The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Riders of Rohan

The steady rhythm of Firefoot's hooves beneath her was a distraction Visenya hadn't anticipated. It was supposed to be a straightforward ride—following Éomer and his men, her mind occupied only with the next steps in finding her companions. Yet, with every stride, every sway of the great stallion, her body shifted against Éomer's, and she found it difficult to keep her thoughts focused.

His strong arm wrapped securely around her waist, keeping her steady, but also keeping her pressed against him in a way that was far too intimate. The warmth of his chest radiated through her back, the closeness making it impossible to ignore the way her heartbeat quickened with each passing minute. She clenched her hands tighter around the reins in front of her, trying to maintain her composure.

Stop it, Visenya, she scolded herself. There were more important matters at hand than the fact that the Marshal of the Riddermark was quite possibly the most attractive man she had met in years. The tightness in her chest, the faint blush creeping up her neck—it was all terribly inconvenient.

But try as she might, the feel of Éomer's body against hers, his firm grip and the way his breath occasionally ghosted against her neck, kept pulling her thoughts into places they didn't belong. The ride was supposed to give her time to think, to plan—but her mind kept drifting back to the heat of him, the strength she could feel every time Firefoot made a sharp turn, forcing her to lean against him even more.

Éomer seemed unaffected, though she couldn't be sure. He remained quiet behind her, his posture as steady as ever, but she couldn't help but wonder if he, too, felt the tension between them. He had to. The space they shared was too close, too intimate. But if he did, he showed no sign of it—his focus, as always, seemed to be on the road ahead.

Visenya tried to calm herself, closing her eyes for a brief moment and focusing on the rhythmic thudding of Firefoot's hooves, the wind in her hair. But it was no use. Every movement, every shift of her body, brought her attention back to the man behind her and the heat building between her legs.

She cursed inwardly, feeling ridiculous. This was no time to let her mind wander into such territory. She was a warrior, a leader, and she had more pressing concerns than the fact that Éomer's presence was... distracting.

Still, the ride stretched on for hours, and with each passing moment, it became harder and harder to keep her thoughts in check.

Suddenly, the air around them changed. Éomer's grip tightened as Firefoot slowed, and Visenya's senses immediately sharpened. She could feel the shift in the energy of the group, the subtle tension that ran through the riders like an undercurrent.

"Orcs," Éomer muttered under his breath, the word barely audible but filled with a sense of foreboding.

Visenya tensed, her hand instinctively reaching toward her side, though she had no weapon of her own. She had fought her share of orcs, but the sudden reminder that she was unarmed sent a jolt of frustration through her.

As the riders came to a halt, Éomer dismounted quickly, signaling to his men with a sharp nod. "Prepare yourselves," he ordered, his voice low but commanding. Without so much as a glance back at her, he strode forward, his focus entirely on the orcs that were fast approaching.

Visenya, left on the stallion's back, bit her lip in frustration. She had no weapon, no way to fight—but she wasn't about to sit idly by while Éomer and his men faced the threat alone. Her eyes darted around, searching for anything she could use, when something caught her attention—the pack strapped to the side of Firefoot.

With swift, practiced hands, she reached down and pulled it open, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the familiar glint of metal. It was her sword. Somehow, the sword had been packed among the supplies. Relief washed over her as she pulled the blade free, feeling the comforting weight of it in her hands.

Firefoot shifted beneath her, sensing her intent, but the great stallion was restless. He wasn't a beast easily controlled, and Éomer's men had already told her as much. Firefoot didn't like anyone except Éomer, and he certainly wouldn't take orders from a stranger.

But she had no choice.

"Steady," she whispered, grabbing the reins with one hand and gripping the sword with the other. "Steady, boy."

The stallion snorted, tossing his head as if in defiance, but Visenya wasn't about to be left behind. With a sharp tug on the reins, she urged Firefoot forward, steering him toward the orcs. The movement surprised the horse—surprised the riders, too—but Visenya wasn't thinking about that now. She only had one goal: to help.

Firefoot charged toward the orcs, and though the stallion resisted at first, Visenya's fierce determination seemed to win out. She leaned forward, guiding him with a firm hand, and soon, they were in the thick of it. Her sword sliced through the air, cutting down one orc after another with swift, precise movements.

Éomer, fighting a short distance away, glanced over just in time to see her—riding his stallion, leading the charge with a blade in hand. His eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and something else flashing across his face. She met his gaze briefly, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips before she turned her attention back to the battle.

Firefoot's stubbornness faded, and together, they moved as one, taking down several more orcs before the last of the creatures were finally defeated. As the dust settled, the riders gathered, murmuring amongst themselves in awe at the sight of her.

Visenya slid off the stallion, breathing heavily as she wiped the blood from her blade. She glanced up just in time to see Éomer approaching, his eyes sharp and assessing.

"You handle yourself well," he said, his tone almost grudgingly respectful. "And Firefoot..." He trailed off, his gaze flicking to the stallion, who stood calmly beside her, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Visenya smirked, resting the blade against her shoulder. "Your horse doesn't seem to mind me."

Éomer shook his head, still clearly surprised. "He doesn't listen to anyone except me."

"Well," she said, her voice light with amusement, "it seems he has made an exception."

There was a pause, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Éomer's eyes lingered on her a little too long, and Visenya could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it seemed to burn through her in a way that made her heart race all over again.

Before either of them could say anything more, a voice echoed through the air—a voice that made both of them freeze.

"Riders of Rohan, what news of the Mark?"

Éomer's head snapped up, his expression immediately shifting to one of alertness. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and he signaled to his men with a swift motion. Within moments, the riders had formed a large circle, spears and swords drawn, all eyes scanning the landscape for the source of the voice.

Visenya, still standing beside Firefoot, couldn't see who it was, but the voice... it was familiar. Her heart skipped a beat as the realization slowly dawned on her.

Éomer stepped forward, leaving her at the back of the circle, his gaze sharp and wary. The men closed ranks, surrounding whoever it was that had called out to them, but Visenya strained to hear the voices, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening.

The voices grew louder, more distinct. And then, there it was—the unmistakable voice of a man she knew well.

"Aragorn," she whispered under her breath, her grip tightening on the reins.

But before she could move, before she could push through the circle of riders to see for herself, Éomer's voice rang out, commanding and firm.

"Hold."

And so, for the moment, she waited, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind racing with questions.