep, steadying breath, her fingers tightening on her spear.

Signaling for the main body of their host to take the brief opportunity to water their horses, Hilde and her own small group of advisors broke off to meet with the King, who was even now riding toward them. As the King drew close enough that Hilde could see his face, she also saw how his jaw was nearly slack with shock as he realized the riders before him were all women.

"What is this?" Hilde was almost tempted to laugh as he repeated her own initial response to a host of women. Willa was the first to speak up, urging her black mare forward to stand near the King.

"Over a thousand more spears to answer your muster, My King. Shieldmaidens, all off us, and each of us ready to fight to the last." Slowly he nodded, his eyes catching Hilde's briefly, recognition flickering for an instant. Pressing his white mount forward, he exchanged a few brief words with Willa. Hilde could not hear what he asked from where she sat on Windfola, but if she were to judge based on the relief that spread across his face, Willa had just told him that Éowyn was not among them. Guilt flooded through Hilde; she knew differently. She knew that somewhere among the men of the Main Army, one woman rode with them already. She also suspected some of the other women had figured that out as well. That Éowyn had been conspicuously absent from the supply column returning to Edoras had not gone entirely unnoticed, and her desire to ride to battle was not unknown.

Beside the King, Éomer came to a halt himself, looking almost as bewildered as his uncle. Briefly the two men exchanged a look of astonishment before the King nodded sharply, turning Snowmane and riding off to look to the rest of the army, leaving Éomer to see to this newest development.

He took it in stride, surveying the women in front of him, his battle-trained eye briefly examining the main group by the lake's edge. But then Hilde noticed the expression in his eyes shift to one of anxiety as he scanned the helmeted faces before him. Knowing she couldn't hide behind Willa's boldness, Hilde guided Windfola to a stop beside the older shieldmaiden, meeting her husband's gaze head on. She didn't expect him to be surprised when he saw her, and he wasn't.

"Hilde," he said her name almost as a sigh, "what are you doing?"

"We've come to fight, Éomer." She said quietly.

"You said you would stay out of this battle, that you'd look to Edoras' keeping." As he spoke, she urged Windfola forward again until her mount stood shoulder to shoulder with his.

"I know, and I am sorry," she glanced back at the other women, all of whom watched her expectantly, "but Éomer, they came of their own will, and would have come whether I joined them or not. I could not stay behind when they asked me to fight alongside them, not when I am part of the reason they mean to fight." He looked over the women again, a faint doubt surfacing in his eyes before he looked back to her, dismay clouding his expression. It bled onto his features, cracking through the stoic bearing he almost always wore when his role as Marshal of the Mark took hold of him.

"Hilde," it was little more than a whisper, but it betrayed every fear he had to her. She longed to reach out to him, her grip tightening again on her spear as she resisted doing so. She was here as a Rider of the Mark, not a wife. These women were looking to her, and she intended to act accordingly. She sighed, searching for the words she needed. Then they came to her, flooding from her lips before she even realized she had found them.

"If this is to be the Great Battle of our Age, we cannot stand by waiting for either our men to return or for the enemy to sweep across our lands. For if Mordor's armies prevail in Gondor it will make no difference that we stayed behind, for those of us left behind would not be able to stand against them. But if we stand with you, it might be enough to turn the tide," she smiled wryly, "let us be your Rohirrim in this fight. Let us ride with our kin and our King." He sighed heavily, turning his gaze again to survey the gathered shieldmaidens.

Beyond Hilde's group, the bulk of their Shieldmaiden force was waiting, ready to join the King's Army as it moved on toward Gondor. Something in his posture shifted, and he turned back to her. It was now pride that mixed with the worry in his eyes. Hilde felt the corner of her lips turn up in a hopeful smile. Taking a deep breath he turned Firefoot, his voice rising above the female riders gathered before him.

"Riders, form up!"

Chapter Text

As she had waited on the walls of the Hornburg when Saruman's host approached as a roiling, writhing mass of torches, Hilde recalled thinking there was little in the world that could follow that would seem more terrifying. The army of Uruk-hai melting out of the night with guttural roars and thunderous steps had haunted her nightmares since.

But now as she sat upon Windfola looking out upon the host that besieged the White City of Gondor, the memory of the host of Isengard paled in comparison. It was somehow worse in the growing light of dawn, to see such a fathomless sea of orcs arrayed before Minas Tirith, while thick black smoke seemed to cover the White City like a shroud. No darkness masked their numbers and overhead great winged beasts flew with horrid grating cries. For a moment Hilde struggled to breathe, especially as the monstrous ranks shifted in response to the Rohirrim's appearance over the crest of the hills bordering the Pelennor Fields. Even from up on the hill they could hear the blood-curdling shrieks of the orcs waiting for them below.

Hilde was in the second line toward the left flank of the King's army. The shieldmaidens had spread out through the Host, many going to bolster the numbers of Grimbold's company. But a couple of the women who had joined her from Dunharrow waited near her among Éomer's éored, their faces just as pale and drawn as she imagined hers to be. But there was a light of resolve in their eyes, and a growing flush of courage returning to their cheeks as their initial shock faded. Hilde's own heart was beginning to thrum in anticipation. Beside her Willa sat firm, her eyes sparking intensely with daring as her black mare shifted eagerly. Hilde couldn't help but think that this was a woman born for battle. Between her own legs, she could feel Windfola quivering with his own mix of anticipation and fear. He had nearly shied away when the legions of orcs had come into sight, but Hilde's firm hand had steadied him. He trusted her, and now he stood steady, even though she could see his eyes rolling with alarm at the yowls and cries that drifted up from the dark masses before them.

Just ahead the King was riding along the front lines, his orders echoing to his Marshals before he turned his voice to his army. The sun was broaching the horizon and burning through the grim grey clouds as he called out, bathing the King and the fields beyond in golden light. Beneath Théoden, Snowmane seemed almost to dance, his elegant head high as his white coat gleamed in living embodiment of the banners held high above him. As the King drew Herugrim, spears throughout the ranks began lowering. Hilde's breath nearly caught in her throat, her heart hammering as she knew the moment of the charge drew near. Not far ahead of where Hilde waited Éomer sat proudly on Firefoot, his dark eyes scanning the ranks of his éored. His eyes caught hers for a moment, something passing between them. She wasn't sure if it was mutual worry, a silent affirmation of their feelings or some mix of that and more, but it steadied Hilde's nerves, somehow calming her in the face of what was sure to come.

Théoden King was riding along the lines, his sword clattering against the lowered spears. Hilde's grip tightened on her own spear, dropping the gleaming tip in readiness. Beneath her helmet a bead of sweat trickled down her temple, and her shield hung heavy over her knee. Her right knee was beginning to ache from so long in the saddle, and her mail weighed on her still sore shoulder. But as the King rode by, his voice still rising over the ranks, she found her discomfort melting away.

