Author's Note:  Éomer is one of the most vibrantly interesting of Tolkien's characters, in my opinion, and the pity is that we don't see more of him.  There is much that is half-said or hinted at, regarding Éomer's actions from the time he first meets Aragorn until Gandalf arrives to rouse Théoden, not the least being his unexplained threat against Grima Wormtongue's life.  Thus here is my exploration of what may have happened, both behind and amidst familiar scenes.

A tip of my cap to Steve McDonald's "Sons of Somerled" Celtic CD, the closest I've found to the music of the Rohirrim, "rich and rolling in part, and else hard and stern as the mountains."

ASHES, EAST WINDS, HOPE THAT RISES

by ErinRua

We left the enemy's reeking ashes as carrion for the crows, and regretted only the good earth thus fouled.  A blow struck - but not enough.  It may never be enough.  I am twenty-seven years old, and I have lived to face the end of days.

Even the Moon hid her face as we waited in the dark and we let the enemy see our watch fires and know that their deaths came with the dawning.  Aye, and even the night that shielded them was no comfort when they found my Riders' blades and arrows in the dark.  Then red dawn brought us battle and red dawn saw us victorious, even though my King forbade our very presence there.  Yet the Enemy has trod too long and too boldly upon our lands - our lands! - and not a man among us hesitated.  We hunted them down like fleeing dogs, and slew them as we found them.  Their chieftain at least dared await me at the edge of the Fangorn, and there we fought and there he died, and black my sword is yet.  Regret lies only in the fifteen men who will not ride back with us.  Fifteen men, good and true, are gone, gone into the Shadow that creeps like a thief upon us, and twelve of our best horses lost, as well.  Ah, let us sing of the fallen sons of the Riddermark, for thus we must remember them.  Sing weeping, sing proud, and let us remember who we are, though soon all the world may forget us  . . .

I have forgotten when we did not fear.  I have forgotten when we did not have such skill at building mounds for our dead and pyres for the enemy.  I have forgotten when my King was bold and I was a free man, and the Rohirrim knew no master.  Our master now is fear.  The Enemy is ever around us, and where once our horse herds were tended by stripling boys, now we dare post only warriors.  It is horror to even think of it, these magnificent animals who have known only the touch of our loving hands since they first stood to suckle their mother's milk, lost to the enemy's foul, cruel governance.  They take the black horses.  Black as their purposes, I deem, and they leave us only the old and lame blacks, now.  They leave us penned and hemmed by fear and doubt and half-heard tales, and whence comes our counsel?  Whence comes our hope?

My presence here is in defiance of he who is both my king, my uncle and my foster-father.  Where once he would have led us with sword and spear, he listens now to one whose words sap his will like a wasting sickness.  Not even Théodred his son can win his ear, though he commands the Westmark and awaits what Isengard may send.  Théodred shares my fears, and if blood and friendship were not bond enough, now we find ourselves united against enemies both without and within.  Too often we must plan our defenses between the two of us alone, for seeking our king's guidance gains us only the mechanizations of the Wormtongue; do nothing, wait, delay.

Not four days ago came word of orcs down from Emyn Muil upon our eastern marches, and yet even then that false counselor bid my king be still.  Thus I called my men in darkness and we fled away like thieves to find the foe we should have marched on openly, and here I wet my sword in payment for their audacity, and for all that has been taken from us.  We have heard no word from lands south.  The shadow grows to the east, the raiders from the west become bolder, and the dark-winged messengers of evil fly brazenly across our lands, yet no news has come.  Boromir of Gondor borrowed one of our horses weeks ago, but of his errand we hear naught, and his horse has returned riderless.  Of the many things that could signify, none are good.  We must presume he found no aid for any of us, and perhaps we will fall together and separately, Rohan and Gondor and all the free lands.

But I shall fight.  My Riders shall fight.  So long as we breathe, so long as we have homes and loved ones to defend, whether our King leads us or sickens and fails upon his throne, we shall fight.  We fight, but alas, the victory we carry back is bitter.  Would that I could bring instead some joy or promise.  Yet none comes.  Hope lies in ashes, even as we left the bones of our enemies.

We are done now with burning and burying.  I turn to my lieutenant, whose taut, still face must mirror my own.

"Come, Éothain.  We must away home."

He nods, once, and says wearily, "To whatever awaits us there."

Yes, he fears and despairs even as I do.

***

The land at least was unchanged.  How I love this country of my fathers.  My heart beats within its earthy breast, and my spirit soars to see the sweeping expanses of grass that ripple beneath the hand-stroke of the wind, like waves running across a golden sea.  Even in the fading days of February, when spring was but a soft green blush, the long hills rose and fell before us in soft heaves of space and distance, and the great blue dome of sky arced unhindered above us.  To the thunder of our hooves we flew between heaven and earth, and lacked only wings to leave mortal dust behind.

And I was proud of them, these men who rode with me.  My kinsmen, my brethren, their spears like a forest and their faces fierce as eagles'.  If I had no other joy, at least I had them.  We rode now at a swinging trot, the powerful reach and surge of Firefoot's gait thudding into my bones as my own heartbeat, and if I should die so, there could be no better death.  Let there be but one perfect day, one perfect battle, and I would regret nothing.  No other hopes had I, any more.

Then from the day and from the sleeping plains, and from beneath our very feet a ringing voice cried out, where none but empty grass had been.

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

It was as if the earth itself suddenly rose up in human form - if indeed mortal these three strangers were.  Clad in grey, they appeared in our vision from lands that could not have concealed a lone fox.  However, we had seen too much to let shock overcome us, and at a mere lift of my hand my éored wheeled into the running circle of attack.  Be they Men or be they sorcerers, these intruders would know our measure.  I will credit them, these strange three held fast before our rush, and they remained still and watchful as we closed around them.  The heavy circle of our horses huffed and stamped, as one hundred and five spears and bows fixed upon our trespassers.  However, two of them did not even rise to their feet, while the first stood facing my spear without as much as a blink.

Aye, and a closer look might gentle his manner.  I nudged my horse forward until he could have touched my spear point by simply raising his hand.  Speaking in the Common Tongue, I addressed him plainly.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?"

"I am called Strider," he said calmly.  "I came out of the North.  I am hunting Orcs."

Hunting Orcs?  The three of them afoot and alone?  He either was mad or thought me a fool and we had not time to bandy with either.  I dismounted in the same moment Éothain leaped down beside me, and I handed him my spear.  The stranger bore a sword at his side, and I let him hear the ring of my own good steel, ere I faced him.

And the shock of his gaze nigh stopped the breath in my throat.  Grey eyes he had, unblinking and impassive as the stare of a hawk, and I had the ridiculous sense that if a man offered him anything but truth, he could flay that thought naked with a mere glance.  Suddenly I was very glad of the bare blade in my hand, although looking into those eyes I doubted very much that swords would ever be enough, against this man.  My wits had scattered like quail, and I seized upon the first thought to settle.

"At first I thought you yourselves were Orcs," I said, and drew courage from the cold, watchful readiness of my Riders.  "But now I see it is not so.  Indeed, you know little of Orcs, if you go hunting them in this fashion.  They were swift and well-armed, and they were many.  You would have changed from hunters to prey, if ever you had overtaken them."

I may as well have spoken to carved stones, and my unease grew.  Who were they?  This one was without question their leader, neither young nor old but grim with care and the simmering power of his presence could not be denied or underestimated.  I would know his purpose here, if only by the strength of our spears.

"But there is something strange about you, Strider," I said, and met that grey hawk's stare once more.  "That is no name for a Man that you give.  And strange too is your raiment.  Have you sprung out of the grass?  How did you escape our sight?  Are you elvish folk?"

"No," he replied mildly, and might have been responding to a query about the weather.  "Only one of us is an Elf, Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood.  But we have passed through Lothlorien, and the gifts and favors of the Lady go with us."

The one named Legolas stared back at me, his princely face as remote and flawless as the face of the silver moon, and I felt the small hairs crawl on the back of my neck.  Many were the allies of the Enemy, and not all were foul to look upon.  Nor had we heard aught from the realms of the elves that gave us reason for trust.

"Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood," I replied.  "As the old tales tell.  Few escape her nets, they say.  These are strange days!  But if you have her favor, then you are also net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe."

Enough, then, of dancing with words!  If their leader would not speak plainly, perhaps the other two could be goaded.

"Why do you not speak, silent ones?"

The bearded one rose - or at least so far as his short stature permitted - and leaned his hands upon the sturdy haft of his ax.  Nor did I see welcome in his snapping dark stare.

"Give me your name, horse-master," he growled.  "And I will give you mine, and more besides."

"For that," I replied.  "The stranger should declare himself first.  Yet I am named Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark."

I should have known none of this strange company would know respect, and this other simply stood himself more squarely.

"Then Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, let Gimli the Dwarf Gloin's son warn you against foolish words.  You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you."

Fool, and thrice fools!  We should have hoisted them on our spears as spies and been done with them, and I felt the rumble of matching temper among my men, surrounding us.  Speech came to me only through the hot coils of tightening anger.

"I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it but stood a little higher from the ground!"

Between two blinks the Elf was on his feet with an arrow nocked to his drawn bow.

"He stands not alone.  You would die before your stroke fell."

And suddenly, one of us was about to die.

"Your pardon, Éomer!"

My sword was stayed only by Strider leaping between us and the hand he raised, empty and without harm offered.

"When you know more you will understand why you have angered my companions," he said quietly.  "We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse.  Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"

I looked again into his face, and there I saw  . . .  something  . . .  in his eyes.  I cannot give it name but it reached to me like a hand on the shoulder.  Suddenly I wanted to believe him - bless me, I did, and that urge brought me the rarest sort of discomfort.

"I will," I said, and let my sword drop to my side.  "But wanderers in the Riddermark would be wise to be less haughty.  First tell me your right name."

"First tell me whom you serve," he countered.  "Are you friend or foe of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor?"

Almost I could have laughed, to find my own suspicions turned so neatly against me, if it were not for the keen stab of pride that came with it.

"I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King son of Thengel," I replied, and spoke more besides.

Aye, I would have him know who my true and only lord was, and though Théoden sickened from the evil draining us all, he would ever be my lord and king, and I would ever be a champion to him and our people.  We serve no allegiance to the Black Land or any other, and that I spake to this Strider plainly.  Around us lapped the dark sea of other people's wars, and none of it was of our making.  It seemed precious little to ask that we be left to our own lives and freedom, even as our fathers had lived before us.  Sad it was that hospitality had fled from among us, but now I wished these strangers gone from our land, and all that and more, I told him.

"Come!" I said, then.  "Who are you?  Whom do you serve?  At whose command do you hunt Orcs in our land?"

If I had hoped to see him give before my demands in the least, I was terribly, woefully mistaken.  That hawk's gaze pinned me like a knife against my chest, ere he spoke.

"I serve no man," was Strider's silken reply, and power rose like a storm in his voice.  "But the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go."

