The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Of Horses and Fire

Éomer's hands tightened on the edges of his cloak as he knelt, gently laying the woman's unconscious body across his bedroll. His chest rose and fell heavily, heart still racing from the battle, and now, from the puzzling, unsettling presence of the woman who lay before him. She was unlike any he had ever seen, and yet, there was something strangely familiar about her—something that tugged at the deep recesses of his memory.

The firelight flickered over her pale face, her long, silver hair spilling like moonlight over the dark wool of his cloak. She seemed impossibly delicate, as if she had been shaped by the stars themselves, a figure of ethereal beauty who belonged far away from the bloodstained fields of Rohan. But even unconscious, her presence was powerful, commanding the room in a way that no mortal woman could. It was as though the very air around her hummed with an otherworldly energy.

He leaned back on his heels, brow furrowing as he took in the sight of her still form. She looked peaceful now, but he couldn't forget the moment he had first seen her—walking from the flames, untouched by the heat that had claimed the bodies of so many others. The riders had whispered it among themselves, the legend of the Fire Goddess, Lénaithil, the woman of the stars who could withstand the flames of evil. Éomer had never put much stock in legends, not when the troubles of the present demanded so much of his attention. But now, here she was—alive, real, and wrapped in his cloak.

"Is she truly a goddess?" he muttered to himself, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of her cheek.

Before he could fall deeper into the whirlwind of his thoughts, the flap of his tent stirred, and a young healer of the Rohirrim stepped inside. Éomer stood abruptly, his frame filling the small space, towering over the healer, who blinked in surprise at the sight of his captain standing so near to the mysterious woman.

"Her wounds need tending," Éomer said brusquely, as if the urgency of his words could mask his unease. He wasn't used to feeling this way—off-kilter, uncertain. His mind was trained for battle, for leadership, for riding into war with a clear head and fierce resolve. But this woman—this goddess—stirred something in him that no enemy sword ever had.

The healer nodded and moved to kneel beside the woman, his hands already reaching for his pouch of medicinal herbs and tools. But Éomer didn't move. He stayed rooted to the spot, his arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes flicking between the healer and the woman. He didn't trust the young man alone with her, not because he suspected ill intentions, but because the mere thought of anyone else being near her while she was vulnerable made Éomer's stomach twist.

The healer glanced up, sensing his captain's discomfort. "My lord," he said softly, "if it's your wish, I will tend to her wounds with all the respect due. I will not taint her dignity."

Éomer's jaw tightened, and he gave a short nod. "See to it."

The healer gently unfolded sections of the cloak, taking care not to expose more of the woman's skin than was necessary. Éomer's eyes followed the movements, his gaze drawn to the pale skin that was slowly revealed beneath the folds of his cloak. Her collarbone, smooth and unmarked, glistened in the dim light, and further down, the healer uncovered the edge of a fresh wound on her side.

The sight of it made Éomer's heart clench. It looked like an arrowhead had torn through her flesh, but the skin around the wound had been strangely cauterized, as if the fire she had walked through had not only spared her life but sealed her injury. The healer's brow furrowed as he examined the wound more closely, his fingers gently probing the skin around it.

"This wound," the healer murmured, his voice low with awe, "it should be festering, or bleeding at the very least... but it's already sealed, and the skin—it's not like any I've seen. Almost as if the fire itself healed her."

Éomer's throat tightened. The legends... could they be true? He had never allowed himself to believe in the old tales, but now, standing here, watching this woman who had emerged from the flames unscathed, he couldn't deny that something extraordinary was at play.

The healer carefully bandaged the wound, taking care not to disturb her further. As he pulled the cloak back over her, Éomer's eyes couldn't help but linger on the exposed skin before it disappeared from view. His pulse quickened at the sight of her vulnerability, a reminder that despite her godlike appearance, she was flesh and blood.

"Will she live?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

The healer nodded. "She will. Whatever happened to her in that fire... it seems she was not meant to perish today."

Éomer let out a slow breath, though the weight in his chest didn't lessen. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or more unsettled by the healer's words. This woman—this goddess—was a mystery, and mysteries were dangerous things in times like these.

As the healer finished his work, Éomer stepped forward, pulling the cloak around her once more, ensuring it was secure. His eyes drifted back to her face, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only indication that she was still with them.

He dismissed the healer with a wave of his hand, and the young man bowed before leaving the tent, his head lowered in respect. Once they were alone, Éomer found himself unable to move. His legs felt rooted to the ground, as if some unseen force held him there, compelled him to stay by her side.

His thoughts turned dark as he stared at her. The evil that had taken root in Rohan was unlike anything they had ever faced before. Their king, Théoden, no longer recognized his own kin, no longer listened to reason or saw the dangers that loomed over their land. Gríma Wormtongue had poisoned the king's mind, twisting him into a shadow of the man he had once been. And when Éomer had spoken out against the corruption festering in the halls of Meduseld, he and his men had been banished, cast out like traitors.

He clenched his fists at the memory. Rohan had been his life, his duty. He had sworn to protect the Riddermark, to defend it against all enemies, and yet now, he was an outcast, forced to fight the darkness from the fringes of his own land.

His eyes flickered back to the woman. Could she truly be the one from the legends? The Fire Goddess, come to save them in their darkest hour? Or was she something else, something far more dangerous?

As if sensing his thoughts, the woman stirred. Her body shifted beneath the cloak, her head rolling slightly to the side. Éomer straightened, his breath catching in his throat as her eyes fluttered open.

For a long moment, she seemed disoriented, her gaze drifting across the ceiling of the tent before finally landing on him. Her eyes— like molten metal, so bright, so alive—locked onto his, and Éomer felt a strange, electric charge run through him, as if her very presence commanded the air around them.

"Where am I?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.

Éomer stepped forward, his gaze never leaving hers. "You are safe," he said, his voice low and calm, though inside, his heart still raced. "You're in my tent, with the Riders of Rohan."

Her eyes flickered with recognition, as if she was piecing together her surroundings. She shifted slightly, her hand instinctively moving to her side, where the bandages had been wrapped.

"You were wounded," Éomer added, his voice roughening. "We found you after the battle... walking out of the flames. You should be dead, yet here you are."

Her gaze met his again, sharper this time, as if she were searching for something in his expression.

"I am not so easily defeated by fire," she said quietly, a hint of something deeper—something powerful—lurking beneath her words.

Éomer felt his chest tighten. He didn't know whether to feel relieved, or more on edge. This woman—this Fire Goddess—had emerged from the flames, unscathed, but what she had brought with her, what she represented, was something beyond his understanding.

And yet, he couldn't help but wonder: had she come to save them, as the legends foretold? Or was she a harbinger of something far darker?