"Ride now," he cried, stirring the heart of every rider, "ride now, ride, ride for ruin, and the world's ending!" Of its own volition, Hilde found her voice joining the cries around her, all fear drowning and forgotten amid the rapturous chorus of voices rising behind the King. The same burning rhapsody that had coursed through her veins during the final Charge of the Hornburg was fanned to life again in her belly. In the back of her mind, as the horns of the Rohirrim echoed over the plains, she could almost swear she heard the Horn of the Hammerhand reverberating through the very marrow of her bones.

"Forth Eorlingas!" With that final cry the lines crept forward, their momentum building until Hilde felt they might as well be flying over the fields before them, surging toward the orc lines. Even as arrows began raining down on them, and riders and horses alike began to fall, still they charged. In this moment, nothing, not fear, nor pain nor the prospect of death could stop the Lines of Rohan, possessed as they were with fury and valor. Beneath Hilde, Windfola's powerful legs ate up the distance, his muscles coiling and pulling as a furious whinny escaped his chest, all fear forgotten. Beside her, Hilde could swear Willa was laughing as she raised her spear, her dark mare racing ahead without faltering.

With a roar like thunder, they crashed through the lines of Mordor.

Even as she sat on Windfola's back Hilde could feel her muscles beginning to quiver with exhaustion, while Windfola's heaving sides were drenched with sweat, foam and blood. More than that, the fear that she had nearly forgotten lingered beneath her battle-fever was reemerging, haunting her as she looked over the churned mess that was now the fields of Pelennor.

Off to her left, the carcass of a mûmak lay where it fell, a blanket of arrow shafts covering its belly where they had barely been able to pierce its thick hide. Like many of her people, she had barely believed in the existence of such creatures, so when a line of the beasts had appeared at the edge of the battlefield her panic had nearly broken through her courage, threatening to choke her with terror.

The lines of Mordor had shattered with the charge of the Rohirrim, falling like sheaves of wheat before the oncoming wall of hooves and spears and for a brief, golden moment it had seemed that the day was won. But then the Haradrim had joined the fight with their giant tusked beasts of war. Somehow, amid the panic growing within her countrymen, the lines were reformed.

And they had nearly been slaughtered as the orcs had been.

Yet even as the Rohirrim fell in droves, they managed to hold their own, somehow taking down several of the mûmakil with what seemed to Hilde a little like pure luck. It had been chaos.

She still wasn't entirely sure how she had managed to stay alive. Somehow she had made it through nearly unscathed. The shoulder she had injured at the Hornburg ached fiercely, and she could feel from the way her gloves caught on her knuckles that her newly healed hands were split and scraped again, and one of her fingers possibly broken. But other than that she had sustained only bruises and minimal cuts and abrasions as compared to Helm's Deep. She had been very lucky. Twice she had nearly been crushed by the enormous feet of a mûmak, and had only just missed being swiped from Windfola's back by a spiked and bladed tusk. She had watched with horror as horses had their legs cut out from under them as the mûmakil used the lengths of spike-woven ropes strung between their tusks to terrible effect. Her heart had swelled with pride when she saw her husband's spear kill one of the mûmak's riders, the falling body pulling the beast to crash into one of its companions with bone-shattering force. But it was a pride that was short-lived, for the battle called for every scrap of her focus. Barely moments later, she had used up the last of the arrows she had in her quiver helping to bring down another of the red and black painted monsters among the small host that had rallied around Éomer.

It was not long after that that she had lost sight of her Marshal in the dust and clamor of the battle. Again her panic had nearly blinded her, but an oncoming wave of Haradrim had jolted the fear from her, rousing her back to the fight at hand. The battle itself had begun to blur into a single stream of flashing swords and flowing blood after that. She couldn't even guess at the number of orcs and Haradrim she killed, and she honestly couldn't even care to know. Even in the relative silence that had descended over the plains as the fighting ceased, she could still hear battle cries and the screams of horses and men and the shrieks of orcs echoing in her ears.

But for every small victory the Rohirrim had gained they lost far more. What had remained of the lines had soon broken and the Rohirrim no longer quite fought together, instead fighting just to stay alive, as they were soon overwhelmed. And then the Nazgul had descended to join the fight.

Had Lord Aragorn and the Armies of the Dead not arrived when they had...

If Hilde had thought the sight of the legions of orcs or the line of mûmakil had been a sight beyond any she had seen, she had no words for the feeling that had risen through her at the sight of an army of ghosts. Quick and ethereal-looking as smoke over the water they had swept across the field of battle, decimating the hoards of orcs and Haradrim like an iron fist. She hadn't been sure whether to cheer or scream.

With their arrival the battle had been won in what felt like a heartbeat.

Now she merely wandered, a feeling of emptiness growing in her chest as exhaustion threatened to consume her. She had long since pulled her helmet from her head, the cool breeze threading comfortingly through her tangled and sweat-plastered hair. There were so few riders left. Even amid the emptiness, she could feel a crushing fear emerging through it, the sour taste of bile rising in her throat. She hadn't seen Éomer since the arrow-laden mûmak had fallen. She hadn't seen Éowyn at all. For all she knew, everyone she loved who had ridden into this battle was gone, save her. Desperate tears surged forth, threatening to fall as she urged Windfola to keep going. Despite his own exhaustion he did, though his head was low and his pace slow.

Then he stopped, simply halting in his tracks, his noble head lowering. Looking down, Hilde could not hold back her tears any longer.

It was Willa, her eyes closed and her helmet askew as she lay where she fell on the churned up ground. Her sword was still clutched tight in her hand, and a triumphant smile curved her lips, her pale face still laughing even as the orcs' black-fletched arrows had pierced her body. Hilde couldn't breath anymore, sobs trying to escape her chest. She was so lost in grief for her friend that she almost didn't notice the soft calling of her name.

Windfola shifted half-heartedly as Firefoot leaned into him and Hilde was barely able to turn her head before Éomer's arm circled around her shoulders. She only half comprehended the incessant wordless murmurs of thanks that half escaped from his lips, likely only because the fear in her chest had eased as she realized that it was, in fact, him. Relief rushed through her in tired waves as she leaned into him, not caring at the way his helmet was digging into her cheek or the way her pauldron pinched her arm as she awkwardly embraced him back. He was safe and whole and beside her. In that moment, she didn't care about anything else. They had made it through.

Eventually, though, her vision cleared as her tears ceased, and her eyes once again roamed the field before her. Not long after that they pulled apart, silently urging their horses forward to continue their wandering of the field side by side. They didn't stop again until they both spied a familiar horse lying with his pale legs splayed before him, his rider pinned and lifeless beneath him.

At her side Éomer's body seized as understanding crashed in upon him. Hilde reached out, clutching her husband's hand as he looked down in grieved silence at the still face of his uncle. Soundless tears had begun streaming down his face as he held onto her hand like a lifeline, his grip painfully tight as his jaw clenched. She did not mind the pain in the slightest, for it was still a kinder ache than the one growing in her heart. She didn't have the words to console him as she knew she should. Everything she thought of seemed woefully inadequate.

"Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended,"* she finally whispered, the words to the ancient song flowing from her lips even as she wished for the right thing to say, "giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære."** At her side, Éomer's head bowed as he struggled to regain control, his shoulders trembling.

Just off of in the distance she saw Aragorn and the wizard Gandalf approaching, their faces solemn and knowing as they looked on at the scene of grief from afar. Not far away the headless carcass of one of the winged beasts lay where it fell. As she looked back to the King, she noticed that Snowmane's body was torn and his flesh shredded; they were the marks of an immense set of jaws that marred his white coat. Hilde understood now what had drawn the Nazgul's beast to the ground. She had been a fair distance away when the huge black-winged creature had swooped down upon the field. Only it hadn't risen again. Then she hadn't given it much thought beyond relief that she no longer had to worry about watching for its monstrous shadow. Now she knew why. Someone had slain the beast for killing her King. A faint glimmer of approval flickered through her at the thought.

A faint movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention then. A lone horse was limping slowly along across the battlefield in the shadow of one of the mûmak carcasses, his head low and tired as he laboriously picked his way among the strewn corpses of men and orcs and other horses. A surge of energy went through her; she'd recognize her horse anywhere.

Before she had even realized she had done it, she had pulled her fingers from Éomer's, and was urging Windfola toward Folca, his name on her breathless lips as she stumbled from the chestnut's back. It looked like he had fallen hard on his back hip, as great scuffs of dirt and mud caked his flank over the leg he was favouring. Other than that he looked unhurt, his ears perking up and a happy nicker coming from his throat as her arms closed around his broad neck. But even as she breathed soothing words to him, the feeling of dread that had flamed to life again in her chest when she saw him intensified. Her hands closed around his dangling reins, looking him straight in the eye.

"Folca, where's Éowyn..." No sooner had she spoken than a heart-breaking cry of anguish echoed behind her. Her blood went cold, feeling like it was freezing in her very veins. Instinctively she knew. Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion, each heartbeat lasting a lifetime. Slowly Hilde turned, afraid what she was going to see.

Éomer had been following her toward Folca, only a flash of flaxen hair stirred by the wind had caught his eye even as Folca had caught Hilde's. As Hilde turned toward his tormented bellow he was falling to his knees, pulling Éowyn's deathly still form into his arms and cradling her as his cries of grief tore from his throat.

His helmet rolled forgotten at his side.

Hilde hadn't even realized she was moving before she found herself falling to her own knees in front of him, reaching out only to find she couldn't quite manage to touch them. It was as though the grief and guilt that surged through her at the sight of her friend had built an impenetrable wall between her and the siblings.

She might as well have not even been there for all that Éomer seemed to notice her. His cries had stilled, his face lowered as he curled around his sister's body, rocking her as his shoulders heaved and shook. Her own sobs tearing through her chest, Hilde finally managed to break through the guilt that held her back, tentatively taking Éowyn's gloved hand in her own, pressing it to her cheek.

But there was a flutter, a spasm beneath her fingers. Starting, Hilde pulled back, her sobs hiccupping in her throat. Éowyn had moved. She looked up, meeting Éomer's grief-maddened gaze. Not wanting to let go of her friend's hand, she needed to use her teeth to remove one of her gloves, but as soon as she had her hand was on Éowyn's cheek. Her friend's skin was cool, and held the pallor of death, but there was the faintest of movements beneath her shadowed lids and every now and then her chest would move with the weakest of breaths.

"Éomer, she's alive," she barely choked the words out, but it wasn't enough. A faint moan of sorrow was coming from her husband's chest as his eyes focused blindly on his sister. He was so lost to his grief that he didn't understand. Dropping Éowyn's hand she grabbed his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "She lives!"

It was still barely more than a whisper but this time he heard her, his whole body tensing before all strength seemed to leave him, nearly letting Éowyn slide from his arms. He recovered quickly though, gathering his sister close again. Hilde turned, her eyes searching the field around them before her eyes landed on precisely whom she sought.

"Aragorn," she rasped, not sure at first if she could even manage a shout, but she tried again. This time her voice was louder, hoarse and trembling, but louder. "Lord Aragorn, Gandalf, please—she's alive." The more she called out the stronger her voice got. They must have seen something change before Hilde even began calling out, because Aragorn was already picking his way across the field toward them. As soon as he heard her cry, though, his pace quickened with urgency. In an instant he was huddled around Éowyn with them, his practiced hands roaming Éowyn's face and throat, examining her. He sighed heavily.

"She is very badly wounded. There is a dark magic here beyond mere injury," he murmured.

"Thus is the reign of the Lord of Angmar ended," came a low voice behind them. The three surrounding Éowyn turned, looking to Gandalf where he stood nearby. He was looking down to a twisted black mass of metal and cloth at his feet. In his hand he held a Rohirric sword, its blade charred black and twisted.

"That's Éowyn's sword," Hilde blurted out when she saw the wizard holding it; no matter the damage she still recognized it. The White Wizard looked to her, his gaze deep and fathomless. After a moment he nodded slowly.

"She killed the Witch King, the Lord of the Nazgul, and is even now likely poisoned by his dying breaths." Hilde turned back to Éomer as the wizard spoke, her eyes wide with a profound astonishment that matched the expression surfacing on his grief-clouded features. She almost couldn't breath for the awe that had risen in her chest. Beside them Aragorn sighed heavily as he too processed what Gandalf said, understanding lighting in his eyes as he grew thoughtful.

"The Black Shadow," he said quietly. Hilde searched his face for answers. Éomer's gaze had dropped back to his sister's pale features, his gloved fingers tenderly brushing back her tangled and dirtied hair. His strong features were still twisted with grief, but Hilde could see there was hope beginning to surface in his eyes.

"Can you help her? Please, can you save her?" The Heir of Elendil looked to Hilde and then Éomer, who still hadn't looked up. Slowly he nodded, though his expression was still grave.

"I will try."

* An evil death has set forth the noble warrior.

** A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels in Meduseld that he is no more

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

Chapter Text

Though few from the host of Shieldmaidens survived the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, those that made it through without significant injury once again proved their worth in Minas Tirith's Houses of Healing. Many were mothers, some even grandmothers, and thus knew the ways of sickbed care from the tending of their children and families. More than that they were women born and bred of a country of warriors; the wounds of battle were familiar to them. None gave gentler or more tender care than the shieldmaidens who offered their services in tending to the wounded and dying.

Hilde spent most of her time following the Battle in those solemn halls, alternating between helping the healers and the wounded and sitting with her husband and her sister. Éomer scarcely left Éowyn's side, and Hilde intimately understood why. The same expression of helpless hope and anxious waiting clung to his features as she was sure it had with her when Haleth had lain wounded. Silent entreaties for Éowyn to fight, to survive, fell from his lips in an unending stream as he sat distraught and motionless at her side.