Have you ever trod upon ground that you thought was solid, only to feel it crack and sink towards a vast precipice beneath you?  So I felt then.  The warning shouts in my mind almost drowned out his voice, and I could only stand silent while he spoke to me as a man rebuking a foolish youth.  How had I dared question his right to hunt where and as he would, and least of all to avenge friends taken by that enemy?  How had I dared speak at all, when now my very heart cringed beneath the battering certainty that I knew nothing, was nothing, compared to the dark ways this man Strider long had traveled?  Then he swept his cloak from his sheath and his sword leapt to hand, and it blazed in a cold, white fire.

"I am Aragorn son of Arathorn!" he said, and his words struck like wind-driven hail.  "And am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnedan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor.  Here is the Sword that was Broken and is forged again!  Will you aid me or thwart me?  Chose swiftly!"

I felt the world tilt under my feet in a great, slow sweep.  Riddles and visions and prophecy and sorcery - we seemed awash in all the legends of history, and now they walked abroad beneath the shining Sun.  Nor could any good come of it, this dread settled like a stone within me.  Strange days, strange days, dreams and legends springing to life from the grass.

Yet he waited still, with that fabled blade glinting shards of sunlit ice, and I had no answer.  We heard riddles from Gondor, whispers from the East, we found the enemy bold upon our lands, and I had no answers to any of it.  Seek for the Sword that was Broken ... Doom is near at hand ... fragments of that grim verse echoed in my mind.  I found my tongue, however poorly, and what I asked now, I asked almost as a child of a master.

"Tell me, lord, what brings you here?  And what was the meaning of the dark words?  Long has Boromir son of Denethor been gone seeking an answer, and the horse that we lent him came back riderless.  What doom do you bring out of the North?"

"The doom of choice," Aragorn replied quietly, and though the thunder dimmed and the blade found its sheath, never again would I misread him.  "You may say this to Théoden son of Thengel: open war lies before him, with Sauron or against him.  None may live now as they have lived, and few shall keep what they call their own."

Doom, indeed, and the swift shadow of a passing cloud brought a chill to all who heard.  He spoke again of his search for captive friends, asking news of the Orcs whom he so ardently sought.  That at least I could answer clearly.

"You need not pursue them further," I said with grim satisfaction.  "The Orcs are destroyed."

"And our friends?"

"We found none but Orcs."

"But that is strange indeed," Aragorn replied, and his brow furrowed in worry.  "Did you search the slain?  Were there no bodies other than those of orc-kind?  They would be small, only children to your eyes, unshod but clad in grey."

His concern was now mirrored clearly in the faces of the Elf and Dwarf, and I took comfort in that glimmer of compassionate feeling.  But whatever it was he sought, I could offer no tidings.  Neither dwarves nor children nor any but Orcs had lain among the dead, and we had been thorough in our examination and disposal.  This I told them, but seemingly with little relief to them.  They were hobbits, the Dwarf said, not children.

"Hobbits?" I asked.  "And what may they be?  It is a strange name."

Halfling was the name Gimli the Dwarf now gave us, even as spoken in that dark riddle Boromir had brought from Gondor, and that made even less sense.  Éothain agreed, for he suddenly laughed.

"Halflings!" he exclaimed.  "Halflings!  But they are only little people in old songs and children's tales out of the North.  Do we walk in legends, or on the green earth in the daylight?"

Well he might ask, for it seemed the twain had become one.  Éothain then spoke to me in our own tongue, pressing me to either bind this odd company for Théoden's attention, or set them loose, but the day was fast waning.  Yet I would have further words with the heir of Isildur, and I bid my grumbling lieutenant to have the éored gather and wait for me nearby.

Strider - now Aragorn - spoke only the truth.  My heart knew this as clearly as my own name, for we are a people to whom truth is the only way a man may speak.  Deceit glares as a black blot, and in Aragorn, son of Arathorn there shone only light.  Seek for the Sword that was Broken, the riddle had said - and yet here it came to me with no seeking at all.  What did this mean?  The rest of it was more than I could grasp, halflings and doom and Isildur's Bane - suddenly I was as adrift with too many questions, and I found myself looking to the heir of ancient kings for answers.

We took counsel there in the whispering grasses, Aragorn and I.  Of Boromir he spoke, and an errand of great importance and mystery, then he surprised me with mention of the wizard Gandalf, who had come from his own ill-fated dealings with us to lead their company from Imladris.

"Gandalf!" I cried.  "Gandalf Greyhame is known in the Mark; but his name, I warn you, is no longer a password to the king's favor."

Aye, that he was not, and my lord's fury still rang in my ears.  Long had Gandalf been a visitor to our lands, and with each visit it seemed he was a harbinger of ominous events.   The last was no different - he claimed to have proof of the treason of Saruman the Wise - but when my King refused him to hear him, Gandalf avenged his displeasure by requesting a horse upon his leaving.  Nor did he chose just any horse, but Shadowfax, father of horses and scion of Eorl's own mighty steed; favored of all my King's stable.  Shadowfax returned seven days since, but he ran now upon the grasses wild and untouchable, and Théoden's wrath remained kindled.

Aragorn listened quietly to my account, then sighed and turned his gaze outward across whispering distance.  "Then Shadowfax has found his way alone from the far North, for it was there he and Gandalf parted."  A moment passed, before he looked at me and I saw grief naked in his eyes.  "But alas!  Gandalf will ride no longer.  He fell into darkness in the Mines of Moria, and comes not again."

Strange, how the same breezes whispered and the same cloud-shadows drifted in great, silent dapples across the sun-kissed plains.  How could they, when all the world was changing?  Gandalf at least had always brought truth, however bleak, and if a wizard could fall, what chance was there for any of us?

"That is heavy tidings," I said, then bethought me of warning.  "At least to me, and to many, though not to all, you may find, if you come to the king."

Nor was Aragorn through with his tales of woe, for he spoke further of his company's journey.  He had taken the captaincy in Gandalf's stead and led them the many leagues through Moria and Lorien - here a severe glance from the Dwarf assured me that an education yet waited me - and so they traveled down the Great River to the falls of Rauros.

"There," he said heavily.  "Boromir was slain by the same Orcs whom you destroyed."

"Your news is all woe!" I cried, and found myself struggling for expression.  I had not known Boromir well, for his wars lay to the east and he did not come to us often.  Yet I found great liking for him the times we did meet, and I knew him for a bold and valiant captain, and a presence that filled a room simply by entering it.  To imagine Gondor without him -.

"But we have had no word of this grief out of Gondor.  When did he fall?"

"It is now the fourth day since he was slain.  And since the evening of that day we have journeyed from the shadow of Tol Brandir."

Four days?  Well I knew the leagues between, and I simply stared at him.
"On foot?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes," Aragorn said, and the first glimmer of wry humor warmed his face like the passage of sunlight. 

"Even as you see us."

"Strider is too poor a name for you, son of Arathorn," I said with a laugh, and in that moment my heart was lost to him.  How could I not love a man such as this - who strode unblinkingly into legend for no other cause than the love of his friends and comrades?  "Wingfoot I name you!  This deed of the three friends should be sung in many a hall.  Forty leagues and five you have measured ere the fourth day is ended!  Hardy is the race of Elendil!"

His wan smile was my treasure, before I remembered the troubles I would confide in him, in return.  If he had aught for me, I must needs know swiftly.  He listened with keen attentiveness as I spoke of how things were with Rohan, the shadow of war pressing ever closer, and yet the king lent his ear to the counsel of cowards.

"But we shall not forsake our old alliance with Gondor," I assured him sternly.  "And while they fight we shall aid them: so say I and all who hold with me."

Quickly I sketched the disposal of my folk, all but my guards and scouts withdrawn to dubious safety beyond the Entwash.

"Then you do not pay tribute to Sauron?" asked the Dwarf.

Hard his head was, hard as the stone his people delved, and it struck me that I could learn to like him for that.  Yet I spoke sharply enough that he would not misunderstand me.

"We do not, and we never have, though it comes to my ears that that lie has been told."

I spoke bitterly of the Dark Lord's desire for our black horses, and how our refusal to sell at any price sparked raids by thieving Orcs.  How I grieve the loss of sleek ebony forms pounding with the wind across the plains, and as I spoke, perhaps I saw a softening in the watchful eyes of the Dwarf and his comrade Elf.

Saruman's treachery took precedence even over the loss of our horses, however, and I detailed from memory a report of events transpiring in the Riddermark.  I knew not what intelligence Aragorn had of these lands, and I would not see him go forward uninformed.  Of Orcs and Wolf-riders and even Men I warned him, all sworn to Saruman's service.  The Gap of Rohan was also closed, so I feared attack now from both east and west, though brave Erkenbrand held the Fords of the Isen westward.

"It is ill dealing with such a foe," I said.  "He is a wizard both cunning and dwimmer-crafty, having many guises.  He walks here and there, they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked, very like Gandalf, as many now recall."

Nor do I believe that all Saruman's spies dwell within Isengard, which suspicions I told Aragorn.  Saruman's birds own the skies, and there are whispers even within the Golden Halls of Meduseld.

"But if you come to the king's house, you shall see yourself."  A sudden eagerness seized me even as the words left my mouth.  "Will you not come?  Do I hope in vain that you have been sent to me for a help in doubt and need?"

"I will come when I may," said Aragorn.

My heart sank within me, and I clutched desperately for that small hope I had found in him.  "Come now!  The Heir of Elendil would be a strength indeed to the Sons of Eorl in this evil tide.  There is battle even now upon the Westemnet, and I fear that it may go ill with us."

I was pleading, I confess it.  I abandoned all shame when I told him how I disobeyed my king and left his house but weakly-guarded, to pursue the reports of my scouts.  But my disobedience was not without merit, for my darkest suspicions were proven in the bodies of the Orcs we slew yesterday dawn.  They bore the White Hand of Saruman, and they were greater in strength and fury than any other Orcs.  Orthanc and the Dark Tower were now allied, I was certain, and though the knowledge came at the cost of fifteen men and a dozen horses, we now knew what we faced.  Nor could we, cold truth whispered, face it alone.

"Will you not come?" I begged.  "There are spare horses, as you see.  There is work for the Sword to do."  I cast a swift glance at the Elf and Dwarf, as well, for I saw them listening closely.  "Yes, and we could find a use for Gimli's ax and the bow of Legolas, if they will pardon my rash words concerning the Lady of the Wood."  Earnestly meeting their eyes, I added, "I spoke only as do all men in my land, and I would gladly learn better."

However, Aragorn was already shaking his head, albeit with the appearance of genuine regret.

"I thank you for your fair words, and my heart desires to come with you; but I cannot desert my friends while hope remains."

Aye, and how mighty a heart it was, to cling when all was lost.  Gently but firmly, I said, "Hope does not remain.  You will not find your friends on the North-borders."

He protested, as I knew he must.  They had found no trace of their friends on the back-trail, no sign turning from the Orcs' path, nothing but one last token that one captive, at least, still lived.  How could they be lost, if no sign remained, aye or nay?  Nor was Aragorn inclined to mistrust his own skills.  Sadly, I asked what he thought had become of them, and still that stubborn, magnificent faith burned true.  In the same breath that he admitted they could have been lost and burned with the bodies of the Orcs, he also embraced my certainty that no little people had been among them.  The only answer then must be that his friends were carried away into the forest before the battle.

"Can you swear that none escaped your net in such a way?" he demanded.

