Title: Halla the Huntress

Author: ontuva

Beta: Not betaed, so if you see any mistakes, please, let me know :)

Warnings: Cursing, etc, etc

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's characters or Middle-Earth. I don't get any money from writing this, I'm just doing this for my own fun. :) Everything you recognise is from the hand of mr. Tolkien. I only own my OC's.

A/N: YAY. More readers. I'm happy to know people are actually reading and even enjoying this. Thank you! :)

Word count: 2,615

Chapter 4: The Poisoner

Halla woke to the sent of death later that night. At first her groggy mind couldn't comprehend what was going on, until she realised it was quiet in the healer's hut. Too quiet.

The trashing, screaming and the muttering of the young boy whose arm had been cut of had stopped. She could hear the healer talking to one of his apprentices, advising him on how to wash the dead body and how the prepare it for the funeral.

Halla had a sinking feeling on her guts. She could have saved him. If only she had been faster, stronger and not so damn idiotic, he could still be alive.

Another death that was on her hands.

She bit her lip until it bled. She couldn't stand this.

Halla threw the covers off of her and placed her bare feet on the ground. She needed to get out. She needed fresh air. The whole room was spinning and the distance to the door seemed endless in her current state, but she wouldn't stay there. She just couldn't.

She felt sick to her very core.

How many deaths stained her hands already?

No, no, don't think that way. Breathe. Breathe. You can do this. You know what you have to do.

Halla let out a long breath and took a long one in. She regretted it, when she remembered she was sharing the room with the dead boy.

No, she needed to get out. Now.

Carefully she lifted herself and resisted a moan that was trying to escape her mouth. Her sides hurt. They hurt so bad. Like thousand burning needles invading her ribs. Her breath became ragged, but still – she was standing.

A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

The door seemed to be so far away and the healer too close to her for her to be able to sneak out unnoticed, but still, she did it. She wasn't quite sure how and was it even wise, but she did it still.

And how good it felt to be able to inhale the crispy night air. It rattled in her lungs and burned her all the way down, but it felt good. Purifying. The ground had a small section of ice on top of it and her bare feet soon became numb. She didn't care. That death, and all those that would follow the boy in to the lands beyond, were on her hands.

Halla noticed a bench next to the door and sat on it, to save her strength. A bile was rising on her throat and she had to do everything in her power not to break down and sob miserably.

She was a failure, a small part of mind commented. She had failed in everything she had ever tried and would continue doing it until her dying breath. She was cursed to fail. That was her destiny.

The taste of blood in her mouth woke her back to reality. Biting her lip again, really? She had retorted back to her childhood habit so easily?

Her father had been right. She was a weakling and needed to become stronger. Her mishaps had just cost one life. Maybe more.

"Forgive me if I'm interrupting," a male's voice disrupted her trace of thoughts and she couldn't resist to flinch. She thought she had been all by herself. Another mishap on her part.

Halla found her mood lowering when she realised her suspicions had been right and the interrupter was indeed the Marshal himself - Éomer. She wasn't particularly good at reading other people's faces, but Éomer's was true enough to show he wasn't happy.

So, he knew. He had to know.

"You are not. I'm not doing particularly anything, as you can see," she gestured around her, "I'm just sitting." And contemplating how quickly I can get out of the country...

He sat next to her and being a gentleman didn't comment on her lack of proper outfit and kept his eyes firmly on the dark horizon. She swallowed. The unasked question hang in the air and she was afraid of it.

But she knew he would ask.

"It was rather fortuitous for you to have the antidote with you," he started. Halla hoped her condition would have been good enough for her to dart away and leave Rohan immediately.

Oh, how evil the Valar were towards her.

"As I explained to..." she was beginning her answer, but was cut off by a stern look from Éomer. She shut her mouth. Lucky lies. She was so full of lucky lies and people weak from the poison, who were fools enough to believe them.

"I'd like the truth this time. I've been thinking this the whole night and it finally dawned on me. The poison in the orc's possession? It was too exotic for them. They got it from you, didn't they?"