But like Haleth, Éowyn was strong and, like Haleth, was to have a saviour.

Just as he had promised, Aragorn worked tirelessly to bring Éowyn back from the brink of death, skillfully using his elf-taught knowledge of healing to banish the Witch King's toxins from her body using the athelas plant. Hilde had been nearby, helping a healer treat another wounded soldier by holding water and bandages when Éowyn had finally woken from the death-like sleep that had threatened to steal her life. Éomer had nearly broken down with relief when Éowyn drew her first real breath since they found her.

It was not long after that when Aragorn sat back, his frame heavy with exhaustion and assured Éomer that his sister was out of danger. Shortly after that she had been moved into a small private chamber just off the courtyard of the main hall.

It was there that Hilde was heading now, ready for a break from tending to the wounded. She was exhausted, but had yet to have a real rest herself. It had taken a great deal of effort to convince Éomer to take some rest, and she had only managed it by promising to sit with Éowyn herself. So she had sat vigil at her friend's bedside, her husband's head cradled in her lap as he had refused to leave either of them just yet. She knew how he felt.

Every time she so much as closed her eyes for more than a few heartbeats, the paralyzing fear that she had lost them surfaced anew, punctuated by the memories and sounds from the battlefield that refused to let even her waking thoughts be. She feared sleep just now, terrified at the nightmares she was sure would hound her from the moment she closed her eyes.

Her steps heavy with exhaustion, unconsciously scrubbing her stained hands against the makeshift apron she wore, Hilde made her way toward the room where Éowyn was sleeping. She was turning the corner to the corridor that led to the small chamber when she saw Éomer walking toward her with Aragorn. As often happened whenever she caught sight of her husband in these halls, an involuntary shiver of relief went through her. Even waking, she sometimes found herself wondering if she was even then dreaming that they had made it through; the entire place seemed so surreal at times.

Still conversing quietly with the heir of Gondor, Éomer reached out as Hilde approached, all three of them stopping in the middle of the hall as his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder and her arm wound about his waist.

"How is she?" Hilde finally asked quietly as their conversation trailed off. She knew they both had just come from Éowyn's room. Beneath the hand she had laid on his back, she could feel the tension that still lingered in her husband. He was still plagued with worry even though Aragorn had assured them Éowyn was well out of danger. She knew the feeling; she still feared for Haleth even after the time that had passed since Helm's Deep and his healing at the hands of the lady elf. A faint smile came to Aragorn's face as he looked over at Hilde.

"She is recovering well, Lady Hilde. She sleeps even now." With a gentle nod he moved off, pausing to turn back to Éomer. "We shall wait for you in the Throne Room, Lord Éomer." Beside her Hilde felt rather than saw her husband nod in understanding as her eyes had still been on Aragorn. As the Heir of Elendil turned the corner out of sight Hilde was already turning back to Éomer, a questioning frown creasing her brow.

"Why are you needed in the Throne Room?" she asked quietly. Almost imperceptibly his grip on her shoulder tightened before he seemed to visibly remind himself to relax. They both knew it was in part because, with Théoden's death, he was now King of the Mark. It was a position he was still uncomfortable with, and Hilde couldn't blame him. He'd barely had any time to come to terms with the fact that with Théodred's death he had become the King's Heir, and now his uncle too was gone. But she could see from the way he stood and spoke now in the presence of others that, no matter how hard he was finding the realization to accept, he was not about to back away from his new responsibility.

"There is to be a meeting to discuss our next move, to debate what is to be done next. There is little doubt that the Forces of Mordor will be regrouping." Hilde nodded in reluctant understanding. Though she knew it was their reality, it was so easy to forget that the victory upon the fields of Pelennor had not won them the war. His other hand had come to rest on her hip, and Hilde absently rested her hand against his forearm, her fingertips tracing the intricately tooled leather, lingering over nicks and grooves from battles past. Worry and dread were again beginning to pool in her stomach. A faint reassuring smile came to his lips as he leaned in, placing a soft kiss against her temple.

"There is nothing to worry on just yet, love. Go see to Éowyn," he paused, the arm around her shoulders shifting to cradle the back of her head, tilting her face to look up at him as his dark eyes bored into hers with concern, "and rest. You are exhausted, Hilde." Nodding, she knew he was right. Every now and then the very floor beneath her feet would feel unsteady and she knew that if she didn't rest soon she was liable to pass out rather than simply fall asleep. Sleep did sound wonderful... but then an involuntary shudder ran through her as the horrors she was sure to dream of surfaced in the back of her thoughts. Her grip on his arm tightened as the anxiety she had fought back woke in her again.

"I cannot sleep just yet, Éomer," she murmured, annoyance flickering through her at the way her voice trembled. Éomer only leaned forward, his brow resting against hers.

"I know," he murmured, and she knew he did. In the short time she had slept by his side she had once or twice woken to see him jerk in the hold of nightmares, his body tense and sweating at the bloody memories that haunted his sleeping thoughts. But then she had nestled herself deeper into his arms, and he had calmed, perhaps comforted by her presence. She knew that he sometimes did the same for her, as she had once woken from the writhing, slicing, blood-drenched clutches of her own nightmares held tightly in his arms, his low voice soothing to her ears as she had swallowed back bitter sobs. But that had been before Pelennor Fields and before the new horrors she couldn't erase from her mind. Since then she had not slept by his side; she had barely slept at all.

Leaning down further, he placed a reassuring kiss on each of her cheeks before capturing her lips with his, kissing her thoroughly. She responded almost desperately, craving his touch; it proved to her that he was all right, that she was still all right despite the excess of death and despair that lingered in the Houses of Healing in spite of the hope everyone there desperately held. She forgot everything when he kissed her.

After a moment he finally pulled away, his face showing his reluctance to do so. With a sigh he stroked her cheek with his thumb.

"I must go," he intoned as she leaned against him for a moment, her cheek nestled in the hollow of his throat, "they wait for me. Go rest, please, love?" With a reluctant nod of her own Hilde pulled away, though her fingers lingered against his before he turned and headed for the Great Hall. She stood watching him go for a moment, fighting back the despondency that threatened to return with each step he took away from her. It took her a moment, but she managed to beat it back, banishing the traitorous emotions for the time being. Her fatigue was weakening her, allowing her anxieties to nearly rule her and she scolded herself for allowing it.

Physically shaking herself free from the memories that were trying to plague her, she turned herself, continuing on to Éowyn's chamber.

