The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Amoung the Riders

Visenya's body still ached, and the wound in her side throbbed with each slow breath she took. The tent felt close, too close. She needed to move, to know the fate of her companions—the hobbits. Her eyes searched Éomer's face, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He stood tall, his arms crossed over his chest, the very image of strength and command, but there was a tension in him, something she could sense, something unspoken.

"Where are the hobbits I was traveling with?" she asked, her voice strained but firm. Her hand gripped the edge of the bedroll as if bracing herself for whatever answer he might give.

Éomer's eyes flickered with something—pity, perhaps, or regret. He lowered his gaze for a moment before meeting her eyes again, his voice low. "When we found you... there were no hobbits. Only you, surrounded by the bodies of the orcs and goblins. The others were... aflame."

Visenya's heart dropped, though she forced herself to remain still, her expression unreadable. She knew better. They had fled into the forest, as she had hoped, hidden away from the burning chaos. They were clever, resourceful. Aragorn would have led them away in time. They had to be alive. She clung to that hope, refusing to believe otherwise.

"They must have escaped," she murmured under her breath, her mind racing through the possibilities. "They would not fall so easily."

Éomer raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, he studied her, as if weighing her words against what he had seen. The silence stretched between them for a long moment, thick with the tension of unspoken questions.

Finally, he spoke. "What is your name, stranger?"

Visenya's gaze met his, and for the first time, a faint smile touched her lips. "Visenya," she said simply. "That is all you need to know for now."

Éomer gave a short nod, though his sharp blue eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, as if he were trying to piece together the puzzle that was this strange woman who had walked out of the flames. "Éomer," he offered in return. "Third Marshal of the Riddermark."

They regarded each other in silence for a beat, each assessing the other, neither willing to reveal more than what was necessary. But despite the tension, Visenya couldn't help but feel a strange pull toward him. He was handsome, in a rough, untamed sort of way. His presence filled the small space of the tent, commanding attention, much like a king on his throne. And yet, there was a softness in him, a sense of honor that intrigued her. She disliked his stubbornness, his way of commanding without asking—but she also couldn't deny the fire that burned in his eyes.

Still, she had more pressing concerns. She needed to find the rest of her group, to reunite with Aragorn and the others. "I must get back to the rest of my company," she said, trying to rise from the bedroll, but Éomer stepped forward, his hand gently but firmly pressing her back down.

"You won't be going anywhere," he said, his voice brooking no argument. "Not until you rest and heal."

Visenya frowned, irritation flaring in her chest. "I've had worse wounds than this," she muttered, though she knew he was right. Her body was weak, and her mind still clouded by the battle. But that didn't mean she had time to waste.

Éomer's lips quirked in the faintest hint of a smile, though his gaze remained steady. "I'm sure you have. But until I say otherwise, you're staying here."

She glared at him, though inwardly, she found his resolve both maddening and oddly... attractive. He was a man who stood his ground, who didn't back down, even in the face of someone like her. It was a rare quality, and one she respected, despite her frustration.

Éomer turned toward the entrance of the tent. "Come. You can walk with me through the camp. But don't think I'll let you ride off just yet."

Visenya sighed but complied, knowing she wouldn't win this battle—not yet, at least. She wrapped Éomer's cloak tighter around her form, using a length of rope to tie it around her waist like a makeshift dress. It was crude but functional, and she had no time to worry about appearances. Still, as she followed Éomer out of the tent, she couldn't help but carry herself with the confidence of a queen, her back straight and her chin held high. Let the men of Rohan see her as they would—she would not appear weak in their eyes.

The camp was alive with movement, men preparing for what was surely another day of battle or flight. As Visenya walked alongside Éomer, she could feel the eyes of the riders on her, their gazes filled with a mixture of fascination and worry. They whispered to one another, their voices low but not low enough to escape her sharp ears.

"The woman who survived the fire..."

"Is she one of them, the legends?"

Éomer's stride remained steady beside her, though she could feel his eyes flicker toward her from time to time, as if he, too, was still trying to make sense of her. She knew what he was thinking. The Riders of Rohan had long told tales of a woman of fire, a goddess who would come in their time of need to save them from the darkness. It seemed Éomer was not immune to the allure of such legends.

As they walked, a man approached them, his face breaking into a wide grin. He was tall, nearly as tall as Éomer, with broad shoulders and an easy swagger that marked him as a soldier who had seen many battles. His hair was long and blonde, much like Éomer's, though streaked with the dirt and grime of the road.

"Ah, so this is the mysterious woman who has our captain in knots," the man said with a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'm Éothain, by the way. Third Marshal's right hand and, some would say, his better half."

Visenya raised an eyebrow at the man's boldness, but she found herself smiling despite the tension of the moment. "You have a strange way of introducing yourself."

Éothain chuckled, glancing at Éomer. "I like her already. Far more pleasant than the usual lot we deal with, eh?"

Éomer shot his friend a withering look, though Visenya could see the affection behind it. "Enough, Éothain. We don't have time for your nonsense."

Éothain shrugged, still grinning. "Just trying to lighten the mood, my lord."

Visenya found herself laughing softly, despite everything. There was something refreshing about Éothain's carefree attitude, a welcome contrast to the heaviness that had settled over the camp.

But Éomer's expression grew serious once more as he turned to Visenya. "We're packing up camp. We need to keep moving before the orcs catch wind of our location."

Visenya's heart sank at the thought of leaving. She still needed to find her companions, and every moment spent here felt like a delay. "I cannot stay with you," she said, her voice firmer now. "I must find the rest of my group."

Éomer's eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening. "You're in no condition to go anywhere. And even if you were, I wouldn't let you wander off alone. The orcs will be hunting anyone they can find. You're safer with us."

Visenya bristled at his tone, but she couldn't deny the truth of his words. She hated the idea of staying with the Rohirrim, but she knew she couldn't risk her life—and by extension, the lives of her companions—by acting recklessly.

"I need a horse," she said, folding her arms across her chest. If she was to travel with them, she would do so on her own terms.

At her request, a ripple of laughter spread through the camp. Éomer himself smiled, though there was no malice in it—only amusement. "You think I'm going to give you a horse?"

She raised an eyebrow, unamused. "I can ride as well as any man."

"No doubt," Éomer replied, still smiling. "But we don't have the luxury of spare horses."

He stepped forward, his hand outstretched as he reached for her arm. Before she could protest, he lifted her up with surprising ease, pulling her onto the back of his stallion, Firefoot. She was pressed close to him, the heat of his body radiating against her, and for a moment, her heart quickened, though she refused to let it show.

"Until we find you a proper mount," Éomer said, his voice low and amused, "you'll ride with me."

Visenya scowled, but there was no escaping the situation now. She straightened her back, regaining some measure of dignity as she settled herself on the great horse. It wasn't the arrangement she had hoped for, but at least she was moving.

And as they rode together, with the eyes of the camp still on them, Visenya couldn't help but feel the tension between them—the push and pull of wills that neither would admit to, but both could feel.