A bright full moon shone out of an inky black sky, illuminating the rolling plains of the Westemnet, and the strawberry roan that grazed on them. The horse seemed to be unaware, or perhaps uncaring, of its rider. The rider was slumped over the saddle horn, their long, dark brown hair cascading down to completely cover their face. Although the face was covered, the hands could be seen clearly, palely reflecting the moonlight.

The peace of the night was shattered presently by the thundering of hooves. The roan glanced up for a moment, before looking back down, seemingly unfazed by this intrusion. This movement, however, caught the eye of the leader of this small band of cavalry.

“That way!” he called, pointing his spear in the direction of the grazing horse. The company directed their horses into a circle around the roan and its rider.

“Why, it’s a girl!” one of the cavalrymen exclaimed, sounding surprised. And it was indeed.

The leader of the group slid from his horse, landing gracefully on the ground. He caught the reins of the roan and lifted up the hair of the girl, gasping at what he saw.

She was perfectly ordinary looking, her skin pale, her hair dark, but the man was unable to take his eyes from her. A long, ragged gash ran from her left shoulder to right above her right breast. Shockingly, she was still breathing. The blood had dried along the edges of the wound, as well as on the hair of her horse. Her eyes fluttered open as the man slid her out of her saddle.

“Can you hear me?” he asked the girl gently, sweeping her soft curls out of her face.

“Yes,” she whispered. In that one word, he could hear that her voice was low and musical.

“What is your name?” he inquired, simply to keep her talking.

“Stearcwyn.” Strong woman, he thought with a smile.

“Stearcwyn, my name is Eomér. I am going to try and save you, alright?” Stearcwyn simply nodded, her amber eyes fluttering closed. “What happened to you?”

“Wildmen,” she groaned, her face twisting in pain. Eomér’s face set into a grim expression as he carried Stearcwyn to his horse. “Take care of her horse,” he instructed one of his men, who nodded and grabbed the reins. Eomér gestured to another rider, who dismounted and gently took Stearcwyn from Eomér. When Eomér had mounted his horse again, the man handed Stearcwyn to him, marveling at how slight the girl was.

“We will take her to the river,” Eomér commanded, then turned his attention to the wounded girl in his arms. “Stay awake, Stearcwyn,” he pleaded.

“I am awake,” she murmured, gaining a small smile from her rescuer.

“Were you traveling alone?”

“No.” Her voice was fading each time she spoke. Eomér looked up anxiously, pleased to see that they were only about one hundred yards from the river.

“What happened to your companions?”

“Not… traveling,” she moaned, her voice fading, and then groaned in pain as her chest heaved.

“We are almost there, Stearcwyn. Stay awake.”

“Alright,” she mumbled, opening her eyes against to look up at him.

It took only a matter of minutes to get to the river. Eomér slid off of his horse, then reached up quickly to take Stearcwyn down.

“I am going to have to see the whole cut, Stearcwyn,” he said gently as he laid her on the ground. She nodded and reached up with shaking hands to undo the tie at the back of her neck. She pulled the top of her dress down, low enough so he could attend to the wound, but not low enough to compromise her modesty.

Eomér drew in a sharp breath as he saw the full extent of the damage.

The cut was deep and vicious; the edges of it stained deep red, with more thick red blood oozing out to stain her already soaked dress. Eomér shifted his horrified gaze from the wound to Stearcwyn’s eyes, which were full of pain. He stood up and looked around for a rag or bit of cloth. Hearing a tearing sound, he looked sharply back at Stearcwyn. Without a word, she held out a strip of brown cloth, torn from the bottom of her dress. Taking the cloth, Eomér went to the river and dipped it in, wringing it out before going back to Stearcwyn’s side.

“What happened to you?” he whispered again.

Taking a shallow, ragged breath, she began. “I live… lived…” She took another breath, this one even shallower. “I lived in a… a tiny village at… at the bend… where the River Entwash… meets the River Snowbourn…” She hissed in pain as Eomér pressed the wet cloth to her wound.

“I am sorry,” he amended quickly, “but it must be done.”