She opened the door as quietly as she could manage, not wishing to disturb her friend's sleep. It turned out to be for naught, though. A brief but powerful wave of panic washed through her when she noticed the bed was bare of its occupant, her eyes darting around the room looking for her friend. She almost immediately spotted her sister-in-law looking out on the courtyard below her room, absently cradling her healing arm as she stood in the weak sunlight. Éowyn jumped a little when Hilde quietly called her name, turning briefly to give her a faint smile before looking out onto the courtyard again. Éowyn didn't even seem to hear Hilde as the flame-haired shieldmaiden asked how she was feeling. Curious what could have captured her friend's attention so fully, Hilde walked slowly to her side, peering beyond the arched windows that lined that wall of her room.

It was then that she realized what it was that her friend was looking at, or rather, who.

"That's Lord Faramir, son of Denethor, the new Steward of Gondor," Hilde supplied after a moment. She could tell from the way Éowyn's head tilted that she was listening and curious, but she still didn't take her eyes off the man in the courtyard. He stood near one of the columns, leaning against it as he looked out over the city. Every now and then he would look up toward them. Once his eyes flicked over Hilde, but his gaze seemed reserved for Éowyn alone. Even from over the distance, Hilde could see the same interest lay in his face that she could see in Éowyn's eyes.

"The new steward? What happened to Lord Denethor?" Éowyn's absent query was little more than a whisper. Hilde wasn't even quite sure that Éowyn was really speaking to her, or was even really looking for an answer. Hilde hesitated. She had only just heard herself of the madness that had taken Faramir's father, and wasn't sure just now was the best time to bring it up.

"He fell, during the battle," she supplied instead. Éowyn only nodded, confirming in Hilde's mind that she was only half listening to her. Hilde nearly smiled. She knew that distracted look. It was one she knew well; she had borne it herself and sometimes bore it still, and she had seen a frailer version of it on Éowyn's face once before. This was different this time, though.

Éowyn was starting to fall in love with Faramir.

Oh, she didn't know it yet, but Hilde could see it in the way she studied him, a soft look of preoccupied wonder and consideration on her face, her eyes widening and her face flushing gently whenever he caught her looking at him. Hilde wondered if her friend was drawn to the gentleness of him. It was a realization that eased Hilde's heart. She had met Faramir, briefly, and had spoken with him. She liked him a great deal and, the more she thought about it, the stronger her conclusion that his quiet nature and good heart suited Éowyn.

The only shadow on her mind was the realization that, were her suspicions correct, Éowyn would linger in Gondor, and Hilde likely would only see her rarely, if ever. The thought of being so separated from her friend hurt, but seeing the peace that suffused Éowyn's face as she contemplated the young Steward greatly eased that pain. She had not seen her new sister so at peace in a very long time, if ever.

And it brought a smile to her face when she absently considered that Éowyn wasn't likely to be the only Shieldmaiden that would settle in Gondor. Already Hilde had noticed several of the younger, unmarried shieldmaidens growing close with men of Gondor. She had seen wounded who had lain side by side in the Houses of Healing developing attachments as they had recovered; like Aéllen, Hilde and Willa's sharp-eyed scout, who had found a bond developing between her and the Gondorian Ranger who had lain near her as his own injuries healed. Hilde had also seen those tending to the injured growing closer to individuals they had tended; like Meryld, an older shieldmaiden who had been widowed long before Helm's Deep when she'd been a new bride, who now found herself drawn to one of the Citadel Captains, a man of an age with her who was recovering from the loss of his eye. Hilde had even spotted Illeyen returning periodically to the side of a Ranger of her own. Who knew, perhaps some of these Gondorian men would even return with their shieldmaidens to Rohan. Further, she didn't doubt that many Rohirric men would be returning home with Gondorian women at their sides...several likely with new young families in tow. She also didn't doubt that in the months to come there would be many half-Rohirric babes born in the White City, and possibly a few half-Gondorian babes back in Rohan.

It felt a little strange to think of the attachments that came of war, all somehow the stronger and more precious in the light of so much darkness and loss. Below, one of the healers had come to stand beside Faramir, gently leading him back inside the Houses of Healing after a moment. As he turned he hesitated, looking back over his shoulder to gaze up at Éowyn one final time before disappearing into the building beyond. At her side, a small, pleased smile had bloomed on Éowyn's face.

Reaching over, Hilde took her friend's hand, squeezing it gently as they both looked out over the courtyard.

Chapter Text

Hilde sat in a quiet corner of the courtyard, peering out over the quiet greenness that grew amid the cool stone and pale sunlight. Up in her chamber Éowyn had been ordered back to her bed to rest, though Hilde suspected she would return to her window as soon as she woke again just as she was sure Lord Faramir was likely to return to the courtyard for a chance to catch a glimpse of her again. Their budding romance did wonders to lift Hilde's spirits, and as she sat on the bench in one of the quiet green alcoves that surrounded the small court, she could feel herself beginning to drift off, the thought of the nightmares she would no doubt encounter not seeming nearly so threatening as they had before.

The sky was beginning to darken when she finally woke. Though she couldn't remember just what she had been dreaming of, she knew from the way her nails were clenched against her palms and her sprained finger throbbed that it had not been pleasant. It took her a brief anxious moment to figure out where she was amid the lingering bonds of sleep. She was no longer on the stone bench where she had been sitting when she dozed off, instead lying in the chambers she and Éomer had been given, pleasantly warm thanks to the thick wool blanket tucked up around her shoulders. It was then that she realized she was not alone.

Lost in a light doze, Éomer lay in front of her, their foreheads nearly touching while his hand rested comfortingly on her waist. Instantly her lingering unease vanished and she found herself staring at him, trying to memorize every facet of his features. Unbidden, her fingers, still stiff and aching from the way she had clenched them in her sleep, lifted to trace his jaw, gently carding his long hair away from his face.

It was a moment before she realized his eyes had opened, watching her with the same intentness as she had been looking at him. It was a long while before either of them spoke, happy instead to just savor this peaceful time alone. His hand had begun trailing up and down her side, sometimes absently tangling in her long red-gold hair while she continued to trace his features with gentle fingers.

But eventually a shadow began to grow in his eyes, something Hilde didn't miss. Immediately she knew something had been decided at the discussion in the Throne Room, something that clouded her husband's eyes as he tried to push it from his thoughts.

"What happened," she finally asked quietly, "what did you all decide." It was a long time again before he answered, a reluctance to talk about it just yet surfacing on his features.

Eventually, though, he told her everything; about the Halfling who even now was trekking through Mordor to destroy Sauron's fabled Ring, about the reports of Sauron's forces regrouping... about Aragorn's plan. Here he faltered. Hilde tried to give him a reassuring smile, but already she could feel the now familiar feeling of dread coiling in her chest.

"We march on the Black Gate, Hilde," he said quietly. Not them, we. What was left of Rohan's army was to march with Aragorn to Mordor, including Éomer. Hilde's breath caught in her throat. Her fingers had stilled as he'd spoken, coming to rest against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Now, as resignation threaded through his voice at the outcome of that last council, her fingers had tightened on his shirt, her knuckles white, pain lancing through her sprained finger. Slowly her eyes closed, fighting tears for what felt like the hundredth time. She was sick of crying. Just when she had begun to think they were safe, to hope that their part in the war was done...

