First let me just warn you that by starting a Roheric story, I’m going way out of my usual ‘comfort zone.’ Perhaps it’s a bad idea, but perhaps its about time I’ve expanded my horizons in the world of fan fiction!

Marshal of the Mark

Chapter One

Éomer walked out of the Halls of Meduseld, head bowed, shoulders slumped; not at all the proud, steady stride of a soldier. He stopped before beginning the descent down the stone stairs. He stared out over the land of Rohan, hearing the banners bearing the White Horse flapping in the cool breeze of late winter. His keen eyes, a pale silver-grey, scanned the distant mountains, gleaming a soft lavender in the sun, and then to the wide plains below them, golden and flat. No creature stirred on its wide expanse, as far as mortal eyes could see. Far above him, wheeling in the brilliant blue sky, an eagle called. The sound echoed across the land, haunting and almost foreboding.

The lone Rider of Rohan, Éomer, sister-son of King Théoden of the Mark, stood silent for some time, his eyes straining to see beyond the wide plains and distant mountains to the northwest. Thither was the Gap of Rohan and beyond that, the River Isen. And thither was he to ride today, with a large éored and his cousin, Théodred, son of Théoden, at its head.

A small gust of wind blew Éomer’s golden hair, worn in the two thick braids down his back in the custom of the Rohirrim. The eagle called again, and then Éomer stirred, blinking as though awakening from a dream. He heard light footsteps behind him, and turning, he saw with joy his sister, Éowyn.

Her streaming hair of pale gold blew about her face, and her long white skirts fluttered about her ankles as she walked slowly toward him. “Brother?” she said softly, not wishing to disturb his thoughts. Éomer smiled and embraced his sister lovingly. “Éowyn,” he said. “It is well that you have found me! We ride in less than one hour. I feared I would not be able to say farewell.” His sister gazed up at him, her eyes blue as the sky overhead, filled with love and also sorrow at the parting that must now come. Éowyn and her brother shared a deep bond, and were fiercely protective of one another. By now, Éowyn had become accustomed to Éomer’s ridings with the Rohirrim, but it did not make the partings any less difficult.

“Your fears were unfounded,” the Lady of the Mark said, speaking lightly to disguise the grief in her heart. “Do you not know by now that I shall always come to bid you farewell?” Éomer smiled wanly at his sister, and she lowered her eyes for a moment. “Éomer,” she said presently, raising her eyes again to look into her brother’s eyes. “I am uneasy. I know not why, but I have felt a sense of foreboding, of…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Of dread, ever since Théodred announced that he was to ride out to attack orcs on the Plains. Must you go with him?”

Éomer smiled and tenderly ran his fingers, roughened from long years gripping the reins of a horse, down her cheek. “I must,” he said softly. “But fear not for me, sister. I will be safe, and your fears will prove unfounded.” She chuckled slightly, but her eyes were still troubled. “Éowyn,” Éomer continued, keeping his hand resting on her pale cheek. “I will return. I promise you.” Éowyn smiled, and but one single tear made its way down her face. She was a shield-maiden, able to fight and wield a blade; but she was also mindful of her duties as Lady of the Mark.

A horn sounded, breaking the still air. “I must go,” said Éomer reluctantly. “Farewell, Éowyn.” He embraced her again, burying his face in her golden hair, which smelled sweetly of lavender mingled with hay; she had been in the stables. “Farewell, Éomer,” she returned, kissing her brother tenderly on the cheek. “Tell Théodred to be careful, and return safely.” She smiled, reassuring herself as well as her brother that all would go well; that it was simply another ride.

“Farewell,” Éomer repeated, and quickly descended down the stone steps, shoulders now straight, head held high. He hastened to the stables, where the other Rohirrim were readying their horses, and a stableboy led out his favorite horse, Goldenwind.

Goldenwind was a steed great and powerful, but swift and agile as a deer. His neck was proudly arched, and his golden coat shone in the sun. Saddlebags had been packed and fastened to the saddle, and Éomer swung himself nimbly into the saddle. The stableboy handed up his shield, bearing the White Horse of the Mark, and his long lance.

The stablehand’s face was almost too delicate and fine to be a boy’s; but it was smudged with dirt, and a few bruises showed on his high cheekbones and vaguely around his right eye. He had a quick temper and was often impulsive, which got him into many a fight with the other stablelads, who were envious of his friendship and high position with Éomer and Théodred. 

“Thank you, Teren,” he said kindly to him. The lad looked up and brushed back the thick fair hair that fell over his forehead. “Will you not change your mind and consent to let me ride with you?” he asked hopefully, his pale blue eyes glimmering.