The accusation was out and she realised she wouldn't be able to wriggle her way out of this one. Those deaths were on her hands. It would do no good to lie any more. Éomer already knew. He had seen through her lies.

"Yes," she whispered and held back the tears that were trying their damned best to come out. She wouldn't break down and fall down crying to beg for his forgiveness. No!

She heard him exhale a small disappointed sigh, but couldn't bear to look at him. She felt horrible. They had saved her life and how had she repaid them? With death. Only with death.

And surely they would repay her with death.

"What I'd like to know... No, what I demand to know is... why?"

Halla could feel his gaze on her like two burning coils staring right down at her soul. The guilt in her gut seemed to weigh her down. Why, he asked. Why?

She hadn't done it intentionally!

"I... I..." Her voice was barely audible in the night. "I was bathing." Her voice cracked and she swallowed. Luckily Éomer didn't comment anything on it. "I was reckless. I was stupid. The orc almost got me. I had been stupid enough to leave my saddlebags lying on the ground and after the hit... I was just in a hurry to find someone to help with the wound. I was delirious.

"I left one of my saddlebags in the bank. The one with my poison cache."

There. It was out. The truth was out.

It had dawned on her the minute the soldiers had barged in the healer's hut. She hadn't seen her other saddlebag at all. The sinking feeling had only gotten worse when she had seen the condition the men were in.

Those had been done by her poison.

She had prayed to every deity she knew she had the antidote with her. After finding them she had thanked every deity she knew. One of those had answered to her pleas and she just didn't know which one.

"Now you know," she said and lifted her gaze towards the sky. She would probably die because of this. Then again, faith always had worked in mysterious ways whenever she was concerned.

"You are crying." It was a statement and she was fairly surprised when she felt his thumb wisp away her tear. A part of her was furious of him needing to pity her and other part of her was ready to fall on the ground and receive a righteous death for the deed she had aided the orcs in.

She didn't find the strength in her to answer to him. What would she even say? That she was sorry?

That wouldn't be good enough. A young lad has lost his life tonight because of her. Who knew how many would follow? What would her being sorry help when their families would be presented the with the news? What would her being sorry help when their families needed help in the field, when their families missed their son, brother or a husband?

She being sorry for their loss was worth nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever and she started to feel the cold creeping upon her again. She couldn't resist a chill and rubbed her arms trying to stay warm. She didn't want to go back inside again. Not there, where all of them were.

Halla felt Éomer beside her moving, but didn't know what he was up to until she felt the heavy fur cloak on her shoulders. She braved a gaze towards him and saw that his face was as still as a mask.

"Thank you," she said quietly and looked back at the ground again. Somehow her feet were easier to face than his looming presence.

"It wasn't your fault," he finally said and she couldn't but to feel surprised. It wasn't her fault? How was it not her fault? The orcs had raided her poison supply, used them on his men and now at least one of them was lying on his death-bed. How could that not be blamed on her?

"Yet many deaths could have been prevented if I hadn't been careless," she answered, again remembering the screams she had heard in the healer's house. Inside her head they mixed with her mother's screams.

She swallowed.

Try not to think about it. Try not to think about.

"The lad with the missing arm? He hadn't been poisoned. His death is his own fault, for carelessly riding out of the formation and falling of his horse. He was easy prey for the orcs after that."

Halla's head snapped to his direction almost instantaneously. He hadn't been poisoned at all? So that death wasn't her fault?

First she felt relief and right after that a rushing wave of guilt. How could she be relieved even though a boy has just died? What kind of a person was she?

A horrible person, a voice inside of her answered. A horrible, horrible person.

"The orcs had raided his home killing his mother and her unborn child while he had been herding with his father. After we spotted this raiding party, no one could stop him for foolishly breaking out of formation to rush after some fleeing orcs. His horse tripped on a rabbit hole and threw him off the saddle. The orcs managed to get his arm. He was a fool," Éomer told her. "Albeit a brave one."