"Lord Aragorn has suggested that you stay here, leading the remaining shieldmaidens and a small host of our men to safeguard the city." It was a testament to just how weary Hilde felt in that moment, that her protestations were given with only half-hearted enthusiasm.

"Surely there are others far more suited? Gamling? One of the Gondorian Captains?" he nodded briefly.

"Gamling is already set to lead a small host of his own that will patrol just beyond the city walls. You will be here, inside." Hilde frowned.

"Or I could ride with you again." A faint grin quirked his lips. Shifting forward he placed a soft kiss against her lips.

"I get the feeling that we are going to have this conversation every time I ride out," he said lightly before turning serious again, "more than looking to the defense of the city, I need you to prepare to return to Edoras. Take the shieldmaidens and Éowyn with you, and see to the Golden Hall," he sighed heavily then, the shadow of grief surfacing again in his eyes, "and return my uncle to Meduseld." Hilde felt him tensing beneath her fingers. A faint smile of her own tugged at her mouth as a thought came to her, drawing a faint confused frown from her husband.

"Perhaps, Éowyn should not leave just yet," she murmured, tentatively meeting his gaze. His brow furrowed with concern and bewilderment. Her fingers lifting, she did her best to smooth his brow with a gentle touch. "She has found a peace here that I feared she might never find, and his name is Faramir. It would be cruel to take her away just yet." Éomer's eyes widened as he slowly understood what she was suggesting. A flicker of worry passed over his features, and she could see his protective instincts waking in the way his jaw set, his grip involuntarily tightening on her arm. Leaning forward she kissed him softly again, her fingers combing lightly through his beard. After a moment he began to relax, his gaze falling on her questioningly.

"You think she has fallen in love with him?" Hilde nodded.

"She looks at him the way I have always looked at you. The way I see you sometimes looking at me. And she smiles when she sees him, quietly, without even realizing she does it." Hilde quickly swallowed back the emotion that was suddenly rising in her throat. It was something she saw mirrored in her husband's eyes; he feared for Éowyn's happiness now just as much as he feared for her health. They both worried at how Théoden's death had affected her, not to mention her experiences on the Pelennor Fields. That she might now have a chance of real happiness...it still didn't banish the wariness in his eyes. Hilde nearly chuckled at the look. It felt normal, seeing such brotherly concern surfacing amid the concerns of war and newly bestowed kingship. He raised an eyebrow then at the way she was stifling her laughter.

She merely shook her head as her grin widened, her arms snaking around his waist as she burrowed into his arms. After a moment he too chuckled lightly, the sound rumbling quietly in his chest as Hilde tucked herself beneath his chin.

Strangely, it was with an almost dreamlike detachment that Hilde pulled herself from her husband's arms. As he had ridden for Gondor her heart felt on the verge of breaking as she fought the fear that she was saying goodbye for the last time. Now, for some reason, while she did feel that fear, it wasn't consuming her as it had then. Perhaps it was because every time she had thought she had seen him for the last time he made it through, returning to her side without fail. Or maybe she was just learning to master the paralyzing fear better.

Oh, she still feared. Her heart thrummed with terror like the futile beat of a snared bird's wings. It was rumoured that over ten thousand orcs waited in Mordor, and the force readying to ride out from Gondor was only a couple thousand strong at most. There was a very real chance that they were all riding to slaughter. But she stood firm anyway, embracing her husband tightly as he bid her a final farewell in the great courtyard. Off to the side Aragorn, resplendent in garb fit for a King, was descending the steps of the Great Hall toward Brego, who was also arrayed for battle in the white tree and stars of Gondor. Gandalf was already mounted and waiting on Shadowfax, the Halfling Peregrin Took sitting in front of him. Hilde took no notice. She was too lost in that final embrace.

She had been utterly bewildered when Éomer had captured her lips in a final, searing kiss, his fingers digging into her back as he pulled her closer. He was never so open with his affections, not unless they were alone; he was normally too stoic and solemn for that. It only served to frighten her more at the way he held her with such abandon in the centre of the courtyard, in the shadow of the White Tree. It had only stoked her own desperate fears, and she had wound her arms about his neck, not wanting to let go anymore than he did.

But she did let go, and so did he. And despite the all encompassing fear that had been fighting to gain hold in her heart, she watched him go with dry eyes and steady hands. It didn't feel real; perhaps that was why it hadn't consumed her. Mounted on Firefoot, Master Brandybuck riding behind him, he met her eyes one more time, his love for her plain for all to see as a tiny comforting smile lit his lips. Hilde hugged herself tightly, feeling like she was holding back the wave of grief just waiting for a chance to break free.

As Aragorn, Éomer, Gandalf and the rest of the Host of Men descended through the levels of the White City, Hilde blindly made her way back to the Houses of Healing to watch the Host cross the plains on the road to the plain of Dagorlad and the Black Gate with Éowyn.

Stepping into the courtyard, she paused as the watery sunlight hit her face. There was a chill in the air that seemed to match the one growing in her heart. Across the small green courtyard Éowyn stood framed in one of the arches that looked over the Pelennor fields, a dark blue cloak wrapped about her shoulders as she looked out at the Host as it moved steadily down the road. Hilde had been nearby as Éomer told his sister of the march to the Morannon, and had been unable to watch as Éowyn threw her arms around her brother, distraught at the news. Not once did her sister ask to ride with them. That Éowyn had been changed by her encounter with the Witch King was abundantly clear. No longer did her longing and passion for battle burn within her, but had been replaced with what Hilde could only describe as a longing for peace. It was a desire Hilde could easily say she shared, though part of her heart longed to be down on that road with her husband, even after all that she had seen and all that now haunted her.

Éowyn wasn't alone, though. As Hilde walked down the handful of steps from the main House onto the bare soil that filled the courtyard, she could see Faramir stepping to stand beside her friend, speaking quietly with her as a small, gentle smile lighted on his features. For a long moment their eyes met before he reached out, lacing his fingers through hers. Hilde couldn't help but smile with satisfaction when Éowyn stepped closer, leaning against him, her head tucking against his shoulder.

Though the sight pleased her, Hilde still felt her breath catch painfully in her chest as she watched them looking out on the Host headed to the Black Gate. As happy as she was for her friend, the sight of them together, watching as Hilde's own husband rode off to a likely death was proving far more painful than she had anticipated. Unable to bear it any longer, she turned, unsure where she intended to go, but determined to go somewhere else, to leave her friend alone with her new companion. Her foot scuffed against the first step, evidently loud enough that it caught Éowyn's attention, for by the time she reached the top step Éowyn was close behind her, reaching out to take Hilde's hand.