Éomer shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry, Teren,” he said sincerely. “But I cannot allow you to ride – not yet. You are but a lad of fifteen. Perhaps by this summer, you will be skilled and strong enough to ride, but not yet.” Teren’s face fell, but he knew better than to argue. He had been a stablehand for over five years, always having loved and admired horses. He had dreamed of becoming a Rider of the Mark, and battling with orcs. But he was ever told that he was too young for such things. He had begun seriously training little more than two years ago, and had shown a natural talent in wielding a blade. But still it was not enough.

“As you wish, my lord,” Teren sighed, going back into the stables. Éomer watched with mingled regret, sympathy, and relief. He had been just like that at Teren’s age, but he had come now to see that youthful impulsiveness and impatience in a battle could be deadly. Much as he hated to deny the lad, his favorite and most faithful stablehand, he could not risk his safety.

A voice suddenly called out, breaking his thoughts. Théodred, seated on his prancing stallion, Wingfoot, was addressing the Rohirrim. “The orcs are pressing too close to the borders of Rohan,” he said, his voice ringing clear and fearless through the stableyard. His grey eyes burned with hatred for the detestable creatures as he spoke their foul name, and his golden braids blew in the breeze. “We will ride now to the River Isen, where they are seeking to cross into Rohan. We will stop them there, at the Fords, or die in the attempt. Up, Eorlingas!”

Up Eorlingas! Up Eorlingas! The cry resounded through the stableyard as the Rohirrim raised their lances and shouted their support for their leader. Thédred was much like Faramir of Gondor: a leader of men and beast, able to command and lead his men without cruelty or haughtiness; but with genuine love and care for them. He was loved by all in Rohan for his kind ways. But as Éomer and Éowyn knew well, although he was slow to anger, when his wrath was aroused, woe to those who incur his ire! His youthful eagerness had not left him entirely, but he had curbed it, having learned patience many years ago.

Éomer raised his lance and shouted heartily with the rest of the Rohirrim, and Goldenwind pranced beneath him, eager to be off. “Up Eorlingas!” cried Théodred for the final time. Then, turning his horse, he urged him into a gallop, and the Riders followed him. The Rohirrim came out of their homes to wave farewell, and soon, the Riders were out of sight past the gates.

Éomer rode at the front beside Théodred. “I fear that the orcs are multiplying and growing stronger,” he said as they rode out onto the flat Plains of Rohan. “I have heard that they have increased twofold in Ithilien, Gondor, and the far Eastern borders of Rohan.” He looked up at his cousin. “What think you, Théodred? You seem grim, as though you are keeping something unpleasant from me.”

Théodred looked down at his cousin with a bright smile. His thick beard, darker gold than the rest of his hair, hid some of the lines of worry at the corners of his mouth. He was nearing forty-six now, but he did not look older than thirty. His grey eyes held the same depth and wisdom of his mother, Elfhild, but they had also a glint of cold fire in them. “You are perceptive,” he said with a smile. “My heart is troubled. I had a dream last night of ill omen.”

Éomer drew his steed closer to Théodred, concern in his eyes. “Tell me of it.” Théodred sighed. “Not now,” he said. “I will tell you when we have made camp.” Éomer nodded, puzzled by his cousin’s obvious unwillingness to discuss his dream. It must have been evil indeed, to trouble him so. Théodred occasionally had dream-visions, although not many were evil. That was another way he was like Faramir of Gondor.

Young Faramir’s face appeared in Éomer’s mind and he smiled, full of fondness and a brotherly affection for the valiant Gondorian soldier. Rohan was closely united with Gondor, and Éomer had met – and fought beside – both sons of the Steward, Denethor.

Boromir, the older one, was proud and willful, but certainly not without wisdom. He was very skilled with battle strategies, and a great leader of men. He was kind-hearted, and although life as a soldier had hardened him to some things, he cared deeply for his land. He enjoyed children immensely, which Éomer had always thought odd. That a battle-hardened soldier could be so gentle and loving to children, and yet never take a wife. He had not time for raising a family, and although any maid would have been honored to call him her husband, he did not marry.

Faramir, the younger, was wiser than his brother, although there was no rivalry between them. He loved books and studying, under the teachings of Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer. He was passionate about many things, but war was not one of them. He was a good soldier, and one of the most courageous, but he detested bloodshed. Only to orcs did he show no mercy; when fighting against Men, he showed them the most kindness he could, careful not to harm a woman, child or elderly person, and treating the prisoners not too gently, but with compassion. He was a great leader, beloved of all in Gondor, and renowned for his brave deeds in battle, as was his brother.

Éomer had great respect for both Boromir and Faramir, and was proud when he fought alongside them. He wished that now the sons of Denethor were going on the orc-hunt with them – he longed for their pleasant companionship. Not that he did not have friends in the éored – indeed, he had many, for he was kind and well-liked – but Faramir’s wisdom and humility, and Boromir’s courage and strength were a comfort to all, and perhaps, had they been there, Faramir could have eased Théodred’s mind.