Nodding weakly, she took another shallow breath before continuing. “My… my father is… was… the chief…. He tried… to get us… to safety… but the… the wildmen… they came too… too suddenly…” Stearcwyn’s breath was growing more and more ragged. Eomér threw a concerned look in the direction of her face, but her eyes were focused on the distance, as if seeing the scene replay before her. “We… did not stand… a chance… There were… too many… my brother… he made me leave… on my horse… to try and… get away… but I was not… not fast enough… one of them…” She stopped abruptly, taking a shaky breath.

“You should rest,” Eomér said anxiously. “Finish telling me later.”

She seemed not to hear him. “One of them swung… his sword… It hit me…” Her eyes slid down to the gash which Eomér was tending to so gently. “I do not… remember much… after that… only that you… that you saved me.” She looked up into his eyes, gratitude filling hers.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly as he applied a thick, sticky paste to the cut. “Were there any survivors besides yourself?”

“I do not… think so.” A sob escaped Stearcwyn’s lips, and she cried out as this made her chest heave, stretching her wound.

“Easy now,” he said, laying a tender hand on her shoulder. “Will someone please bring me bandages?” he called into the camp, and one man came hurrying up, almost as if he had been waiting for the call, three fresh bandages in his hands. “You are lucky to be alive,” Eomér said softly as he helped her to sit up.

“Thank… you,” Stearcwyn murmured, before falling into silence. As Eomér tended to her cut, she studied his face.

He was handsome, she decided, and perhaps seven years older than herself. His shoulder length, dirty-blonde hair was held back out of his eyes, which were a clear, warm blue.

“Is she alright?” The voice came from out of Stearcwyn’s sight, and it was full of concern.

“She will live, yes, but she will have the scar forever.” Stearcwyn heard the man’s footsteps retreat. “Set up an extra tent for the lady,” Eomér called. By this time, Eomér had finished dressing her cut. “Can you stand?” he asked gently. Stearcwyn pushed herself up on her elbows, but fell back immediately when this twisted the cut. Without a word, Eomér slid one arm under her head, and the other under the crook of her knees, and picked her up without any hesitation. When they reached the recently constructed tent, Eomér moved the door aside with his foot. Stepping in, he looked around for the bed, laying her gently down on it when he found it. “I will be right back,” he whispered, and left the tent. He came back a moment later, a clean brown tunic in his hands. “Here, let me help you put this on.” He knelt beside the low bed, putting his arm behind Stearcwyn’s back to help her sit up. With his free hand, he pulled the tunic over her head. When this was done, he laid her back on the bed, and she pulled the tunic the rest of the way down.

“Thank you,” she murmured, already drifting to sleep.

“You are welcome,” he said softly, turning to leave. As he held the door open, he glanced back into the tent, smiling slightly when he saw that she was already fast asleep.

oOoOo

The next morning dawned clear and bright. Stearcwyn awoke as the sun filtered through the rough fabric of the tent. For a moment, she was confused as to where she was, but the pain in her chest quickly reminded her. She sat up gingerly, wincing only slightly, and then stood up, walking a few steps to see how it felt. She was a bit dizzy from loss of blood, but her steps grew steadier as she walked to the door of the tent. She slid her feet into her boots, which were set by the door. It took her a moment to realize that she had not taken her boots off the night before, nor had she been covered when she fell asleep, yet she had woken up both de-shoed and covered in a blanket. Still puzzling over this, she stepped out of her tent.

“Good morning, Stearcwyn.” This warm, quiet greeting was given her by Eomér, who sat by the last dying embers of the previous night’s fire.

“Good morning,” she replied in her musical voice. “Did you… did you take my boots off last night?”

“Yes, I did,” he answered simply. “It was quite cold, so I went in to make sure you had enough blankets, and I noticed that your boots were still on.”

Stearcwyn was touched by his kindness. “Thank you,” she said softly, sitting down on the log next to him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. You will never know exactly how grateful I am that you saved me.” She smiled at him.

