The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Quiet Between Battles

The halls of Helm's Deep were quieter now. The echoes of battle had faded, replaced by the murmurs of soldiers and survivors tending to the aftermath. Éomer, however, found no solace in the calm. His mind was elsewhere, troubled by the image of Visenya in the flames, cutting down Uruk-hai like the warrior she had proven herself to be.

He stood with his uncle, King Théoden, who was deep in conversation with one of his advisors, detailing plans for their departure to Isengard. The king spoke of strategies and travel routes, but Éomer's thoughts drifted. His eyes wandered, scanning the fortress as if seeking someone.

"Éomer, are you listening?" Théoden asked, his voice stern yet not unkind.

Éomer blinked, pulling his gaze back to his uncle. "My apologies, Uncle. I am... distracted."

Théoden raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It's not like you to be distracted, especially after a battle. What weighs so heavily on your mind?"

Éomer opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. How could he explain that his thoughts were consumed not with battle plans, but with the woman who had fought beside them? The woman whose strength and grace had left an undeniable mark on him.

"I need to see to something," Éomer finally said, his tone vague as he turned to leave.

Théoden watched his nephew with a curious gaze, his eyes narrowing as Éomer shrugged off his presence. It was unlike him to be so dismissive, especially in matters of importance. He tilted his head, watching as Éomer strode away with a determined purpose, wondering what—or who—had captured his nephew's attention so fiercely.

Éomer moved swiftly through the fortress, his boots echoing against the stone floors as he wound his way through the narrow halls. The images of the battle, of Visenya in the thick of the fight, replayed in his mind. He had seen her strength, her fire. And yet, amidst the chaos, he had barely had a moment to speak to her, to make sure she was truly alright.

Now, he had the chance. Away from the prying eyes of her Fellowship, away from the protective gaze of his sister, Éowyn. He could finally speak to her, not as a fellow warrior, but as a man who found himself undeniably drawn to her.

He reached the door of her quarters, a simple, worn wooden door that seemed almost too plain for someone as regal as Visenya. He paused, his hand hovering over the handle, a flicker of hesitation crossing his mind. Was this intrusion? Would she welcome him in her personal space, or would she find his presence unwelcome?

He pushed the thought aside. His need to see her, to make sure she was alright, overpowered any reservations he might have had.

With a quiet knock, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Her rooms were small, almost bare compared to the grandeur she carried with her. A modest bed sat in the corner, covered with simple linens. A single chair and a small table with a flickering candle occupied the space near the wall. An old, faded fiber rug lay on the stone floor, and a chest of drawers stood at the far end of the room. It was humble, almost quaint, and in sharp contrast to the woman who inhabited it.

And there she was, standing by the small chest, her back to him as she rifled through its contents. She wore a simple light blue dress, fitted to her figure, the fabric clinging to her form in a way that accentuated the grace and nobility she exuded, even in the simplest of garments. The candlelight flickered against her silver hair, making it shimmer like starlight.

He couldn't help but stare for a moment, taking in her beauty. She looked like a queen, regal and poised, despite the smallness of the room and the simplicity of her dress. The soft material of her gown draped over her body, hugging her curves gently before pooling at her feet. His eyes trailed over her form, lingering on the healing cut that marred her cheek that he could just barely make out peaking from her hair, a stark reminder of the battle they had just survived.

She turned at the sound of his boots against the stone floor, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw him standing in her doorway.

"Éomer?" she asked, her voice soft, uncertain. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

He hesitated for only a second before stepping fully into the room, letting the door close behind him. "I wanted to see how you were," he said, his voice low. "Truly. Not with the eyes of the Fellowship on you, nor my sister's."

Her lips parted, but she didn't speak immediately. She seemed taken aback by his presence, by the intimacy of the moment, yet she didn't move to push him away. Instead, she gave a small, almost resigned shrug, as if the intrusion was unexpected but not unwelcome.

"I'm fine," she said, though the words felt hollow. She glanced down at her hands, which were still trembling slightly from the exhaustion of the fight. "I'm sore, I'm tired... but isn't that how we all feel?"

Éomer took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "You took a cut to the face," he said, his voice soft, filled with concern. "I saw it happen. It's not something to shrug off so easily."

She touched the cut absentmindedly, her fingers brushing over the healing wound. "It's nothing. I've had worse."

But Éomer wasn't satisfied with her deflection. He could see the strain in her eyes, the weight of what they had all endured written in the lines of her face. He took another step toward her, closing the distance between them. "Visenya," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "How are you? Truly?"

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and something in his tone, in the softness of his voice, broke through the walls she had built. She could feel the weight of his concern, the warmth of his presence, and something inside her shifted.

For a moment, she tried to fight it—the growing attraction she felt for him, the way her heart quickened in his presence. She had loved once, deeply, and that love had ended in her husband's death and her sudden appearance in this new land. But she knew in her heart that Cregan would have wanted her to find happiness, even in this strange new world.

Before she could second-guess herself, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Éomer stiffened at first, clearly surprised by the sudden closeness, but it only lasted for a second. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her, his hands resting on the small of her back as he held her against him. His heartbeat thudded in his chest, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her body filling his senses. He held her tightly, as if she might slip away if he didn't.

"Thank you," she whispered into his chest, her voice soft, barely above a breath. "For your concern."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at her, his hands resting gently on her waist. "I'm glad you're alright," he murmured, his eyes searching hers. "I was worried... more than I should have been."

Visenya smiled faintly, the tension between them thick and palpable. She was close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to see the way his eyes darkened as they locked on hers. And when he raised his hand to trace the cut on her cheek, the world seemed to stop.

His fingers were rough from years of battle, but his touch was gentle as he traced the line of the wound. Her breath caught in her throat at the intimacy of the gesture, her heart beating faster as she felt the warmth of his hand against her skin.

"You fought well," he whispered, his voice low, his gaze lingering on her lips. "Like a true warrior."

Visenya's heart pounded in her chest, the air between them thick with unspoken words, unacknowledged feelings. For a moment, she thought she might close the distance between them, might give in to the attraction that had been building between them since they first met.

But instead, she pulled away gently, though the look in her eyes was anything but distant. She reached down, taking his hand in hers, her fingers wrapping around his as she gave him a small, knowing smile.

"We should prepare," she said softly, though the words felt heavier than they should. "For Isengard."

Éomer held her gaze for a moment longer, the tension between them lingering in the air like a tangible force. But then he nodded, squeezing her hand gently before letting her lead him out of her room.

As they stepped into the dimly lit corridor, Visenya felt the weight of the moment settle over her. She knew their journey was far from over, but for now, the warmth of Éomer's presence beside her was enough.