‘Ah, well,’ Éomer thought, jerking himself out of his melancholy. ‘They are not here, and we Rohirrim are on our own – one éored against the orcs. The odds are certainly in our favor; the orcs shall see what the Riders of Rohan are made of.

***

That evening, the Riders made camp on the plains. Théodred, though he participated in the merriment and fun, soon retired to his tent, where he stayed most of the night with his chief advisers and captains.

As for Éomer, he had almost forgotten the melancholy of earlier that day, and even the thought of it he banished to the back of his mind. He sat around the large campfire beside his two closest companions, Éorlan and Thenan: two of the youngest Riders, only just turned twenty. They had proven themselves courageous and patient in battle – although they were known as the mischiefmakers to the men around camp.

“Do you know, Éomer,” said Thenan laughingly, his blue-grey eyes sparkling and a strand of his strangely dark golden hair blowing in the soft breeze. “Theno asked me yesterday about Halflings.” Theno was his younger brother, an imaginative, playful lad of ten, not interested in the life of a soldier, but that of an artist. “He asked if they truly existed,” Thenan continued, chuckling at the naïveté of his young brother.

“Does he believe the old tales?” asked Éorlan curiously. His queer green eyes flickered in the firelight, which highlighted his fair, still beardless face, and turned his shoulder-length hair, not tied back in the customary braids of the Rohirrim, but allowed to hang loose, a pale gold.

“Of course,” replied Thenan with a dismissive laugh. “He believes all the old stories; about Lórien, and Halflings…everything.”

“Quite the imaginative lad,” Éomer chuckled.

“Aye,” Thenan agreed. “His head’s always in the clouds. He actually told me not a week past that he saw a tree move.”

There was laughter from the other men gathered around, and a tall, strongly built one called Haldred, said loudly, “He saw a tree move, you say? The lad’s not imaginative – he’s gone mad.”

Thenan’s eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared, although Haldred did not notice. Éomer and Éorlan did, however, and they also became silent. All three of them were fond of little Theno, even if he was a bit odd. He was sweet-natured and gentle, and very pleasant – not to mention interesting – company.

“Theno’s spendin’ too much time around Captain Faramir and those Gondorians,” Haldred continued. “Why, I heard that another one of them went into Lórien!”

“You should not listen to everything you hear,” cautioned another man, named Léof. “That way, you will be able to judge between truth and falsehood.” He looked around at the circle of men, holding their attention with his soft, but authorative voice. “As for myself, I would enjoy a trip to Lórien of the Blossom. Perhaps one day, I shall go there.”

There were startled murmurs from the gathered men, but Léof did not seem to notice their astonishment. He stared coolly at them with his deep grey eyes, the fire throwing shadows on his weather-beaten face.

Éomer, Éorlan and Thenan respected Léof greatly, as did the other Riders. He was well traveled and a renowned soldier; and his soft, gentle speech and kind manner made him a respected captain. He had a wife, Eldreth, as well as two daughters, who were both married and raising families of their own. Through his long years as a soldier – and even for a time as a Ranger of Ithilien (for he had a little of Númenorian blood in him), he had learned wisdom, and his gaze was keen. He was uncommonly skilled at reading a man’s heart and judging his character on first meetings.

Haldred and the other men were respectfully silent, and Léof lowered his stare. After a long moment, someone started a conversation again, and everything returned to normal. When they had finished their dinner, Éomer, Éorlan and Thenan stretched out on their bedrolls, hands clasped behind their heads, gazing up at the stars.

“When do you think we shall meet our first orc-troop?” asked Thenan as the camp became still and the first three soldiers began their watch.

Éomer yawned. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Likely tomorrow. We’re nearing the place where they were last sighted.”

“I just hope they don’t attack tonight,” Éorlan commented, closing his eyes and beginning to drift off to sleep. “But I’m too tired to worry about that now. My watch is after this one, and your’s is, too, Éomer. We had both get some sleep.”

“Yes sir,” Éomer grinned playfully. “I imagine you’ll be waking me ten minutes early, as usual?”

“Of course. You take so long to fully wake up, we need at least a ten minute start.”

“Ha,” Thenan laughed. “My watch is the fourth. I get to sleep in!”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Éorlan teased. “We’re waking you up with us, right, Éomer?”

“But of course. Poor Thenan couldn’t sleep without us, now could he?”

Thenan growled playfully and gave Éomer a clout with his pillow. “Well then,” he retorted. “I’ll see to it that you two stay up with me on my watch.”

Éomer laughed. “Oh no, you won’t. After my watch, not even a stampede of wild horses could wake me up until morning.”

Éorlan yawned and nodded. “Aye, Thenan, he’s right. He sleeps like a stone after his watch.”

“If I yawn much more, I shall split at the ears,” Éomer commented. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Good idea,” Thenan agreed. Éorlan nodded silently, already mostly asleep. Thenan quickly joined him, and the last thing Éomer saw, before sleep took him, was a slim, small figure, sitting alone at the edge of the campfire, watching him silently. But then, his eyes closed, and he drifted into strange dreams of Lórien, Elves, and…Halflings.