Turning, Hilde met her new sister's concerned gaze. It proved to be too much, and the reality of what was happening around her came crashing in on Hilde. Before she could stop herself, a sob tore from her throat, then another. As tears poured down her cheeks, she buried her face in her hands, struggling to regain control. Instantly Éowyn was wrapping her arms around her friend, her gentle hands rubbing soothing circles over Hilde's back, murmuring what comfort she could. Though Éowyn's voice grew thick with her own emotions and anxieties, she held on tight to Hilde, letting the flame-haired shieldmaiden cry into her shoulder as she finally lost control against the surge of fear and anxiety that had been eating away at her since before the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

Eventually she managed to calm herself, shuddering as her sobs quieted. It was something she realized she should have done a long time ago. All the fear and worry, the anxiety and horror had been building within her, growing into a toxic, aching knot of bitter emotion in her chest that she had been battling to contain rather than just letting it go.

Even though she still desperately feared for Éomer's life, she felt better now than she had in a long while. Pulling back, she managed to give Éowyn a faint apologetic smile. Her friend only sighed with a faint look of affectionate exasperation flickering in her eyes before pulling her friend into a second, bolstering hug.

Out across the scarred fields the column of men bound for Mordor were finally disappearing into the distance. But Hilde felt lighter now, and for the first time since she had heard of the plan to march on the Black Gate she felt a true flicker of optimism. A fledgling hope that perhaps Éomer wouldn't only come back to her, but when he did this forsaken war would be over, and the Dark Lord who had torn their lives apart would be vanquished.

Chapter Text

"Then, just as all hope seemed lost, the Halfling Frodo Baggins saw Sauron's terrible Ring cast back into the rivers of fire that dwelt in the heart of Mount Doom, and it was no more. A great screaming roar rent the air, and the monstrous black tower of Barad-dûr crumbled and cracked, splintering into colossal shards of rock and metal as it fell crashing upon the plains of Gorgoroth, a great wind rushing over the land as the fiery eye of the Lord of Mordor winked out forever." Haleth's voice wove through the hall, casting its spell on children and grown men alike. Hilde could only listen quietly, a small smile on her lips. It pleased her more than she could say that her brother, now a young man grown, had inherited their father's gift for telling the great tales of their land.

On his lap Hilde's eldest daughter, Éodwyn, who was almost five now, was cuddled up against her uncle. Her green eyes were wide with fascination as Haleth told the tale of the War of the Ring, as it was now known. At Hilde's side, her three-year old son Éodain gasped loudly, his small hands holding tight to her fingers with every ounce of strength he could muster. In her lap the baby made a soft sound, oblivious to the excitement of the story as she slept nestled in Hilde's arms. Haleth smiled over at his nephew.

"Then the field began to shake, the ground cracking and falling from beneath the feet of the Dark Lord's hoards, swallowing Black Gate and any orcs who could not flee fast enough into the earth, while in the distance the sides of the dark mountain burst forth with rushing gouts of fiery molten rock. King Elessar and our own Éomer King looked on in joy as they realized it was all over, that now, at last, our lands could have peace." Éodwyn's mouth parted in awe as Haleth's voice went silent, his story over. Then, turning so quickly she inadvertently elbowed her uncle in the ribs, she looked to Hilde. Haleth grunted with discomfort, though his warm brown eyes laughed at his niece's enthusiasm. It brought a smile to Hilde's face.

From the very first Éodwyn had decided that Haleth was to be her dearest friend and kindred spirit. As soon as she could walk she had tried to follow him everywhere, often scaring Hilde soundly when she found her way into the stables. Like her uncle, now the King's Stablemaster, the little girl had inherited the same particular understanding of horses that ran in her mother's family. More than that she had never questioned that he had only one arm while she and everyone else had two, and that blind acceptance had done more to helping Haleth make peace with his loss than anything else.

"Were you there, Mama? Was it really like that?" Hilde had to fight from tightening her grip on Ellda, the baby mewling in her sleep as her mother shifted. It was still painful to remember those days, even sitting here in the Great Hall of Meduseld surrounded by her family. Haleth looked over at her, a trace of concern flitting over his features. In that moment he looked so much like their father; the same set to his mouth, his brow creasing with worry the same way as Háma's had. Hilde managed to pull a smile to her face.

"No. I didn't ride to the Black Gates. I stayed in the White City. But I saw it nonetheless," she hesitated, the memory clear and insistent in her thoughts.

"The eastern sky was so dark. But the instant the Ring returned to the fires of the dark mountain the skies over Mordor seemed to glow red; an evil, pulsing light that seeped over the mountains that border those lands. The clouds roiled and churned and even in the White City I swear the ground beneath our feet trembled. The very earth seemed to know the great evil of our world had been banished. Moreover, we knew it in our hearts; it was like a great weight had been lifted that none had realized pressed down on us. Then the sky began to clear and the sun shone with warmth again."

She had been standing with Éowyn in the courtyard of the Houses of Healing, overlooking the scarred plains of Pelennor when it had happened, both knowing that off in the far distance, the final battle was being fought. Faramir had stood with Éowyn, his arm draped lightly about her shoulders. When the ground beneath their feet trembled Hilde had to reach out for the column she'd stood beside for reassurance. Next to her Éowyn's hands had flown to cover her mouth, her lips parted in disbelief as tears had begun streaming down her cheeks. It had taken a moment for Hilde to process what had just happened, her own face damp as comprehension came crashing in on her. She had started laughing then, and soon she and Éowyn were clinging to each other, each all but sobbing with relief and joy at the realization that it was all—finally—over.

In her lap, Ellda had woken as Hilde spoke, her dark brown eyes looking up at her mother as her small, pudgy fingers grabbed and tugged at Hilde's hair. It was enough to remind Hilde that those dark days were now only memories.

"Then what happened?" Hilde looked up, meeting her elder daughter's insistent green gaze. Hilde laughed a little.

"Your father came back to me, and together we returned here to Edoras, bringing Théoden King home to rest beside his son," her voice choked a little at the memory, the sadness of the last King's death and the death of his son still lingering in Hilde even as she knew it lingered in her husband, "And then your Father was crowned King of the Mark. Not long after that your Aunt Éowyn returned to Gondor to marry Lord Faramir, something your Father and I returned to Minas Tirith for."

That had been a happy day. Éomer had grumbled a little that his little sister was to live in Ithilien, though Hilde remembered fondly that it was only out of brotherly protectiveness and the realization that Éowyn would no longer be by his side the way she had their entire lives. Éowyn had positively glowed she had been so overjoyed and her new husband hadn't been able to take his eyes from her.

"And King Elessar too took up his throne," Haleth added. Hilde nodded. Not long after Éowyn had wed, Aragorn had been crowned himself, taking his place as the King of Gondor. Hilde had stood by her husband's side that day, across from Éowyn and Faramir before the Great Hall of the Citadel and the Tower of Ecthelion. The air had been warm and the sun bright while blossoms from the White Tree danced in the breeze. She remembered the feeling of joy that seemed to float through the air, with smiling faces all around her. Aragorn had also been reunited with his lady love, the elf-maid Arwen, that day and not long after the coronation—on Midsummer's Day, if Hilde remembered right—they too had been married; news had even come not too long ago that the Gondorian King and Queen were anticipating the arrival of another child come spring.