"I would swear that no Orc escaped after we sighted them," I said cautiously.  "We reached the forest-eaves before them, and if after that any living thing broke through our ring, then it was no Orc, and had some elvish power."

"Our friends were attired even as we are," Aragorn stated, and one eyebrow tilted slightly.  "And you passed us by under the full light of day."

"I had forgotten that," I said, and breathed in, then let go a long breath.  Hope.  A thing fleeting and fickle as sun through clouds, but no less precious.  Legends walked and myth looked me in the eyes; how did a man find his way, when all the world had become strange to him?  With clear eyes, so Aragorn reminded me, for good and evil have not in all the ages changed their natures.

Among my waiting éored their horses stamped and blew, and the shadows grew longer beneath us.  The time for counsel was past and only duty remained.  Aye, and the son of Arathorn was a hard man, even on the brink of our seeming accord.  I reminded him that my law bid me command these strangers to an audience with my King, for permission to pass upon these lands.  However, Aragorn's own stern, strange laws bid otherwise, and he denied the label of stranger outright, upon the names of both my father and my king.  He would go on, with or without my leave.

"Come now, son of Éomund," he said.  "The choice must be made at last.  Aid us, or at the worst set us free.  Or seek to carry out your law.  If you do so there will be fewer to return to your war or your king."

Ah, my heart broke, not for his gallant defiance, but for what I saw in the faces of Legolas and Gimli, who waited but their captain's command to leap headlong into battle and certain death.  I envied - yes, envied! - that they could love him so, whilst I must turn aside from a man whom I suddenly knew I could follow to the very ending of the world.

"We both have need of haste," I said finally.  "My company chafes to be away, and every hour lessens your hope.  Here is my choice.  You may go; and what is more, I will lend you horses.  This only I ask: when your quest is achieved, or is proven vain, return with the horses over the Entwade to Meduseld, the high house in Edoras where Théoden now sits.  Thus you shall prove to him that I have not misjudged."

I looked him hard in the eyes as I added, "In this I place myself, and maybe my very life, in the keeping of your good faith.  Do not fail."

"I will not."

And I believed.

***

Continued in Part 2 ...

ASHES, EAST WINDS, HOPE THAT RISES

Part 2

by ErinRua

The Dwarf was no Rider.  That he made abundantly clear by his protests.  However, his comrade Legolas bid us cast aside saddle and bridle from the mount we brought him.  Suspicion and wonder warred marvelously in the faces of my éored, as they watched the elf turn fiery Arod upon hocks and forehand, and bid him side-pass as well, with his mastery demonstrated in no more than empty hands and soft-spoken words.  Poor Gimli we hoisted up behind the Elf like a sack of meal, and it was evidence of their great, odd affection that Legolas smiled gaily despite his comrade's desperate, clutching hold.  As for Aragorn and tall grey Hasufel, they were two creatures of might and twin glories to behold.

"Farewell, and may you find what you seek!" I said.  "Return with what speed you may, and let our swords hereafter shine together!"

"I will come," Aragorn said.  Again, his promise.

"And I will come too," Gimli growled, with all the stern dignity a person could muster whilst riding pillion like an extra pack.  "The matter of the Lady Galadriel lies still between us.  I have yet to teach you gentle speech."

The loyalty of a hound and the fierceness of a bear - I could learn to love even a Dwarf, it seems.

"We shall see," I replied, and tried unsuccessfully to keep a grave face.  "So many strange things have chanced that to learn the praise of a fair lady under the loving strokes of a Dwarf's ax will seem no great wonder!"

And so they passed from us, though many of my Riders glowered and doubted that my choice had been made wisely.

"I hope you have not just bargained for your death, my lord," said Éothain, as I found my saddle.  "We already face grief enough, without risk to you."

"What other choice had we, Éothain?"  I asked.  "For they would not be deterred without bloodshed."

"Better theirs than yours!"

"And how many others of us, in the doing?"  I looked into his eyes, and waited for the frustrated sadness I knew I would see there.  "Peace, my friend.  We are too long away already, and the road home yet waits."

***

The road waited, yes, but no homecoming worth claiming as such.  I knew full well I would face my King's wrath.  I read it in the faces of the guards outside Meduseld's great doors.  Háma's expression bode even more ill, he who held both the honor of Doorwarden to Théoden's hall and my friendship.  However, time pressed closely, and there was moment for little more than the firm grasp of his hand on my arm.

"He is greatly wroth, Éomer," he said softly.

I cast him a sour glance.  "Does the snake whisper that wrath to him, or is it his own?"

"You know as well as I do."  Háma signaled the guards to press open the great doors, and spoke once more under the heavy rumbling of their hinges.  "Guard your tongue, I beg you.  We cannot spare you as either captain or friend.  Matters go ill with us."

Before I could ask of which he spoke, the doors were open and I could tarry no longer.  Coming home was like walking under a thundercloud.  I blinked at the change from light to dimness, as I strode into the familiar hall.  My steps echoed from sun-spill to shadow and back again, between carven pillars and tapestried walls that I have known since boyhood.  Oft I had trod here, coming eagerly to the feet of one who became  a father to me when my own father and mother were lost, and for many a long year I anticipated naught but his kindest greetings.  Now, however, the shadows were deeper than simply the absence of sunlight, and my gaze fixed on him who crouched at the feet of my King's gilded chair.  Grima, he was named, but Wormtongue we called him, when the king could not hear, and naught from his lips bode well for Rohan.  How he came to be King's Counsel is a tale scarcely worth telling, but one whom we once took for wise now fills me with the certainty of deceit.

However, I wrenched my attention from that creature, and returned it to him who yet sat upon the throne of Rohan.  At the foot of the dais I bowed with all sincerity.

"Hail, my king," I greeted him.

"Your king."  The words grumbled from the white fall of his beard, and my stomach plunged ere I met the simmering fury in his gaze.  "Where was this courtesy scarce three nights past, when you crept out of this house like a thief in the night?  In defiance of my expressed wishes!"

"My lord, you know my scouts' reports.  There were Orcs down from Emyn Muil, whom we pursued even to the verge of the Entwood, and -."

"And I ordered you not to go!  You upon whom I rested my faith abandoned this place, and your king, leaving scarce more than a door guard!  And for what?  How many are your losses?"

Fifteen men are slain, my lord."  My stomach lurched as if I might become sick.  "And a dozen horses."

He pressed his hands trembling on the arms of his chair, and for an instant I thought he might rise and strike me - and I would welcome it.  Anything but this, his inarticulate silence and what always came next, the stirring of the snake he kept in his house.

Gathering myself, I said, "We did learn that our suspicions are well-founded, however.  These were greater Orcs, powerful fighters, and all bore the White Hand of Saruman.  He is truly allied with the Dark Lord, of that there can no longer be doubt.  My lord, it is only time before they come upon us in force, if we do not muster to strike, first."

"The Orcs," said Wormtongue, "will return, and multiply.  How will you replace your missing Riders?"

"Victory comes not without price," I said stiffly.  What knew he of battle, this crawling thing of shadows and well-guarded halls?

"Ah, victory?"  Wormtongue arose and peered at me through sleepy-lidded eyes.  So like a reptile he was, coiling and slithering with deceptive smoothness, yet always whispering, and always poised to strike.  "And of what use is this 'victory' to us?  You defy your king; you leave us without guard or strength - you become rebellious and dangerous, Éomer Éomund's son."

The only sound I made was a stifled growl, as I remembered Háma's warning.  How dared he question me - yet how dared I risk losing the little freedom we had left to us?

"Do you bear any other news?" Théoden then demanded.  "Any but ill tidings?"

"We also met three travelers, near the eave of the Fangorn wood."

"Travelers?  Who are they?  How many?  Where are they?  I would see them."

"I let them pass, my lord.  They were but three and they are hunting two friends who were taken captive by the same Orcs we found upon our borders.  Their friends were not among the Orcs we slew, however, so we lent them horses to speed them on their quest.  But you shall have meeting with them, for they are sworn to return the horses here and thence present themselves before you."

Suspicion and doubt drew heavy lines in Théoden's bearded face.  "You trust strangers overmuch, sister's son."

"You know the laws of passage upon our lands," added Wormtongue.  "And yet you choose to overlook them."

"I trust where trust is warranted, my king."  Ignoring Wormtongue's gloating proximity, I spoke the greater message.  "For they are led by one who says he is Isildur's heir, Aragorn Arathorn's son of Gondor.  My lord, he bears the Sword of Elendil!  The Sword That Was Broken - it has been reforged, I saw it with my own eyes!"

"And you believe this  . . .  person?" Théoden asked.

"Yes!  They bore the favor of the Lady of the Golden Wood, which no mortal man has owned.  It is the truth, my lord.  I saw it in his eyes."

Alas, I could see no softening in Théoden's manner, and Wormtongue stirred beside him.  My king's gaze glittered coldly, as he spoke in tones of heavy doubt.

"And what news did these wanderers speak to you?"

"Alas, their tidings were dark, my lord.  Boromir of Gondor was slain five days past, by the same Orcs whom we pursued and destroyed on our borders.  And Gandalf Greyhame has been lost in the Mines of Moria."

"Gandalf."  The word spilled as a bad taste from Théoden's mouth.  "The loss of Shadowfax was of far greater grief to me than the loss of a wizard.  And yet my horse returns unmanageable, whilst the wizard continues on in his mischief!  Nay, I find no sorrow in Gandalf's passing from this world.  In fact, I say good riddance.  But Boromir!  Alas, the doom of the world will drown us, if such as he is lost!  If Gondor falls, what becomes of us?"

"A question indeed, my King," Wormtongue hissed.  "When even within in your own household faithlessness exists.  You have lost Théodred, your right hand, and here your left hand openly defies you."

Silence slammed in around us like a thunderbolt, and in it I could hear the slow rasp of my king's breathing and the thudding of my own heart.

"Lost Théodred?" I whispered.

There came no reply.

"Please -."  In desperation I looked from Grima's opaque stare to my king, who would not meet my eyes.  "Please  ... What do you mean?"

"He is dead," said Théoden, and seemed to sink in upon himself, as the wind deserts a fallen flag.

My stomach twisted and my mind reeled.  Théodred dead - how was this possible?  Well I know the wages of war and how mortal we men are, but this was Théodred - how?  Why?  A muscle in the back of my leg began to clench spasmodically as I stood there.

"My son is dead," Théoden repeated in a brittle voice.  "And hope dies with him."

"Pray not so," said Wormtongue piously, above folded hands.  "Alas, yes, Théodred is dead, slain at the Fords of the Isen not four days past, together with many men - and you would leave your King and people without defense."  Now he directed his cold stare to me as his voice rose to rolling tones.  "You bring us only death and you leave us with only danger.  One might even suppose you wish to weaken what strength we do have, with your recklessness.  Your own glory, your own vengeance, comes before sworn duty to your own king."

Heat rose from my belly as the breath of a forge, and I forced my words through clenched teeth.  "You speak lies!"

"I speak truth!" he said.

"You do not know the truth!"  I shouted, and my voice rang through the hall to shock even my own ears.

"Then whom do you serve, son of Éomund?  Your king or yourself?"  Wormtongue's voice rose to almost match mine, then dropped to a sleek snarl.  "Or do you serve another, darker master?"