To Be Continued... 

Thanks for the review, eokat! I haven't heard of "Meduseld Stories," but yes, this was posted at ff.net. I'm glad you're enjoying it!

Chapter Two

“Our scouts have reported that the orcs are positioned at the Fords of Isen,” Théodred announced the next morning as the Rohirrim prepared to ride. “They have grown immensely since our last attack, and among them are many who are able to travel in daylight.”

There was a murmur of disgust and surprise among the men, and Éomer spoke up. “Think you that we are enough against so many orcs?”

“No,” said Théodred, to the shock of all. “We are but little over a score of men. The numbers of orcs given to us by the scouts was more than one hundred.” He paused for a moment, taking in the crestfallen expressions of the Riders. “But I have sent a messenger to Edoras,” he continued, with the faint hint of a smile. “I have requested that at least two more éoreds to come aid us here.”

“If Gríma Wormtongue even delivers the message to the King,” Éomer muttered disgustedly.

Théodred ignored him and continued. “Meanwhile, we shall approach the Fords and wait for the reinforcement there. If the orcs attack us, I do not think it will be with great force. Move out!”

The Riders swung up in their saddles and rode across the Plains at a canter, alert for any orcs waiting in ambush. That afternoon, they were within site of the Fords, and there Théodred called a halt in a place that was sheltered by a few trees and shrubs.

“We will wait here for the reinforcement,” he announced. “I have sent our fastest messenger; they should be here by the morrow.”

The Rohirrim made camp and a small group went out on foot to scout ahead. Among them were Éomer and Thenan. They led the group, which crept soundlessly through the tall golden grass of the Plains toward the Fords. They could hear them flowing loudly, and the ground became wet and muddy.

“Let us scout further along this side of the bank,” said Éomer quietly, and still staying low, the group followed him through the grass. They could hear an eagle call high up above them, but then another sound came to their ears. A loud, grunting, growling sound, as though of many voices speaking in a harsh, guttural tongue.

“Orcs,” Thenan hissed. Éomer raised his head slightly above the grass, and he saw a group of about two-dozen of the loathsome creatures camped on the opposite bank, feasting on some sort of unknown animal. Most of them were the wiry, bow-legged orcs that plagued Rohan and Gondor unceasingly, but a few of them were tall, taller than a Man or Elf, and strongly built.

Éomer ducked down and turned to his companions. “There are little more than a score of them,” he whispered. “But some are tall and strongly built – they must be a type of Mordor Uruk.”

“Let us attack them,” a Rider called Éothain suggested eagerly. “We are well-hidden and carry bows; we could defeat them!”

“No, Éothain,” Éomer disagreed. “We have not Théodred’s permission – and with Uruks among them, who could say what the end would be? No. Let us report back to Théodred. You may ask his permission to attack them if you wish. Come!”

He turned and they followed him again, keeping low in the grass. When they reached the camp, the men there were sitting down, eating their supper of salted meats and cold biscuits. Éomer approached Théodred, who was standing alone at the edge of the clearing, staring at the Ford but not seeing it with his eyes.

“Théodred,” said Éomer softly, putting a hand on his kinsman’s shoulder. Théodred started and turned; and then smiled, seeing him, and said, “You have returned. I could not see you from here, and I was beginning to be concerned for you.”

“We are fine, Théodred,” Éomer said with a smile. “But we did find an orc-camp, across the Fords. There seem to be some type of Uruks there among them.”

Théodred frowned and shook his head. “I feared as much. It is well that you did not try to fight them!”

“Éothain wished to, but I would not permit him to do so without your consent.”

“That was wise,” said Théodred, draping an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “Until the reinforcements arrive, we can do nothing but watch and wait – although we may occasionally skirmish with orcs that get too close.”

They were silent for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the men behind them, and letting the light breeze cool their faces. But after a while, Éomer spoke. “Will you not now speak of your dream to me, Théodred?” he asked.

Théodred sighed, and then turned to his cousin with a gentle smile. “Yes, Éomer,” he said. “Yes, I will speak of it now, for it is heavy upon my heart.”

“Perhaps it will help you relieve your burden by sharing it aloud,” Éomer suggested as they sat down apart from the other men.

“Perhaps,” Théodred said quietly, and then fell silent for a while. Éomer began to think that he was not going to speak of his dream at all, but then suddenly, his cousin said, “It is an evil dream, as I told you, and I know not how to tell you of it, for I do not wish to fill your heart with dread.”

“Tell me,” Éomer urged, taking Théodred’s gloved hand and pressing it encouragingly. His cousin smiled wanly, and then began.

“I was riding with an éored,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low so that the other men could not hear. “And we were out hunting orcs, as we are now. We met a large force, and Uruks were among them, tall and menacing. No matter how many we slew, there were always more to replace them…they seemed to be endless.