"You speak harsh words about our own men," Halla commented, a bit surprised. Then again, her father had said harsher words to her and she was kin.

"Some of them are just boys, fresh from their mother's skirts. I try to get some sense into them before they are accepted in the ranks of the rohirrim, but usually the first battle is the hardest."

"You forget your orders, your hands are sweaty on the grip of your sword and your own heart is beating so hard in your own ears you can barely even hear the enemy," she muttered, not even realizing she had spoken out loud until Éomer's reply.

"You have seen battles?" He sounded surprised. Halla lifted her eyebrow at him and met his gaze head on. She had said this before. She still meant it.

"I hunt orcs," she stated. "So, yes." Some bigger, some smaller, but she had seen her share. And her first one would hunt her for the rest of her life.

You have blood on your hands. She tried to shut the voice of her father from her head. She knew that.

"And why do you hunt orcs?" Éomer's question brought her out of her memories. Halla opened her mouth to answer and then closed it again. The reason? She couldn't tell him. No, not now, not ever.

"That's..." A very personal question she was about to say, but at that moment the healer barged outside to save her from answering. She was about to sigh from relief, but then realised she'd probably have to go inside again.

"Young lady! You should not be out, not with your wound! And with young Marshal! With that outfit! Inside! Now!" He seemed shocked beyond recovery, just staring at Halla and Éomer. And she was wearing his cloak. Scandalous.

"I am terribly sorry, Nerian. She was outside all by herself and I just couldn't let her be alone. Who knows what sort of ruffians might take advantage of her state," Éomer explained with wide and way too innocent eyes.

"You are the worst ruffian of them all," Nerian the Healer muttered back and turned his stern gaze to Halla. "I am quite sure the Marshal needs his cloak back. The nights are cold and he so likes to wander around when good people are sleeping."

To her surprise Halla realised she didn't want to give it back. It smelled nice and it was warm. And she definitely didn't want to return to the healer's hut.

"A good Marshal makes sure his people are safe. And maybe he will see a lady in distress and goes to help him," Éomer continued and Halla was puzzled by his actions. This didn't seem like the same Éomer that had been talking to her earlier on.

"Yes, I'm sure of that," Nerian's voice was full of sarcasm. "Always saving the ladies, the good Marshal. Now, let's go inside now and leave Marshal to his nightly activities." Nerian offered his wrinkly hand to Halla and she looked pleadingly at Éomer. There was a look she didn't quite understand, but after a while she realised she wouldn't be getting any help from there.

"Oh yes, I do feel a bit tired," Halla said with and plastered her face with a fake smile. "How kind of you to escort me back to my bed." She was quite sure both of them heard the forced strain in her voice.

Éomer coughed when she was about the enter the hut.

"My cloak, please?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"But I do like it a lot," she answered and made a pouty face. She could play this game too.

"I do fear it would raise a bit too many questions if I'd let you keep it," Éomer sighed. "A strange woman in town, spending the night with the Marshal and having his cloak in her possessions..."

"No need to continue," Halla said and tried to unburden herself from the cloak without hurting herself in the process. To no avail.

"Here, let me help," Éomer stepped up before Nerian could even make an disapproving noise. He gently lifted the cloak from her shoulders and Halla could feel his breath tickling her hair.

"No one else will know," he whispered just behind her ear, before stepping away and winking an eye. Halla was about to ask what he was talking about when she realised.

He was protecting her: No one else would know where the poisons had came from.

She was about to thank him, when she realised it would probably sound strange. Nerian was pushing her inside, but she did manage to send one last grateful look towards the Marshal.

The look he gave back at her was anything but gentlemanly. She realised too late the light from inside illuminated quite well what she had underneath her nightgown. And her hands came to protect the sight way too late.

She could hear him chuckle outside. If Nerian hadn't been so keen on getting her back to bed she would've run back outside and slapped Éomer.

Men.