And I as well, he thought, but aloud he said, “Would you like some porridge?” Stearcwyn nodded, and he handed her an already-filled bowl, and a spoon. Stearcwyn took a bite, grateful for the warmth that spread down her throat and into her stomach. She finished her porridge quickly, then helped as best she could to take down the camp.

While they were doing this, Stearcwyn noticed that her wound was not hurting nearly as much as it should have been. “What was in that poultice? My cut does not hurt like I would have expected it to.”

“Ah,” he smiled, stopping in the middle of taking down a tent and looking up at her. “It was a sort of… magic-infused mixture. I recieved it from Gandalf, long ago.”

Stearcwyn was somewhat touched by this. “Why did you use it on me?” she asked. “Should you not have saved it for more serious matters?”

“Such as what?”

“Such as if one of your men was injured.” She looked down at her hands. “I am sure that one of your warriors is more important that I.”

“Do not speak such things,” he said softly, and she looked up. He stepped a bit closer, but not close enough that they were touching.

“But your warriors can fight,” she protested. “They could help you to save Rohan.”

“So could you,” he said quietly. Before she could ask what he meant, however, he had turned away to finish taking down the tent.

oOoOo

“Do you have a sword?” Eomér asked after they had struck the camp.

“I did, but I must have dropped it, after the attack.” A frown flitted across her face.

“We do not have any spare swords at the moment, but as soon as we can, we will get you one. It is not safe without one.”

“Not that it did me much good when I had one,” she muttered bitterly. He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, then removed to beckon her to follow him. She did this, and he led her to where the horses were picketed. He detached one horse from the group, and led it to where Stearcwyn stood. She gasped in delight and stroked the animal’s mane when she saw who it was. “Good,” she sighed, kissing the horse’s soft muzzle. “I was afraid that she had gotten hurt.” The blood was gone from the animal’s coat, leaving it as silken and smooth as if she had never been dirty.

“She is a beautiful horse.” At these words, Stearcwyn chuckled slightly, as if he had told a joke. “What is her name?”

“Leoht,” she said softly, glancing over to see the look on his face.

“Ah, so she is a beautiful animal,” he laughed as well.

“Thank you for taking care of both of us.” Stearcwyn met Eomér’s eyes shyly, and Eomér held her gaze for a moment before looking away, a strange look in his eyes.

“We must go now,” he said quietly, then raised his voice to be heard by the men. “We leave now!” he called, and all of the men hurried to get to their horses, which were loaded with the tents and provisions. Stearcwyn looked at Eomér a moment more, confused, before swinging her leg up into her stirrups, lifting her arms up to grab Leoht’s reins. It happened very quickly then, and she was not entirely sure what it was that was happening.

As she lifted her arms up, a searing, tearing pain went through her chest. She must have cried out, for she heard several of the men shout, and she heard the steely hiss of swords being drawn. She felt herself topple out of the stirrup, heading for the ground, and then everything went dark, and she heard no more.

oOoOo

When she woke up, she was on a horse, in front of something very solid and warm. She stirred slightly, and the something she was in front of moved in response.

“Are you all right?” The voice was full of concern, and slightly familiar, but she could not place it.

“I do not know,” she said truthfully, moving her head to look at the man behind her. The man chuckled quietly as she shifted to a more upright position.

“My name is Beorn,” he introduced himself.

“Beorn,” she whispered. “Warrior. Are you?” she asked a bit louder.

“I would like to think so.” He chuckled again. Stearcwyn turned her head to scrutinize the man. He was handsome, this was certain, but in a different way from Eomér. In looks, the two men were complete opposites. While Eomér’s hair was straight and blonde, Beorn had curly black hair the color of midnight, which fell to gently brush his collar. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and they seemed to be fathomless. He glanced down at her face, seeming to sense that she was studying him. Blushing a deep crimson, Stearcwyn turned her head to look out at the hills of the Westemnet.

A/N: Name Meanings:

Stearcwyn – Strong Woman (Thank you to WendWriter for finding it for me!!!)

Beorn – Warrior

Leoht – Beautiful