“At last, I called a retreat, and we escaped from them. A great golden eagle alighted on the ground before me when we stopped. ‘You must send for Hope,’ the eagle said. ‘Hope! Send for Hope!’ It spread its wings and flew over us in circles, crying, ‘Hope! Hope!’ But then it landed again on the ground and when it looked up at me, tears shone in its eyes. ‘But alas,’ it said. ‘Hope will not come. Not yet. And doom is near.’ And then it flew up again, and disappeared from sight.”

Théodred fell silent. “Was that all?” asked Éomer quietly.

“No,” answered Théodred with a heavy sigh. “There was darkness for a moment, and then it seemed that I saw something gold, glimmering like the sun. As I neared, I saw that it was a Ring.” He saw Éomer’s look of surprise, and smiled slightly. “Yes,” he said with a nod. “It was a ring, hanging on a fine silver chain. Then the vision cleared, and I saw that the chain was hanging around a…a child’s neck.”

“A child?” Éomer asked incredulously.

“Aye, a…child,” answered Théodred slowly, as though trying to make sense of his own words. “At least, I believe that it was a child.”

“What do you mean?” Éomer pressed.

“Well, it was a small person – a boy, it seemed, but not so. His hair was curling and dark like a Gondorian, but his face was pale and his eyes were blue.” He paused for a moment. “They were strange, his eyes. They almost did not seem alive – they seemed plagued by pain and…I don’t know, guilt perhaps. But the strangest thing about this…boy, was that his face was that of a young man, perhaps twenty years of age.”

“But he was the size of a boy?” Éomer asked, puzzled.

“Yes.” Théodred, too was confused. Éomer’s eyes suddenly widened. “You do not think that it could have been a Halfling, do you?”

“I do not know,” Théodred answered evasively. “But do you remember the dreams that Boromir spoke of before he left in search of that place called Rivendell?”

“Only part,” Éomer replied.

“‘…Isildur’s bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand,’” quoted Théodred. “Even I, who am not learned in the lore of Gondor, remember that Isildur took the Enemy’s Ring in the Battle of the Last Alliance.”

“But I thought it was lost –”

“As did I. But consider: a Halfling, bearing a golden ring on a chain, and the eagle’s words that doom was near. I tell you, cousin, that I am beginning to think that those old tales we have heard as children were not merely ‘old wives’ tales’ after all.” He looked at Éomer, who was silent, trying to understand the puzzling words of his cousin.

“But I beg you, do not tell anyone else of this, lest it dishearten them,” Théodred said urgently. “It is not wise to speak of doom when waiting for a battle to begin.” He began to stand up, but Éomer suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“Do you believe that this is your doom?” Éomer asked, eyes wide and fearful. “That this is to be your last orc-hunt? You did not say so, but you seem to be alluding to it.”

Théodred smiled gently. “I do not know,” he said softly. “It may be so. But do not lose heart, Éomer. I could be wrong.” With that, he stood and walked away to join the rest of the men, leaving Éomer alone to ponder his disturbing words.

***

The next morning, Théodred sent scouts out to look for reinforcement from Edoras. They returned, reporting that they could see no one coming. Théodred’s face fell slightly, but he recovered himself before turning to the men, who watched anxiously.

“They are not coming yet,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “But I’ve no doubt that they will be here shortly.”

The men sat or stood around the clearing, dismayed at not only the scouts’ report, but also the lack of excitement. Men who are used to riding forth into battles and skirmishes become quickly bored when they ride out and are forced to wait and do nothing.

“Why are you so silent today, Éomer?” asked Thenan as he, Éorlan and Éomer whittled small pieces of wood. “Surely it cannot be only from the scouts’ news.”

Éomer sighed. “You are perceptive, Thenan,” he said with a wry smile. “The scouts’ report is not all that is troubling me. But I am not permitted to speak of it.”

Thenan and Éorlan exchanged a puzzled glance. “Does it concern Théodred?” asked Éorlan quietly.

“Yes. But how did you know?”

Éorlan smiled and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Your melancholy expression seems to worsen when you are around him, for one thing,” he said. “And for another, I saw you and Théodred talking together last night, and you have been depressed ever since.”

Éomer managed a small laugh. “You are perceptive, as well, Éorlan!”

“It is my job,” Éorlan replied with a grin. “You would get into trouble within five minutes if it weren’t for Thenan and I looking after you,” he teased.

“I beg your pardon?” Éomer exclaimed with feigned indignance. “I do not know what you speak of. I can take care of myself.”

“You delude yourself,” said Thenan playfully. “Do you not remember the time you broke your arm in that battle last summer, and Éorlan and I had to protect you because you were utterly unable to help yourself?”