His words shivered there in thunderstruck silence, and I heard only the pulse thundering in my ears.  I could scarcely breathe for my fury, and I looked by instinct to Théoden, my uncle, my king, the father of my heart - and he simply sat hunched in his chair, slowly crumbling beneath Wormtongue's constant, insidious burden of despair.  Then I looked to the snake himself - and he smiled at me.  Théodred was dead and my king was mayhap dying, and Grima Wormtongue smiled at me.

The roar of my rage seemed to come from another, slamming among the stone pillars and among the vaulted rafters.

"Curse you, snake!  Repent those words or die where you stand!"

Shouts for the guards crashed amongst my own cries, and strong arms seized and pinioned me ere I could draw sword, but still I raged.

"Take them back, Worm!  Take your lies back, or you will not live to see another sunrise!  Your poison has spread far enough!  You would destroy us all, I see your lies, and I will see you dead for all you have done!"

Voices rang and tangled and I was crushed to my knees, and held there with both arms wrenched behind me, heavy hands pressing my shoulders until the bones creaked.  Wormtongue shouted, Théoden shouted, and within my head my own fury roared in a towering storm.

"Hear me, Éomer!"

Yes, I heard.  I heard as all the hall fell to ringing silence, and I looked up to the hunched, glowering figure of Théoden King.

"You dare speak thus before me?  You defy not only my word, but the laws of my hall?  I am ashamed you are my sister's son!  Guards!  Get him out of my sight!  Get him out!"

I was numb beyond expression, stunned beyond thought, and though the hands of the guards remained heavy and strong, I resisted not.  They stripped me of helm, sword, and mail with no words spoken, and heaved me to my stumbling feet.  I went as one drugged, and they piloted me swiftly to the cells.  Stone walls closed tight around me, and doors slammed in ringing steel, ere I was left alone.  There in darkness and damp earth and ancient, musty straw, my thoughts flew whither I could not govern them.  I saw a grey-eyed stranger who won my faith with but a look and a word.  I saw the faces of fifteen good men who followed me to battle, and who now would rest forever in a barrow at Fangorn's marge.  I saw brave Théodred, my cousin and friend who taught a gangling boy the arts of war, and who won my love and the love of all who knew him with his great heart and true spirit.  I saw the kingly man who guided me to the ways of manhood and leadership, who applauded my successes and instructed me past my failures, and of all things, I remembered the rumble of my beloved uncle's voice close to my ear, as long ago my sister and I listened to stories in his arms.  Lost, all was lost to me now.

Théodred my brother ... wherever you are Beyond, do you look back for us?  Will you wait until I come?  Alas, I am truly my father's son, and I have cast myself into the trap of my enemies.

At last I drew my knees to my chest with both arms, and I found I had no strength left.  For anger that could not be spent and despair that would not be vanquished, I wept.

***

I was not utterly forsaken, at least so far as someone thought to bring me supper.  I stood at the echoing clank of the door at the corridor's end, and as I peered through the tiny window in my cell door, my heart sighed painfully to the sight of torchlight on long, golden hair.  If I was the spear and the hauberk, my sister Éowyn was a sheathed sword.  Since she was a toddling thing who dogged my steps, and I a mischievous five or six, she had been my friend, my companion, my partner in much childish devilment.  I could not even escape her in practice at arms, for she insisted upon taking up a blade herself.  It was not unknown for women of the Riddermark to learn the arts of war, and though she lacked a warrior's strength, she was swift and keen enough to set many an unsuspecting sparring partner on the defensive.  She was flame and a quick wind, laughter and a fierce wit - and yet now I watched her daily grow ever more quiet and still, as if winter crept where once lilies grew.  Small wonder, when frost came as the ever-present shadow of Grima Wormtongue.  My belly curdled to see who held the torch for her.

"You have a visitor, Éomer," Grima announced, and his voice resounded hollowly in the corridor.  Behind his sly smile his mockery was clear; by his bidding was she permitted here, and those guileful eyes watched her every step.

Éowyn spoke not, as she brought a cloth-covered platter to my cell door.  As Grima unlocked it, her eyes met mine only fleetingly, before she handed the plate to me.  I reached under the plate to touch one of her hands, and then she looked up and her eyes locked on mine in sudden fierceness.

"Leave us, Grima," she said.  When he hesitated, she turned with a glance that would have frozen steel.  "Wait with the guard, for I have no fear of my own brother."

"As you wish, lady," he replied, and made an obsequious bow.  He retreated towards the guard who waited at the corridor door, but did not leave without letting me see his silent malice clearly.

I set aside the supper, for I had no appetite, and took both her hands in mine.  Her slender fingers tightened to a painful grip, and looking in her eyes I saw the mirror of all the grief I carried within.

She read me as easily. "You have heard the news of Théodred, then."

"Yes.  Grima told me."

Her features twisted in a swift, sharp grimace, then smoothed again.

"You should not have come," I said softly.

"And you should not be a fool, dear brother."  Cool as still water she was, and yet I knew too well the shadowed fear in her eyes.

"I regret only that Théoden does not hear me," I replied.  "Not that I spoke."

Éowyn pulled her hands free and looked down.  "Théoden hears none of us anymore, only the whispers of the Wormtongue."

"But he must awaken!" I whispered harshly.  "We have not merely enemies to the West, but also to the East - Saruman and the Dark Lord are as hammer and anvil, and the Riddermark is to be crushed between, if we do not awaken.  Is there any word from Erkenbrand of Westfold?  If Saruman's Orcs should move openly and in force, I fear how it may go with him."

"Yes," she said quietly.  "It was he who sent messengers with word of Théodred's death.  Erkenbrand begged for you to bring relief, but you had already gone.  Théodred ..." Her voice faltered.  "His last words were to let him lie at the Fords of the Isen, and they should be held until you came."

My fist slammed the wooden door with a crash and she flinched.  Erkenbrand needed me - and already that plea was days old.  For love of all that was precious, did no one but me fear what transpired upon on our western borders?  If Erkenbrand could not hold, the forces of Isengard would rush upon us in a black flood and all - all would be lost.

"Théoden must be made to see our danger."  My grinding teeth skidded one off the other with the strength of my frustration.  "He must!"

"I speak as I can," Éowyn said despondently.  "But my words are water upon stone.  Would that I could ride with you and at least strike a worthy blow for all the evil that comes upon us!"

"Nay, dear sister.  We find death as often as we bring it."  I reached to touch her cheek, only to let my hand drop as she flinched away.  "We have lost Théodred.  I would not lose you, as well."

"How do you know that I am not already lost?"  Her eyes flashed as her sharp whisper rasped the walls.  "I wait in these dark halls, I watch Théoden wither and you ride away, and my task is to comfort the grieving and widowed when I have no comfort for myself!  For, if we fall, I simply wait the end with empty hands."

Her voice broke at the last, and her eyes glittered with unshed grief.  Yet even as my heart cracked into pieces, her chin rose to lovely, stern lines and she dashed away the traitorous tears.

"I shall speak again to our king, brother.  If e'er I can turn his ear to me, it shall be done.  You have done nothing that has not already been whispered in the thoughts of many others - including me."

Ah, thus spoke my lioness, and I laughed softly as I gathered her into a quick, fierce embrace.  My sister was fragile as a willow and strong as steel and the heart of the Riddermark beat in her breast.

Then I held her at arms' length, and found a weak smile.  "Did I tell you that I met a Dwarf and an Elf the other day?  In the very flesh!"

"You're changing the subject, brother mine."

"Yes, I am."

She sighed in a familiar note of exasperation, but I saw also the hint of a smile.  "Very well, you may tell your tale, but only if you will eat what I brought you, while you speak."

The deal was made, and so I told Éowyn of my meeting with Aragorn, and the tale of the three hunters. 

Meanwhile I silently prayed that when - not if - Aragorn came, he would bring with him hope to the Golden Halls of Meduseld.

***

Continued in Part 3 ...

ASHES, EAST WINDS, HOPE THAT RISES

Part 3

by ErinRua

Much later Háma and Éothain came to me, creeping past silently-sympathetic guards when all others were long in their beds.  They risked much, and I cursed them lovingly for the chances taken.  However, from them I learned more of Théodred's death, and the black Uruks who had come upon him and his men in such force.  From Isengard they were, great orcs of rare strength and power, and yet when they might have shattered our hold on the Fords for good, Théodred's remaining Riders reported that the enemy had suddenly withdrawn.  Why they would abandon a fight they were in command of made little sense - until with sick realization I knew what had come to pass.  Théodred's death was no mere chance of war.  He had been marked, and he had been hunted, and he had been slain.  Now I had little doubt that Isengard knew, by some foul chance, precisely where and when Théodred and his riders had moved.  How could Théoden not see this?  How could he ignore such proof that treachery within his own household set the noose and sprung the trap?

"Perhaps he will listen later," Háma said.  "When his wrath has passed."

"And how long has he been angry with Gandalf?" I asked.  "That anger lasts even beyond the grave."

"We'll find a way," said Éothain stubbornly.  "It is Wormtongue's doing, you know it is!"  Then with a dark look he added, "If aught should by chance happen to him -."

"Do not speak so!" I exclaimed.  "Anything we do against him will turn the king even more firmly against you!  Then we shall be utterly lost!"

"Then what must we do?" Éothain's frustration fairly shot sparks from his eyes.  "Éomer, the king weakens daily - we all see it!  If he does not lead us, who will?"

"We must bide a little, yet," I said.

"To what purpose?"

"Please, just wait."

"If you wait upon the Heir of Isildur  . . ." Éothain's expression darkened, as he slowly shook his head at me.  "We know not if this Strider spoke the truth.  Your death may yet come from his betrayal, even if you are forgiven for offering justice to the Wormtongue."

"You know he did not lie, Éothain," I said.

"Do I?"  Éothain looked at me, and in the flickering torch light I saw clearly the grief and worry upon him. 

"I thought I knew our king, Éomer.  Now I don't know where to rest my faith."

"Éomer is not to be discounted just yet," said Háma stoutly, and forced a visibly-false grin for my sake.  "We'll wait, my friend.  We'll wait for you and so will all who follow you."  Then his smile faltered and fled.  "Just don't let us wait until it's too late."

Their footsteps faded with their torchlight, and I was again left alone with doubt and shadow.

***

Dawn came creeping grey and dim, for little light found its way to the lowest halls where I lay.  The stillness was such that I could almost hear the stones creak, and my thoughts fled far upon the winds that swept through Edoras and to the hills beyond.  One shift of stone, and I might be crushed and forgotten forever, and so I dwelt not upon my own grim estate.  Rather I thought upon Aragorn, somewhere on the borders of the great Fanghorn forest, bent upon his stern quest with a tenacity that was humbling.  If he willed so for the rescue of two friends, what might he do if he sat upon the throne of Gondor, with armies waiting his word?

"You wait in vain."

Ah, yes, Wormtongue whispered still, as he came ostensibly to check the changing of the guard.

"There are stronger forces than this Strider knows afoot," he said, beyond my oaken door.  "If he strays into the forest, he may never return, for there are eyes watching in the wood.  And even if his task is true, why should he trouble himself for the return of horses you so foolishly gave up?  Indeed, even if his name is true, why should the heir of Isildur have any care for the Rohirrim?  Long we have lent our alliance to Gondor, but longer still have her kings been absent from the throne.  If we are left leaderless, Gondor will be that much stronger."