"Yes, Aragorn was crowned King while we were there. And then we came home," Hilde confirmed.

"And then?" Hilde truly did laugh this time. Every time she could convince Haleth to tell the story of the One Ring, Éodwyn always did this as the story ended. Hilde knew exactly what the flame-haired girl was after.

"And not long after your Father and I returned to Meduseld we discovered you were going to be born. Then later, your brother after you," she responded patiently. Éodwyn smiled, satisfied.

"Then Ellda," Éodain finished with an authoritative nod. Hilde wrapped her free arm around her golden-haired boy, placing a kiss on the crown of his head. He squirmed.

"Yes, then Ellda," she confirmed; three of the most precious things in her life.

Across the Hall the main doors opened, the warm glow of sunset visible in the sky as the King's party returned home. With a squeal Éodwyn leapt from her uncle's lap and was racing across the dim space, weaving between the adults who had gathered to hear Haleth telling the story. Before Hilde could grab him, Éodain was off too, trailing after his sister. Hilde only sighed with affectionate exasperation, shaking her head as she tickled Ellda's tummy, drawing delighted laughs from the baby. A moment later and the crowd parted, allowing the King through, carrying his laughing son under his arm while their eldest child clung to his hand, her father's helmet clutched tight in her slim arm as she all but dragged him over to where Hilde and Haleth sat in the centre of the small gathered crowd.

With a wide smile, Éomer deposited the squirming boy on the bench next to Hilde before reaching over to greet the baby with a tender touch on the cheek. Ellda burbled happily, capturing her father's gloved fingers in her own before determinedly trying to put them in her mouth. Leaning down, Éomer placed a quick kiss on Hilde's hairline, the fingers of his free hand tangling themselves briefly in her red-gold hair as he smiled down at her.

Yes, Hilde couldn't help but think, the dark days truly were no more than memory.

"Welcome home," she murmured, catching his fingers in hers.

Lying next to her husband that night, Hilde realized she had never been more content. They were not alone. As they had been preparing to retire, the door to their chambers had inched open, a little face peering around it before their son had dashed across the room and wiggled his way into bed between them. Éodain had wrapped his arms around Hilde's neck, placing a quick kiss on her cheek before snuggling into Éomer's side, his small blond head resting on his father's shoulder. At the foot of their bed, Hilde could hear the soft, slow breaths of their youngest baby. Ellda would be a year old before the winter came, so soon—in theory—Hilde and Éomer would soon have the chamber to themselves again.

It was strange how quickly she had accepted the King's chambers as theirs. She could still remember the first night she and Éomer had spent in them together. It had just been the two of them then. They had just returned from Gondor and, though Éomer had not yet been crowned, and it was their first night in the Chambers of the King. Then it had seemed strange to think of the rooms as theirs; for as long as Hilde had memory, the King's Rooms had been Théoden's. They had both been completely overwhelmed in those days by the conflicting emotions that came following the end of the War.

Now, as Hilde lay curled around their son at her husband's side, her fingers brushing the boy's soft curls from his face, nothing felt more normal. Eventually, the little boy's breaths slowed, evening out as sleep and dreams took him. Leaning over and placing a light kiss on her son's temple, she nodded silently to her husband, unable to help the grin on her face. With a small smile that still made Hilde's heart flutter, Éomer sat, careful not to disturb their son from where he clung to his side.

As he disappeared out the door with the boy in his arms, Hilde couldn't help but think with amusement that the sight of the King, barefoot in only a shirt and breeches, wandering the halls of Meduseld had to be becoming a common sight to the people of the Golden Hall. One of their two older children, sometimes both, always seemed to be sneaking out of their room, necessitating being returned to their own beds, and even though she was almost old enough to be moved in with her siblings, Éomer would still sometimes walk Ellda around if she fussed to lull her off to sleep.

Hilde only sighed with happy exasperation as she lay back, brushing her hair from her face as she thought about their children's antics. Then her thoughts turned back to the Dark Days of the War, as she had come to think of them. Haleth's storytelling earlier that evening had gotten her thinking on it again, and she was suddenly determined to pick out the good memories from the bad. Her wedding had been good, one of the happiest days of her life really. Éowyn's wedding had also been a happy day. Éomer's Coronation. Aragorn's Coronation. Her brother's miraculous recovery. Her country and her people had made it through, perhaps worse for wear, but they were rebuilding.

Her husband had survived, as had she, and her brother and Éowyn when so many others hadn't made it through the darkness, like Théodred, Théoden, and her Father.

A memory came back to her then, springing to mind with all the vivid intensity of a summer sunrise. She had been in the Houses of Healing with Éowyn, taking a break from the duties left to her while safeguarding the city, when the host that had marched on Mordor had returned. Far below, as they rode through the shattered gates of the City, horns had sounded, signalling their victorious return. Hilde had frozen mid-sentence when she heard the familiar sound, anxiety and hope fluttering in her chest like a bird struggling to break free. In an instant she was on her feet, Éowyn following close behind as they dashed out of the place of healing.

She closed her eyes, basking in the memory.

She had made it to the Citadel as the riders emerged from the level below. She didn't even see who else had returned, for she'd had eyes only for one, her gaze desperately searching the milling riders for the one she frantically longed to find.

Then she had seen him, sitting proud and grinning atop Firefoot, the dappled horse prancing in the overwhelming excitement that filled the air. He'd caught her gaze almost the same moment she saw him. With a sharp intake of breath she was dashing forward, nearly tripping over her borrowed rough-spun skirts.

In an instant she had been in his arms, laughing and weeping and kissing him with immeasurable relief and joy as he caught her up, spinning her around as he laughed with her, kissing her back with equal fervour. She hadn't wanted to ever let go, never wanting that moment to end.

The quiet sounds of the door closing and Éomer crossing the room to their bed drew her back to their chambers. Her eyes opening and fixing on her husband, Hilde held out her arms to him. He complied immediately, settling beside her and drawing her close, his fingers tracing up her ribcage and across her back as her own arms circled his waist. A faint curious frown creased his brow as he looked down at her. One of his hands moved to cup her face, his thumb caressing her cheek and smiling lips.

"Why do you smile like that," his said quietly, conscious not to wake the baby, "with your eyes so far away?" She leaned forward, kissing him lightly.

"I was remembering."

"Remembering what?" His fingers were now trailing along her collarbone, bringing a warm flush to her skin.

"When you came back to me," she replied simply. His lips quirked up in a mischievous smile, though the expression in his eyes was perfectly earnest.

"I always come back to you," he murmured before kissing her back.