“Or when your horse threw you two years ago when we had that little skirmish with orcs in the East Emnet?” put in Éorlan. “If Thenan and Éothain and I hadn’t formed a circle around you and protected you while you got back on, you would’ve been killed.”

“Or…” began Thenan, but Éomer put up his hands in defense. “All right, all right!” he laughed. “So you look after me – at times. I take your point. And I thank you for your friendship.”

Thenan clapped him on the back. “Think nothing of it,” he said lightly. “You would do the same for us.” Éorlan nodded and Éomer smiled, grateful for such friends as these, who would risk their own lives for him.

But Éorlan neatly changed the subject, and soon, Éomer was as merry as the others, forgetting, for a while, his troubles. They talked and joked until afternoon, and then the men began to grow bored again, and quieted.

Éomer softly began to sing to himself a song of old, telling of Eorl the Young’s riding from the north on his wing-footed steed, Felaróf, the father of horses.

“‘Where now is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?

Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?

Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?

Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?

They have passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow;

The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,

Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?’”

He stopped, realizing that his voice had risen during the song and the other men were listening. “That is one of my favorite songs,” said Léof quietly. “Though it is not very encouraging.”

Éomer smiled slightly. “No, it is not. I did not even realize I was singing it aloud…” His words were suddenly cut off by a loud cry from a returning scout.

“Orcs, my lord Théodred! Orcs are coming!”

Théodred jumped to his feet. “How many?” he asked quickly. “And how far are they?”

“Not far, my lord,” the scout replied breathlessly. “They are nearly to the Fords, and they seem intent on crossing it. There are…over five and thirty, as near as we could count – including some Uruks.”

Théodred cursed under his breath and turned to the men. “Make ready for battle, Riders of the Mark!” he cried. “The orcs should reach us within twenty minutes. Gather your weapons and don your armor, and then mount up! for we shall meet them when they cross the Fords!”

Quickly the men obeyed, putting on their helmets and grabbing their spears (as they had not removed their mail-shirts, nor their swords), before springing onto their horses’ backs. Éomer had not the time to think or to worry, for hardly had they mounted, when they heard the sounds of many heavy, marching feet, harsh loud voices, and splashing. The orcs had reached the Fords.

To be continued...

This is where the AU part comes in -- I did not know until I had begun writing this chapter that Unfinished Tales told of the First Battle of the Fords of Isen, and it says that Éomer was not even present; also that Théodred had a much larger army with him. Oh, well. Please forgive the error!

Chapter Three

Éomer did not have time to think as he rode swiftly behind Théodred to meet the on-coming orcs, which were now halfway across the Fords, and spotting the approaching Riders, raised an unearthly howling and screeching as they broke into a lumbering run.

Vaguely, Éomer felt Thenan and Éorlan’s presence on either side of him, and strong Léof behind him; but the words of Théodred from the night before rang persistently in his mind, and they frightened him more than the looming orcs.

Suddenly, from the Riders in the rear of the éored, there rose a cry: that a large group of Men, it seemed, were coming swiftly behind them. The reinforcements! At last, they have come! A wild hope sprang up in Éomer’s heart, and ignoring the fact that Théodred did not even look back to see for himself, he reined his horse into a trot and turned around in the saddle.

Behind them, so distant that they were only a smudge of black against the gold of the Plains, Éomer could see, faintly, the glimmer of sunlight against metal shields and swords; and as he halted and watched as the group neared, unaware of Thenan and Éorlan stopping beside him, Éomer suddenly felt a chill of fear pierce his heart. For sound carries great distances over the open Plains, and he now could hear the harsh, raucous voices: not of Men, but of yet more orcs!

Sucking in his breath sharply, and hearing Thenan and Éorlan doing the same, Éomer spurred his horse back the front of the éored to ride again beside Théodred. “They are not Men behind us!” he cried over the whistle of the wind as they galloped toward the Fords. “They are orcs! More orcs!”

Théodred turned to look at his cousin with an expression so full of understanding and acceptance that Éomer felt the blood leave his face and his hands grow numb where they held the reins.

“I know,” said Théodred simply, quietly. “No help has come, and doom is near.” Before he turned away to gaze ahead once more, Éomer, speechless with fear as he had not been ever before, saw that tears glistened in his eyes. The sounds of the approaching orcs from the Fords grew louder, and at last they could see the full strength of their enemy before them.

As Théodred drew his sword along with the other Riders, he cried, in a loud, strong voice without hint of fear, words unknown to the others.

“Out of doubt, out of dark to the day’s rising

I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.

To hope’s end I rode and to heart’s breaking:

Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!

“Up Eorlingas!” he ended, raising his sword. In that moment, he appeared tall, fearless and proud, like Éorl of old, going willingly to death.

Up Eorlingas! Up Eorlingas! arose the shout from the Riders, just as they had in the courtyard on the day of their departure; now riding fearlessly towards certain death.