"If we are leaderless," I growled to the oaken planks between us.  "It is your doing, worm."

"I think not," Wormtongue said, and I could hear the smugness I knew painted his expression.  "You betray Théoden's trust in his time of greatest need.  And your king wearies from the weight of cares and years.  Alas, now Théodred is lost - who then is left as Théoden's heir?  For surely it will not be you."

Hating him, I answered not.

"Yet there is one who remains true," he added thoughtfully.  "One who is of both the blood and strength to lead her people.  She needs only the wisdom of a faithful counselor to guide her path, and the Riddermark will be strong again."

My very soul cried out in stark revulsion, and I nearly strangled on my own words.  "She is not for you, foul snake!"

"Peace, Éomer," he said, and his disdainful chuckle echoed beyond the door.  "Soon all choices will be beyond you - and your sister is not foolish enough to refuse the one strong hand left to aid her."

"CURSE YOU!"

Yet my shout sledged impotently between the narrow walls of my cell, and Wormtongue left me there like a barking dog on a tether.  The boom of the corridor door seemed to echo as a mighty gong of doom.  None may live now as they have lived, and few shall keep what they call their own.  Aragorn's prophecy drifted from memory, and I wondered then if I would long even keep my life.  Wearily I sank down against the rough walls and then closed my eyes.  Aragorn, where are you?  Please make haste, if only for my sister's sake. . . .

***

If Grima thought to order my death from outside, so, too, I could order his from within.  That cold realization crept to the fore, as the hours slid past unmarked.  I do not deny that Éothain's reckless plea had lingered in my mind, though the better part of me shrank violently from the folly of murder to secure a throne.  However, if I were dead, and if Théoden could not hold his rule much longer, then there seemed little to keep Grima from his plans of power.  Éowyn would sooner slip a knife between his ribs than submit to such as him - but had I the right to leave her to that peril?  Had I the right to submit to what would seem like justice, except it was whispered from the lips of a craven?  For I had no doubt that, even now, Grima detailed my faults and failings to our king, and though Théoden loved me, I feared I could no longer trust him to hear reason.  Grima would make me a traitor, and love knows no greater wrath than that born of betrayal.  I was as a son to him, but perhaps soon he would see me as Grima painted me, treacherous, faithless, false and conspiring.  Indeed, with Théodred dead, Grima might even whisper that I, who was born to be no more than the Third Marshall of the Riddermark, held my own designs for rule in Théoden's stead.

Never had I drawn blood saving only in battle, honorably and with the foe having sword or bow in hand.  But as I waited an uncertain fate and the world moved towards darkness, the unthinkable took shape in my mind.  A deed I had almost attempted in passion now returned to be viewed in cold blood.  I had never sought the duty now facing me.  It was my honor to serve my people and my king, and when in the fullness of time Théoden passed to the ages, I would have followed his son Théodred with as faithful a heart.  No more did I ever ask.  But now our king failed, Théodred lay dead at the Ford of the Isen, and Grima Wormtongue waited in the shadows, washing his grasping hands together.  If I stood still, I might not live to see Aragorn's promise kept or our horses returned.

The old tales told of our long-ago king Helm Hammerhand, a man of terrible strength and dour mind.   It is said that he once smote a man named Freca a killing blow, when Freca had proven himself to have treasonous ambitions.  History might not remember me as kindly as it did Helm, but what choice had I?  To save myself, to save my sister, to save my people . . . aye, shadow bred only more shadow.

That night my fitful sleep brought jagged-edged dreams and in them walked a tall, grim, grey-eyed man.  Suddenly he looked at me, looked full in my face . . . and then with one long step he turned his back.  I tried to cry out after him, tried to shout or scream, but my voice was seized with a clutching paralysis, and I stood frozen as stone while he walked away.  I awoke sharply in smothering darkness, and the ache of that unspoken cry was still knotted in my throat.

***

Dawn came bitterly chill and damp, as if the fading ghost of winter crept one last time from the snow-tipped peaks.  In my dark cell was neither candle nor flame, and I crouched like a hunted thing, seeking to gather my own meager warmth.

I knew naught of things beyond these rooms, neither how Théoden fared nor if my sister successfully tapped his reason, nor if Wormtongue as ever whispered his slow-dripping poison.  The thought niggled that any plans of mine might die unborn, if the first to come for me came at the Wormtongue's bidding.  Long I waited, for what I knew not, as the morning began to grow older.  Storm it seemed rode with the cold, when thunder came thudding through the walls in a heavy, rolling boom.  When it passed, I listened for further rumor of the storm, idly wondering how close and how bad it might be.  Yet no other sound followed, and thus I leaped to my feet at the first dim echo of approaching voices.   My heart thudded like racing hooves as the corridor door creaked open.  I felt briefly weak with relief to hear Háma's familiar voice echoing up the hall, and I dared breathe again as I stepped back from the door.

"Yes, yes, I saw him with my own eyes!"  Háma was saying.  "It was Gandalf, and yet not Gandalf as he was."

And suddenly I could not breathe at all.

"You speak riddles, man," spoke the voice of the guard.  "Gandalf is dead.  You said it yourself!"

"Obviously I was mistaken!" Háma insisted.  "I tell you, it was he, and with but a touch and a few words he has made our King whole!"

"Háma!"  I shouted and hammered on the oak between us.  "Open this door and speak to me!"

The poor man barely had the key turned in the lock before I burst through, and turned on him to seize his jerkin with both hands.

"Tell me what news!  Tell me what has happened!"

His face shone with unabashed joy despite my handling.  "Gandalf has returned!  Aragorn is here with the Sword That Was Broken, and Théoden has awakened!"

"How?  How is this possible?"

"I know not, only that Gandalf has returned, and he spoke to our king and he has cast Grima Wormtongue upon his face - did you hear the thunder of it?  My heart fails to think of it, for such power no Man could withstand.  But Éomer!"  Háma fisted his fingers in my own shirt front, and I saw tears of gladness in his eyes.  "Théoden is awake!  He asks for you, Éomer!  He has cast aside his staff and seen the light of day - come, we must make haste!"

Haste indeed, for scarcely had he spoken when I was striding for the door.  "Where is my sword?"

"It's locked away!"

"Have you a key?"  I sent him a hard glance as we reached the last door.

"Yes, of course - wait here."

Wait I did not, but Háma soon came bounding after me.  I grasped Gúthwinë's steely weight in my hand, when at last Háma and I came to the steps mounting the high porch before Théoden's hall.  Glory it was to fill my lungs with the sweet, clear breath of distant rainfall, and sweeter yet to see proof that the heir of Isildur had spoken in honor  There on the terrace above stood Aragorn, stern and tall, and beside him the Elf and Dwarf, faithful as hounds.  And there also was Gandalf, whom I had never thought to see again in the living world, yet he seemed strangely changed as he stood all in white, and power sat upon him like an unseen crown.  But my eyes fixed on only one, a tall, grave figure with a beard like a frozen waterfall, my king, who now looked out into the day where the chill rains blessed the fields and the clouds drew with them skirts of silver-grey.  For the first time in more seasons than I cared to remember, Théoden stood without Grima Wormtongue at his elbow.  To my eyes, the absence of the Wormtongue was as peculiar as seeing a man who cast no shadow.  Had Gandalf truly worked this great wonder as Háma claimed?

Háma and I trod as silently as we could upon the ancient stairs, while the quiet mutter of their voices drifted down to us.  Only the Elf Legolas noted our approach, and he spoke no word.

Then Gandalf suddenly spoke boldly, and looked to the shrouded East.  "Verily, that way lies our hope, where sits our greatest fear.  Doom hangs on a thread.  Yet hope there is still, if we can but stand unconquered for a little while."

What riddles he spoke, I knew not, and my stomach clutched like a cold fist when Théoden began to bend slowly, as if his strength were failing already.  Carefully he lowered himself, until he sat upon a bench, and there placed his hands upon his knees.

"Alas, that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age, instead of that peace which I have earned."  Ah, how the soul-weariness in that beloved voice stabbed me like a jagged blade, and still he spoke.  "Alas for Boromir the brave!  The young perish and the old linger, withering."

Háma, you dream too soon, I thought bitterly.  What earthly power exists that can cleanse the slow poison Grima has so long and thoroughly worked upon our king?

Yet Gandalf spoke again, and almost it seemed he was gently chiding.  "Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword-hilt."

I watched as my King again stood, but he fumbled with empty hands where no sword hung, and seemed somehow surprised.  To himself he said, "Where has Grima stowed it?"

In that instant there seemed no greater disgrace, than that Wormtongue should have the keeping of my king's honored sword.

"Take this, dear lord!" I cried.  "It was ever at your service!"

With my naked sword in hand I bounded up the last steps, and knelt on the cold stone at Théoden's feet.  Thus, and with all my heart, I offered up Gúthwinë to him in both hands, hilt-first, and there waited either his blessing or his judgment.  Tall and terrible, he turned to face me, and there was thunder in his eyes that made me afraid - and I was glad for it.

"How comes this?" he said, and it was my King who spoke, he who had led us for years beyond my memory, and not the broken ruin Wormtongue had left us.

Háma's voice wavered unsteadily in a rather disjointed reply.  "It is my doing, lord.  I understood that Éomer was to be set free.  Such joy was in my heart that I may have erred.  Yet since he was free again, and he a Marshal of the Mark, I brought him his sword as he bade me."

"To lay at your feet, my lord," I added quickly.

Still I held my sword for his grasp, though my arms protested the awkward stance.  In the stillness of my heart I begged him, if not to accept my service, then that he please once more take up an honest blade - and lead his people as he had in days of old!  Cold blue as a winter sky his eyes were, as they looked down at me, and I saw the struggle in them.  So long had he been made to believe in false weakness, that the striking off of such shackles came not easily.  Yet I would wait, and I cared not of the stones should crumble beneath us, before he made his choice.

Then came Gandalf's quiet voice.  "Will you not take the sword?"

Slowly Théoden reached, and slowly those gnarled but still-powerful hands closed about Gúthwinë's hilt.  The breath I took was nearer to a sob, as my sword's weight was suddenly lifted from my grasp.  There Théoden King stood upon his doorstep with a blade in his hand, and power filled him like the rush of the North wind.

Steel flashed in a swift arc that rent the air, and suddenly the bold tongue of the Rohirrim rang to the rooftops and rain-swept fields below.

"Arise, now, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Dire deeds awake, dark it is eastward.
Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded.
Forth Eorlingas!"

Oh, it was a wonder, as feet thudded upon the stairs and men burst from doorways, braced for they knew not what dire calamity.  The astonished guards skidded upon their heels to see their king standing thus, tall and fierce with a sword in his hand.  Instead of a cry for help they found a call to arms, and every man of them swept forth his sword to lay at Théoden's feet.  How my heart sang!

"Westu Théoden hal!" I shouted, before remembering our guests who spoke the Common Tongue.  "It is a joy to us to see you return into your own."

Then joyously I turned to the old wizard, who stood bent and gleaming white and altogether pleased with himself.  "Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come with only grief!"