The Riders now saw the orc-troop running at full speed towards them, weapons drawn, and heard the sound of the orcs behind nearing. Glancing around him, Éomer saw clearly, as though everything had slowed, the faces of each man in the éored. Thenan and Éorlan, now bereft of their usual impetuosity and youthful merriment, looked more like the courageous soldiers they were at heart than Éomer had seen before. Léof had that same frightening look of acceptance that Théodred wore; impulsive Éothain’s face was grim and set, and gruff Haldred had a look of stoic determination. Doughty Grimbold, one of the chief captains, was gazing calmly around them with his bright blue eyes, and sped forward to speak to Théodred, too quietly for Éomer to hear what was said.

Théodred nodded toward Grimbold, who looked back at the other Riders with his sword raised. “To me, ten of you!” he shouted. “We must split and my troop turn west while those under Théodred turn east.”

Ten men quickly turned their horses and with a salute for the other Riders, they followed Grimbold, turning west to meet one of the regimans of orcs that had split upon seeing them and were hastening towards them.

“Up Eorlingas!” cried Théodred once more, and with a fierce cry, the remaining Rohirrim soldiers set upon their enemy.

The orcs howled with delight as they saw the other army behind the éored, and the leading Uruks raised their broad swords and tall spears as they increased their speed, coming towards their enemy almost faster than the Rohirrim horses.

Without looking back, those in the éored knew that the orcs behind them were nearing as well, but they remained focussed on their adversary before them. Éomer raised his sword high, and the sun’s rays glinted off the sharp silver point of the weapon. He marveled, for a moment, that a tool only designed for death could look so beautiful.

But then the first of the Uruks reached them, and instead of attacking Théodred, it lunged at Éomer, perhaps seeing that he was younger and had less experience than the leader. With a horrendous snarl, and what Éomer thought with disgusted horror seemed to be a malicious leer, it reached up with one powerful arm to catch its quarry by the waist and pull him from the saddle, while raising its sword with the other.

Fortunately, Éomer’s reflexes were quick, and just as the Uruk’s arm tightened around him, he brought down his sword with a mighty blow, and hewed the limb off. With disgust, he pulled the limp arm off and threw it down; and then quickly raised his sword to block a powerful blow from the Uruk. It did not seem effected by the loss of its arm, but the cruel smirk it had worn before had vanished. Its expression was filled with absolute hate and lust for blood.

Éomer strove to bring his sword down again, but every time, the Uruk blocked it was a heavy returning blow that sent jarring pain up the young Rider’s arm. Both were persistent, and determined that only one would survive the battle.

Dimly, Éomer heard the sounds of battle around him—the two orc armies had joined now, and the Riders were completely sorrounded. He heard cries of pain, and the shrill screams of horses. He heard the snarls and howls of orcs, the clash of steel upon steel, and the splintering of wood as spears were broken.

But his entire mind was concentrated on overcoming his enemy, and he could not think of anything else. The Uruk was cunning, not like the dim-witted orcs, and it seem to anticipate his every move.

Suddenly, a screech was heard close to his ear, and he had only time to look up before he was thrown out of the saddle and to the ground—an orc on top of him. His spear snapped, but he still held his sword.

Recovering from his winded state, he managed to raise his weapon in time to meet the orc’s blade and turn it aside before it was driven into his throat. The orc hissed, its yellow eyes bright with fury, and attempted to pin his sword-arm to the ground with one clawed hand.

After a fierce struggle, Éomer succeeded in overcoming his enemy and ran his blade through it. Rising, he was almost immediately engaged in a furious battle with the one-armed Uruk again. He at last hewed off the head of the vile creature, and then wearily raised his head to look about him.

The battle was a mass of orcs, men and horses. The men were all but smothered by the foul legions of Mordor, and only their golden hair, shining in the afternoon sunlight, was visible. Éomer saw the bright coat of Goldenwind amongst the fray, and the faithful horse whinnied loudly as it fought to return to its master.

Quickly overcoming another bow-legged orc that attacked him, Éomer made his way to Goldenwind’s side. The horse’s flanks were damp with black blood, as were his hooves—obviously Goldenwind had been fighting just as fiercely as any soldier.

Swiftly springing into the saddle, Éomer saw from his new vantagepoint that a Rider—it appeared to be Thenan—had lost his horse and was cut off from the others, surrounded by orcs.

Éomer spurred Goldenwind forward to Thenan’s aid, and used his sword to cut a path through the ring of orcs. Thenan’s countenance brightened as he saw his friend, though he did not pause in his fighting. His dark golden hair had come out of its braids and was matted with blood on one side of his head, and his right arm hung useless at his side. Fortunately, he fought with his left; but bereft of one arm, he could make no use of his shield.

Seeing this, Éomer urged Goldenwind forward to protect Thenan’s exposed right side. After that, everything became a blur once more as he fought furiously to make headway through the army of orcs.