Gandalf's eyes twinkled beneath his great brows as Théoden gave the sword one last bright swing, and then my king looked to me once more.  With a deft flip, he caught my sword by the blade, and held the grip for my hands.

"Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son," he said gently, and everything I had thought lost shone in his eyes.  Then when I had done, he turned a stern gaze past me.  "Go, Háma, and seek my own sword!  Grima has it in his keeping.  Bring him to me, also.  Now, Gandalf, you said that you had counsel to give, if I would hear it.  What is your counsel?"

The tide of change swept even as the rains upon our fields, driven fast by a cold wind but no less welcome for their blessing.  From Gandalf's mouth came the wisdom that Grima Wormtongue had long denied, and Théoden my king heard him with new ears.  We must ride, we must strike against Saruman to the west, and our people must flee with only that which they could carry to our ancient mountain strongholds.  We must ride to battle from a red dawn, with no certainty to claim save only that failure was death to us all.  Proof of the urgency of our peril lay in Aragorn's quiet refusal of Théoden's hospitality.

"The men of Rohan must ride forth today," he said.  "And we will ride with them, ax, sword, and bow.  We did not bring them to rest against your wall, Lord of the Mark."  And his grey eyes gleamed warmly as he glanced at me.  "And I promised Éomer that my sword and his should be drawn together."

One does not pound a future king upon the shoulders, but Aragorn never knew how close he came, in that moment.  Instead, I slapped a hand upon the hilt of my sword, and said, "Now indeed there is hope of victory!"

"Hope, yes," Gandalf said with a cautioning glance.  "But Isengard is strong.  And other perils draw ever nearer.  Do not delay, Théoden, when we are gone.  Lead your people swiftly to the Hold of Dunharrow in the hills."

But my king drew himself straighter and I saw the years fall away from his shoulders.  "Nay, Gandalf!  You do not know your own skill at healing.  It shall not be so.  I myself will go to war, to fall in the front of battle, if it must be."  And for the first in a very long time his old blue eyes twinkled.  "Thus I shall sleep better."

Aragorn dipped his chin in grave salute.  "Then even the defeat of Rohan will be glorious in song."

Yet the cheers and clash of arms of my people demonstrated how little we feared defeat, if ours could but be a glorious fight.  To huddle in dread and bar our doors against things of the dark - nay, this was never the way of the Riddermark.  The Enemy closing upon us would make us all slaves, but freedom thunders in the heart of even our smallest babes.  We are the wind upon the hills and the storm on the mountain, and we will, every one of us, sell our freedom at blood-cost.  This and more rang in the voices of our Riders.

Aye, change had come and swiftly, and quiet fell as men came from the hall, first Háma bearing Théoden's sword and behind him in the unfriendly grasp of two guards followed Grima Wormtongue, blinking in the daylight like some pallid, crawling thing which had been plucked from beneath a turned stone.  We saw him for the worm he was, yet even now he sought to spin his deceit as on old woman spins wool.  Artfully he feigned alarm upon seeing Théoden's new state.  The king must rest, the king must eat.  The king was bewitched and made forgetful of his treasures and hall - what would become of poor faithful Grima - and who would be left to guard them now?  Fool!  Did he not see that if Shadow prevailed, neither treasure nor house would be left to any of us?

My king was not without irony, as he gazed at last with clear eyes upon his fawning counselor.  Théoden's voice and bearing were as strong as the steel now grasped in his right hand.

"You have my pity," he said.  "And I do not send you from my side.  I go to war with my men.  I bid you come with me and prove your faith."

There were smiles hidden and hands raised to still unseemly laughter at that, as Grima cringed in dismay.  Nay, never was a sword meant for his hand, when words had done for him far deadlier work.  Nor was he through with his mouthings, and once again he fell to sucking upon the theme of Théoden's age and frailty as a dog upon a sour teat.  And last, his game fell upon the table before all eyes.

"Appoint a faithful steward," he cried.  "Let your counselor Grima keep all things 'til your return - and I pray that we may see it, though no wise man will deem it hopeful."

Clever fool, did he think we did not know him?  Bold now as I had not dared be in many a day, I laughed at the incredulity of his ploy, and did not spare my disdain.

"And if that plea does not excuse you from war, most noble Wormtongue, what office of less honor do you accept?  To carry a sack of meal up into the mountains - if any would trust you with it?"

"Nay, Éomer," spoke Gandalf suddenly.  "You do not fully understand the mind of Master Wormtongue."

The wizard turned now towards that cringing creature, and almost I could pity him caught before that gaze.  Too much of Gandalf's time had been lost already, whilst Grima Wormtongue contrived his own designs - or were they his own?  For Gandalf suddenly spoke in a voice of thunders, and the truth was its lightning.

"Down, snake!" he boomed.  "Down on your belly!  How long is it since Saruman bought you?  What was the promised price?"

The pulse roared in my ears as still Gandalf spoke on, and the vision now brought before my eyes nearly blinded me.  I saw the Golden Hall of Meduseld broken and our dead strewn upon the streets, and smoke streaming in black banners down the long skies of the Riddermark.  I saw the Enemy carousing upon our hearths and doorsteps, and through the ruins of my people slunk one man, Grima Wormtongue, rubbing his hands together.  And there in Gandalf's words I saw Éowyn, my sister of gold and ice, standing before the Wormtongue with empty eyes and a cold East wind wrapping close around her.

"For that reason I would have slain him before," I said, though the words came almost too tightly to speak.  "Forgetting the law of the hall.  But there were other reasons."

In my mind's eye I already saw Wormtongue's head bouncing and leaping down the long stair, but Gandalf's firm hand in my chest was my first realization that I had stepped forward with my hand on my sword.

"Éowyn is safe now," he said.  "But you, Wormtongue, have done what you could for your true master."

And that was the greatest abomination of all.  I stood hating whilst counsel was given and counsel taken, when I would have righted many wrongs with the blood of this most wretched of traitors.  Yet it was not my place and not my judgment, while Gandalf advocated mercy.  Thus Théoden offered Wormtongue the choices I never could have done.

"Ride with me to war," Théoden King said strongly.  "And let us see in battle whether you are true; or go now, whither you will. But then -."  And I saw fury gathering in his old eyes and heard it in his voice.  "If we ever meet again, I shall not be merciful."

His last words lingered like the echo of a mighty drum, and it was as if his age had fallen away like a tattered cloak.  Clear at last was his gaze and steady his hand.  He stood before us a lord of the House of Eorl, and Grima Wormtongue could not abide it.  Like the serpent he was, he coiled upon himself and malignity infused him before our very eyes.  And he struck like a serpent strikes, spitting upon the stones at Théoden's feet before he whirled to run, bounding down the stairs and out into the rain-swept day, seeking for the hole or woodpile that might shelter him.

And so he passed from us, upon Théoden's order neither hindered nor hurt, though what sort of horse would consent to bear him I dared not think.  Not upon the poorest steed would I wish such a master, but the loss was worth his leaving.

***

Continued in Part 4 ...

ASHES, EAST WINDS, HOPE THAT RISES

Part 4

by ErinRua

Outside the long braying of war-horns rang their summons from roof and street, as Théoden bid us to join him for a hasty meal.  Éowyn awaited us there, but she and I found no time to speak ere she took up station serving our king and guests.  Over our meal only Théoden and Gandalf spoke, the treachery of Grima Wormtongue at last laid bare.  I listened in growing horror as all my suspicions took shape, the long years of plotting and whispering, false counsel and hindrance, discouragement and lies, and all the while with an open door to Isengard, though we knew it not.  If danger lay north, he wished us south, if west, he wished us east.  Fifteen dead men suddenly filled my mind, and brave Théodred dead at the Ford of the Isen, and I saw Wormtongue's black hand in it all.  I could have taken horse right then and ridden him down like a marauding dog, and my meat tasted as ashes in my mouth.  Éowyn drifted like a ghost about our table, but ever and anon our gazes met, and I saw in her the mirror of my own loathing.  Gentle sister, aye, yet the steely echo of myself.  At last I looked across the table at Aragorn, and willed myself to find calm in the steadiness of his grey eyes.

I kept my silence as Théoden ordered accouterments of war brought to our guests.  Where they had come like whispers upon the grass they would leave as princes, bedecked in mail and jeweled shields.  Gimli the Dwarf chose a smaller shield that had been our king's, when he was a boy.  Then I could finally smile, at the vision of a Dwarf bearing the device of the House of Eorl.  He saw the humor as well.

"Indeed sooner would I bear a horse than be borne by one," he said, dark eyes twinkling.  "I love my feet better!  But, maybe, I shall come yet where I can stand and fight."

I matched his smile readily, and thought that I would very much like to see this doughty warrior in battle.  Yes, and I looked also at the shining eyes of Legolas the elf, and willed that we might all stand thus together.  Not for love of battle did they come, however, but for love of the man beside them, Aragorn with calm drawn about him like the mirrored face of a deep pool.  Yet I no longer envied them this, for my own lord stood forth in his rightful place at last.  Though we might ride to defeat, we would live our last moments in savage freedom, and suddenly I wondered how much of this was owed to Aragorn, who remembered his promises and also brought salvation to my king.

Soon we were done and thence a cup was drunk, brought to each of us by Éowyn's fair hand.  Aye, and there shone a light in her that had been too long dimmed, and she was beautiful as sun on white silk.  If it was the smile of Aragorn, king-that-would-be that kindled it, I begrudged him not.  Swift as lightning flashed the thought that hearts should not be given on the eve of war, but as swiftly I realized there might be no tomorrows in which to give them.  Better it seemed to die with a living dream, than to live in silence and wait dying with no dreams at all.

And still the horns blew, crying down the long wind and echoing from house to meadow.  From the fields rumbled the passage of many hooves, as horses were brought to saddle, and the high yips of the herders rang as cries of hoped-for victory.  I could not but marvel as Théoden went once more before us, striding as in much younger days, with his hand upon his noble blade and purpose blazing in his eyes.  I was grateful for Gandalf's cure - how could I feel otherwise? - but guilt gnawed a dull ache within me.  How could we who most loved him have failed him so?  How could we have not seen the deceit of Grima Wormtongue in time?  How could we - could I - have let the man who became as father to me fall so far?  Where in the name of all that was blessed had I been, that I had allowed Shadow to almost drain the very manhood from him?

At the end of his great hall Théoden paused, and turned to look at me.

"While I am attempting to set aright things too long neglected . . . ."  He smiled an odd, sad smile and laid his hand upon my shoulder.  "Can you forgive me, sister-son?"

He asked for my forgiveness?  The shock could have been no greater had he slapped me.  With Aragorn and his friends listening at our elbows, I felt my face flush hot.

"My lord," I stammered.  "Speak not so!  There is nothing to forgive!  It is I who failed you.  I stood useless while Wormtongue cast his foul lies."

"Nay," he rumbled quietly, and his fingers tightened as I fell silent.  "You spoke, and you stood ever at my right hand, though I was as a man blind and deaf.  Come now, Éomer, will you grant your pardon?"

I felt the warmth of his hand flood through me like poured honey, and found my throat suddenly too tight for me to more than whisper, "Yes, lord."

His eyes smiled like blue sky, and he chuckled gently.  "And what of your sister?  Will Éowyn forgive an old man's near-fatal foolishness?"