Éomer glanced up briefly and saw with dismay that the Rohirrim were scattered, alone or in small groups, all fighting to reunite. Grimbold’s troop had joined with Théodred’s, but it did little to help them. The enemies had also seen this, and were determined to keep the Riders seperated.

At last, there was a brief respite as Thenan killed a great Uruk leader, causing the orcs to fall back slightly. Éomer seized the opportunity. “Come, Thenan!” he cried. “Get up behind me, and we will go aid Haldred!”

Thenan swung up into the saddle, without his usual nimbleness because of his injury. Quickly, Éomer urged Goldenwind forward, but the stallion was already fighting madly through the orcs; trampling them beneath his hooves and rearing up to kick them.

They reached Haldred, who had found another Rider named Éon, and the four formed a circle, using their two horses as shields. Éon’s horse fell after a few minutes, struck down by an orc arrow.

Suddenly the deadly arrows were flying everywhere, and Éomer felt one pass so close to his face that it blew his hair. He heard the scream of another horse as it was struck, and then a long wail of an injured Rider who suffered the same fate.

But Goldenwind, though bleeding from several wounds, somehow avoided the arrows, and from his high vantagepoint, Éomer could see that no more than fifteen golden heads were still visible—the Mark was suffering heavy losses already.

Then a sharp pain in his right shoulder made him look down—into the face of a wiry orc. It was clinging to Goldenwind’s side and gripped Éomer’s shoulder with one strong hand. The claws pricked through the chainmail and into the skin, and scarlet blood began to trickle down the Rider’s arm.

Before even his swift reflexes could react, the orc tore him out of the saddle and pushed him to the ground. Éomer managed to bring his sword up with a desperate blow, and succeeded in breaking the orc’s already weakened weapon. The beast snarled and wrenched the blade out of his hand, twisting Éomer’s wrist in the process. He saw his sword go spinning beneath Goldenwind’s hooves and looked up in despair. He struggled to escape, but the orc’s clawed hand gripped all the harder, and felt as though it was cutting right to the bone.

With a hiss of delight, the orc let go of Éomer’s shoulder and transferred its bloodstained hand to the young soldier’s throat. Éomer brought both hands up in an attempt to pry the strong fingers off, but the orc merely used its free hand to grab both of the Rider’s wrists and pin his arms above his head as it tightened its grip on his throat.

Éomer choked and coughed, his chest pumping uselessly for air, and stars began to appear in his vision. He felt warm blood trickling down his neck from the orc’s claws, but he did not feel the pain of it. His wrist no longer hurt, nor did his shoulder. He seemed detached from his body, as though he was watching the events from far away.

A peace settled over him, and as if through a blackening mist he saw, past the orc’s head, Goldenwind, with Thenan upon his back, rearing up and furiously beating down the orcs in his path with his sharp hooves, struggling frantically to reach his master.

Strange,Éomer thought hazily, as he felt himself drifting away, that I thought this would be Théodred’s last orc-hunt, and it turns out to be mine. Where is Théodred? I wonder if he still lives.

Éomer’s hands went limp in the orc’s grasp, and just before darkness overcame his vision, he raised his eyes to the blue sky above and saw something. A golden eagle! Just as Théodred’s dream foretold. And now it has come true. Doom is near, but I shall have to fight it no more.

But suddenly, the hard hands were loosened, and the mist lifted. Instead of the orc’s leering face, Éomer’s eyes slowly focussed on the golden-haired face of Thenan. His friend’s blue-grey eyes were filled with tears, and his bleeding lips trembled.

I have never seen Thenan weep, Éomer thought with surprise, his mind still hazy. What is wrong?

“Th…Thenan?” he gasped, after a moment, taking in a large gulp of air and savoring it. His voice sounded hoarse, and he coughed, then grimaced at the pain that it caused his neck.

Thenan’s eyes widened and his face broke into a hopeful smile. “Éomer?” he asked, half fearfully. “Are you all right?”

Éomer swallowed slowly and took another blessed breath of air. “I am fine,” he answered. “Please… Help me up.”

Thenan gently did so, and helped Éomer lean against him as the young Rider found that his legs would not support him at first. “What happened?” he asked quietly, looking around and finding that the battle had shifted away from them.

“An orc nearly strangled you,” Thenan told him, “and after I overcame it, I rushed over to you. Your hands were already cold and you were not breathing.” He shuddered, and tightened his arm around Éomer. “But there is no time for lengthy explanations—tell me truthfully: are you able to go back?”

Éomer closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he found that they were clearer. “Of course I am,” he replied firmly. “I must help Théodred.”

Thenan nodded without speaking and they helped each other in mounting Goldenwind, whose sleek coat bore new wounds. With Éomer sitting in front, they rode back into the fray, praying that the other Riders still lived.

To be continued...

I am at work on chapter 5, and I hope to post it, both here and on ff.net, as soon as possible! :)