"My lord, she has forgiven you daily." I smiled as I followed the thought.  "And twice daily, if it seemed needful."

He laughed, a golden and joyful sound, and smote my shoulder firmly as he turned away.  Then he strode forth from his hall, and before all the chieftains and lords gathered there, he changed my life forever.

"I have no child," he said to their attentive silence.  "Théodred my son is slain.  I name Éomer my sister-son to be my heir."

The floor tilted under my feet and my ears felt briefly full, and thankful I was to lay eyes on Háma's faithful, smiling face.  From behind a hand steadied me, Aragorn, I thought, and my king spoke on.

"If neither of us return, then choose a new lord as you will.  But to some one I must now entrust my people that I leave behind, to rule them in my place.  Which of you will stay?"

The only sounds were the soft rustle of clothing, a clink of mail, a scuff of shoes on stone.  Verily, what man among them would stay, when Théoden rode at last to war - perhaps the last riding the Riddermark would make?

Nonplused, Théoden looked to his captains with keen eyes.  "Is there none whom you would name?  In whom do my people trust?"

"In the House of Eorl," answered Háma stoutly.

"But Éomer I cannot spare, nor would he stay.  And he is the last of that House."

"I say not Éomer," Háma replied, and a knowing smile lit his face as his gaze shifted to the king's side.  "And he is not the last.  There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister.  She is fearless and high-hearted.  All love her.  Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone."

Oh, Éowyn, my sister, mad we are, and mad the world had become.  If all fails it will be you who stands among the shield-wall at the last gates, and my every wish is to spare you - but if I come not again to these halls, there can be no other.  Though dread seized me, there was no staying the swift hand of fate.  So it was declared and so it was done.

While Théoden spoke further to his lords I at last found myself at my sister's side.  Éowyn stood now with the sword of her new office upright between her feet, hands lightly grasping the hilt, and I swept her into my arms, sword and all.  The hard pommel gouged my ribs as I held her tightly, and I laughed into the magnificent fall of her golden hair.  Hard and soft at once she was, bedecked now in cold mail and yet fragile as a dove in my arms.

"I will rue this day, I know," I chuckled.  "You will find the moment to hound me as to whom the true master is - and I will have no choice but to bow before you."

"Fool," she grumbled, and pushed me firmly away, but her eyes were laughing.  "The woman is ever master, when wit must suffice where strength fails."

"Indeed, my lady," I said, and placed my hands on her shoulders, the bones there slender and strong as bow staves, to give her a gentle shake.  "And it is your wit that I should heed more, for we have already seen my strength fail."

"Speak not of that," she replied, her smile fading to solemnity.  "Until this morning all our strength was failing."

"Aye."  I looked over her head to the tall form of Aragorn, standing beside Théoden and Gandalf as they conversed earnestly with the chieftains.  "We have both banner and Sword and a king to lead us, at last, and none of it looked for last night."

"Yes," Éowyn replied, and turned within the circle of my arm to also look.  "Gandalf the Grey is returned White.  Théoden King has found healing and himself.  And the son of Arathorn walks out of legend, bearing a Sword older than memory - and reforged from a time when Men faced the same darkness."

"I think it is called hope, little sister," I said lightly, and grinned at the impatient glare she gave me.

"Hope," she said, and did not smile back.  "Yet what hope for me?"

"Éowyn!" I exclaimed, but she stepped from my reach.

"I fear to grasp hope," she said softly, and I wished I dared lift the sorrowful dip of her chin.  "Lest it be stolen from me.  Even while it stands before me, hope seems but a passing bit of Sun among too many clouds.  I am warm for the moment, but I will be cold again as soon as the clouds return."

Words failed me, for I am often confounded by the deep turns of feminine thought, but never so sadly as now.  Already the light I had seen in her was faded, and I wished briefly, madly, that I could take her by the arms and shake some good sense into her.  How could she not see it?  None of us were promised long lives or ease, but here at last was our courage returned to us, our King standing boldly before us, and if in the end we must fail, we would fail while striving as free men.  And more, she was fit, she was worthy for the grave duty now thrust upon her, and she had our people's faith.  Though I feared for her now more than ever, I trusted her in the duty she had been given.

"Éowyn," I said quietly.  "Shadow and fear chills us all.  I barely remember a day when it did not.  But now is our time, you and I, to lend our strength to our people.  My éored looks to me.  Our people who must stay look to you."  Carefully I reached to take the hand not occupied by her sword, and found her fingers cold.  "Keep them for us, my sister.  Keep a place for us to come back to."

"And what if you do not come back?" she asked softly, and suddenly I looked into eyes so naked with anguish that it frightened me.  "How long do I wait in this house, looking out from this high porch, willing my eyes to see sign or dust or glint of spears that may never come again?  Why must I forever stay and bid what might be our last farewell?"

"And what would you?"  I spoke more harshly than I meant to, but the turn of her thought baffled and chilled me, at once.  "Would you wish instead to see us fall?  To see the men of the Riddermark cold in our own blood while the crows pick at our eyes?  By all that is blessed, Éowyn, be thankful that you are spared this!"

"Spared?"  She pulled her hand free of my clasp, and took a step back.  "Mercy is not always kind, Éomer.  But mercy I would wish for, if it spares me from the day when there is no one left between me and the Enemy, and the crows come for me."

"We are all alone, at the end."  That was a cold warrior's truth that she must know.

"Never so alone as in the dark of unknowing!" she shot back.  "Yes, I would rather see you in your own blood and know, than spend all my days smothering alone in supposed safety, wondering!  I would rather follow and risk every sword and arrow that Isengard and Mordor possess, than linger here whilst all I love ride away to a doom I may never know."

With difficulty I smothered the urge to find something - anything - to throw with all my strength.  Every word I chose struck ill, I wounded her where I would rather have offered comfort, and I could not for the life of me fathom what it was she sought.  Fear and sorrow we long had shared, but whence came this sudden madness?

"Éowyn, there is no comfort in rushing to meet doom before its time."

"How would you know?"  Her eyes blazed blue fire and her low voice was very nearly a growl.  "Could you stay in my place, son of Éomund, and keep the floors swept and the kitchen neat until that doom bursts in the gates?  Could you sleep, not knowing when you might be torn from your bed?"

"Woman, what do you want of me?" I demanded.  "There are no certainties in this world, and I will not lie to give them to you!  All I can give you - all any of us have - is that hope which has been returned to us!"

"Yes," she said softly, and was suddenly very still.  She looked at me as if across some vast, impenetrable distance, and I had the sense that if I touched her she would shatter like ice sheathing a blade of grass. 

"Yes, we have hope.  And when you leave, hope rides with you."

Words defied the grasp of my wit and the gaping of my mouth, and she turned from me, her head bowing so that the mantle of her golden hair fell forward, half-shielding her still face.

"Go to your men, brother.  They will want you.  I will see you before you go."

"Éowyn -."  The words wanted to stick in my throat, yet desperation rose in me reach across that cold space now yawning between us.  "Promise you'll wait.  Please say you'll be here when I return."

She made no reply, nor did she look at me, and my fear grew.  "Sister, promise me!"

"I will wait, brother," she said, and her voice was thin as a breeze beneath an ill-sealed door.  "This once more, I will wait."

And so she stood apart from me on the porch of Théoden's great hall.  She was my sister, mine in some soul-bound way that had held us since our parents died, mine to tease and to teach, mine to protect from nightmares and spiders and things that bump in the night.  But now when she needed me most, it would seem I failed entirely.  I would not have others know the helpless anguish fallen upon my heart, and I turned my eyes from Aragorn's questing glance as we started down the stairs.  As much as I had lain at Aragorn's feet, what more might a woman's heart devise?  Severely I turned my mind from the question.  The muster of Rohan had begun, and I looked for Éothain as soon as the gate below swung open.

Ah, how they cheered, for the world moved beyond the concerns of a single man.  A thousand Riders with a thousand spears saluted their king's coming with a paean of joy; Théoden!  Théoden King!  Ferthu Théoden hál!  The baying of their voices rose like a swift wind, and hard hands smote my shoulders joyously in passing.  Éothain I found easily amongst the jostling crush of horsemen, simply by the smile wreathing his face.  To my surprise he rode towards me leading my horse, already saddled.

"We were waiting, Éomer," he said, and leaned from the saddle to seize my arm in an iron grip, white teeth shining.  "For whatever you and our king might ask."

"Then what I ask, brother," I said, and returned his clasp tightly.  "Is that you ride with me, and together we follow the Lord of the Mark to battle!"

His fierce growl of assent was all the reply I needed.  However, my thoughts were grim as I took the reins and stood to assess the muster shaping around me.  Though we seemed a steel-tipped sea of strength, suddenly I feared if that strength would be enough to stand between all whom we loved and the Shadow rising against us.

Tall Hasufel and quick Arod were brought with my king's mount, Snowmane, and I took pleasure in seeing my faith so truly rewarded.  Neither cruel use nor unkindness marred the animals I had lent, and I was amused to see Arod still bare of either saddle or rein.  Turning, I found Aragorn at my elbow, and once again felt myself pinned by that iron-grey gaze.  Yet he smiled, the warmth of it at once casting aside my unease.

"Will you trust us with your horses once more?" he asked.

"Now, and always," I replied.  "And if my word bears any least weight, there is no horse of the Riddermark you may not have, saving only the king's own."

Smiling briefly, Aragorn stroked his horse's long grey muzzle.  "Hasufel serves me well enough.  He is both faithful and strong."

"A match for his master, then," I replied.  Then the matter of faith startled a long-forgotten thought back to my mind, though I hesitated to speak of it.  "Aragorn, forgive me, but I would know, how was it with your quest?  What news of your two friends, the Holbytlan?"

To my surprise, Aragorn's smile returned and birthed a sturdy chuckle.  "The Hobbits are quite well, I am pleased to say.  Better than we, in fact, for they are in the keeping of the Ents."

Certainly I must have stared like a simpleton, as there was open humor dancing in his eyes before I found voice again.  "The Ents!  Tell me you jest!  The Entwood has long been a place of dark mystery, but I have not - I do not - how?"

Still smiling, Aragorn nonetheless answered in all seriousness.  "I do not jest, Éomer, nor can I tell you more than this.  The Ents have awakened, thanks to our young friends, and Isengard may well have greater foes than it knows."

I could only shake my head in amazement.  "Next Eorl himself will come riding down like thunder from the hills, and then all legends will take flesh before us."

Arod suddenly flung up his graceful head and blew, and we turned to see what so drew his attention.  There among the milling, stamping press of horses and Riders walked Legolas the Elf, tall and princely in the gleaming mail of our king, and beside him strode sturdy Gimli, with Théoden's shield slung upon his back and his battle ax laid upon his shoulder.  One almost supposed the Dwarf feared he might have to hew a path through so many heavy bodies, lest he be trod upon.

"There is a most unlikely friendship," I said.  "Legolas son of the Greenwood, and Gimli son of iron and stone.  I should wonder what fires could forge such a union of such unlikely metal."

"Yet their faith is true as the steel they carry," Aragorn said.  "To each other and to the task before us.  My intent is simply to be worthy of that faith."

"You are their captain," I replied.  "No matter what king leads us or what banners fly, it is you they follow."

He glanced down, then back at me, and there seemed a gentle shadow in his eyes.  "We travel perilous ways, you and I.  And yet our fear is never so much for ourselves, is it?  We long ago accepted that our own hurts, even our own deaths await us as the possible wages of our endeavors.  But we give our hearts to those who follow, and their loss is the scar slowest to fade."

My chest tightened at the sudden grasp of bitter memory.  Fifteen men in a barrow at Fangorn's marge.  Théodred my foster-brother newly dead at the Ford of the Isen.  And so many others whose memories arose nigh to choking, that I was glad for the quick surprise of Aragorn's hand grasping my shoulder.

"Ah, and here they are!"

Legolas smiled in greeting, an expression of such bright good nature that I was pleased to have his favor.  An auspicious portent as I judged it, considering we had begun by trying to slay each other.  I would much rather have such fierce loyalty on my side.

"Poor Arod," he then said.  "He had hoped for a cozy stable and extra corn."

He laughed while the horse bobbed his head as if in understanding, and then butted into the elf's chest.  He drew his long fingers over Arod's snowy forelock and spoke in strange, soft liquid tones, Elvish I guessed.  Watching while the horse snuffled and blew at Legolas' hands and the elf smiled back at him, I could only shake my head.  The two of them appeared like nothing so much as oddly-matched children.  Aragorn perhaps thought the same, for he wore an indulgent smile of his own.

Ah, but there was one more not to be overlooked, and I stepped past Legolas and his silly communion, leading my horse towards Gimli.  Poor fellow, the Dwarf looked not at all happy amongst all that heavy-footed forest of horseflesh.  Now, if ever, was my chance to mend a bridge between us.  He marked me as I drew near, his dark eyes sharp as darts above the thick brush of his beard.  One would never call him handsome, but there was a robust magnificence to both his form and the fierceness of his expression.  Whatever he lacked in stature was more than matched in spirit, for his was truly a warrior's heart.  Trusting this, there was more than a little recklessness in the greeting I gave him.

"Hail, Gimli Gloin's son!" I said.  "I have not had time to learn gentle speech under your rod, as you promised.  But shall we not put aside our quarrel?  At least I will speak no evil again of the Lady of the Wood."

Stern his face remained, yet there was suddenly keen humor twinkling in his eyes, as he replied.  "I will forget my wrath for a while, Éomer son of Éomund, but if ever you chance to see the Lady Galadriel with your eyes, then you shall acknowledge her the fairest of ladies, or our friendship will end!"

"So be it," I laughed.  "But until that time pardon me, and in token of pardon ride with me, I beg.  Gandalf will be at the head with the Lord of the Mark, but Firefoot, my horse, will bear us both, if you will."

The glance he cast my faithful Firefoot fell leagues short of enthusiastic, but he consented.  Yet a Dwarf seemed ever mindful of bargains and conditions, his now being that Legolas should ride beside us.  Little might he know that this was not my boon to grant, but my wish to ask for.  Thus I looked with delight upon Legolas' handsome face - the elf through for the moment with bewitching his horse - and Aragorn's stern but kindly one.

"It shall be so," I said.  "Legolas upon my left, and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare to stand before us."

Aye, if we died, we at least would not die cowering in fearful darkness.  Amid the shouts of men and the trampling of a thousand sets of eager hooves, I turned and swung to saddle without touching my stirrups.  Legolas and Aragorn were also mounted, and I turned Firefoot dancing to find my new companion.  Sternly the Dwarf glared up at me.

"You will use prudence in your governance of that beast, I trust?"

"He will bear you as gently as if you were my own grandmother, friend Gimli!"

Legolas joined in my laughter as he reached to take Gimli's ax.  "Come, Gimli, I will vouch for your safety.  And I promise I'll wait for you, if you should fall off."

Grumbling and huffing, Gimli managed, with greater spryness than I would have credited to him, to find his seat behind me.  Nor did he clutch in unease, but instead settled himself neatly in place with his great ax hugged firmly to his shoulder.

"Master Legolas has taught you well," I said over my shoulder.

The growled reply at my back was echoed by Legolas' bright peal of laughter, and so we were ready.

Ready, aye, but for what?  For battle, but my heart forebode that it would be like no battle we had ever known.  Though my horse shifted light-footed and anxious beneath me suddenly I watched as if from a dream.  All about me sprang the steely forest of Rohirrim spears, swaying and surging as though swept by a silent wind.  Among the heaving sea of restless horses I noted with odd clarity the many hues of grey, whether dappled or steely or shining like silver, and red that gleamed like burnished copper.  Long silvered fingers of sun reached through the many-hued clouds riding low upon the plains, and helms and faces were suddenly gilded in golden light.  Bold faces, brave faces, laughing and waiting and fierce as birds of prey, and I would remember them.  If I lived, I would remember them all.

Yet our lives were not to be kept, but to be spent dearly as rare coin and sharply as a driven sword.  Though many might fall, would fall, we must not fail.  Éowyn waited as all our folk waited, and we few were all that stood between them and destruction.  Gandalf had hinted of a secret hope, of unseen events yet unfolding to the east, if we could only hold on, if we could but stand unbroken a little while more.  And hold we must.  Behind us would begin the sad exodus to the Hold of Dunharrow, babe and greybeard, wife and maid, all making the long trek up the ancient, twisting road to the Firienfeld.  The Hold was thought a refuge none could breech, and yet they who had founded it were lost to the dusts of time.  Would any remember us, who left only songs in the wind upon the grass?

For I was afraid.  Not of death, but of leaving so very much behind.  A great surge of emotion welled within me and I knew it at last for love.  Love of all that I beheld, brave men and fine horses, the greening fields and the chill little breezes, the shifting silver sky that bathed the waking earth in bands of sunlight and sweet rain, and a slender figure in white and silver mail who stood atop the ancient stairs.  How I loved them all - and how I would hate to go, when it seemed only now did I see how precious all were.

"Éomer?"

I turned my head to face that quiet voice, and was not surprised to find Aragorn beside me, tall Hasufel settling to stillness at my stirrup.  Absently I noted that Aragorn's keen eyes were the same hue as the sun-touched grey clouds beyond.  I wanted to speak, but found my throat too tight for words.

But perhaps he understood.  He nodded slowly, and sighed as he rested both hands on his pommel, turning his gaze towards the cloud-caped mountains afar.

"Stand with me, I bid you, Éomer," he said.  "We cannot choose the doom that awaits us, but we can choose who is beside us when we meet it."

I felt Gimli's strength waiting behind me and caught Legolas' fierce, hawkish glance, and knew I could choose no better.  Then voices were clamoring for Gandalf's horse, bold Shadowfax who now refused the touch of any man.  Where away was he?  Down to the ford well below the hill of Meduseld, and yet he flung his head up at the wizard's carrying whistle, frozen at that summons like an ivory sculpture.  Thinly on the damp breeze his reply rang back, a long, shuddering neigh of imperious defiance.  Then he tossed his lordly head and towards us he came at a run, his long legs reaching and bunching in powerful strides, his tail a white banner and his mane a whipping flag.  The swift play of muscle and bone beneath that shining coat seemed echoed in the very earth beneath his pounding hooves, and my heart rose as if in answering flight.

"Were the breath of the West Wind to take body visible," I breathed.  "So it would appear."

Ah, a joy it was to see that magnificent creature thunder to us in a reckless flashing of hooves, and then tuck himself into a sliding stop that left furrows in the sod.  One last toss of his head, and he walked mildly as a dog to the master of his choice.  Softly Gandalf spoke, and his strong, gnarled hand caressed the noble head that bent to him.

"The gift seems already to be given," Théoden said, eyes twinkling, and then raised his voice to a firm, carrying tone.  "But hearken all!  Here now I name my guest, Gandalf Greyhame, wisest of counselors, most welcome of wanderers, a lord of the Mark, a chieftain of the Eorlingas while our kin shall last; and I give to him Shadowfax, prince of horses."

Then giving his thanks, Gandalf sprang astride with agility no one would imagine that old frame possessed, and neither saddle nor bridle was needed in that union between souls.  Hatless and with his old grey cloak flung back from snowy robes, he was light embodied and a flag on a white wind.  He was power and purpose and a beacon of hope, though Shadow reached black hands towards us from both East and West.

Beside me Aragorn suddenly laughed, a bright, fey joy in him to match my own.

"Behold the White Rider!" he shouted, and my people roared the cry back to him.

"Our King and the White Rider!" shouted a voice I knew as Háma's, and again roared a tide of answering sound.  "Forth Eorlingas!"

Thus we rose on a wind of trumpets that swept us away in a torrent, outwards into the day and down upon the rain-sweet plain with thunder rumbling above and below.  Let come doom, let come what may, we rode with hope - and hope rode beside me.  Hesitation and doubt must be abandoned now, for there remained only one road before us.  One road, which would end in Shadow for us all, or would pass us through Shadow to find the shining sun on the other side.  This day, I believed in the sun.

~ FINIS ~

Author's Notes ~

NOTE 1:  Special and fond thanks to my fellow adventurers at The Burping Troll - http://www.burpingtroll.com  - you are my inspiration, my courage and my support.  Thanks to Dwimmerlaik of Henneth Annun, for making me think, dammit, and to all who helped with my Éomer/Théodred questions.  And special thanks to Adrienne for volunteer proof-reading and encouragement.

NOTE 2: The forty-five leagues traveled by the Three Hunters in search of Merry and Pippin is the American equivalent of 135 miles in about three and a half days - on foot.

NOTE 3:  When one studies "The Lord of the Rings" as well as "The Unfinished Tales," there seems to be equal arguments as to whether Éomer knew of Théodred's death before he rode on his orc hunt, or after.  However, I have written my depiction based on various factors which were brought to my attention, including things he and others said - or did not say - which would seem to preclude his having knowledge until after he returned to Edoras.

NOTE 4: Éowyn did wait as she promised, staying to aid and guide her exiled people in the Hold of Dunharrow until the Riders returned victorious from battle at Helm's Deep.  Then, however, Aragorn returned only to ride to presumed suicide upon the Paths of the Dead, Théoden and Éomer rode away again to join Gondor in their last extremity, and Shadow at last darkened the skies as physical proof of the Dark Lord's power.  Then Éowyn did forsake the duties her king left to her, apparently abandoning hope for life when it seemed there was no hope, and instead embracing hope for a death of her choosing, beside her brother and her king.  When the Rohirrim rode one last time, among them went Éowyn Éomund's daughter in the guise of Dernhelm, a Rider of Rohan.

NOTE 5: Tolkien wrote Éomer as being surprised that Éowyn's despair ran as deep as it did, telling Aragorn in the Houses of Healing, "Yet I knew not that Éowyn, my sister, was touched by any frost, until she first looked upon you.  Care and dread she shared ... but that did not bring her to this pass."  However, I would doubt that Éowyn kept her heart entirely secret from him, supposing rather that her brother was submerged in the burden of his own concerns about war, treachery and a failing king, and he simply failed to pay closer attention to her warning signs.  Thus I have allowed her to speak to him as she did in this story, as we are often blind to what afflicts those closest to us.

NOTE 6: I do employ direct quotes of Tolkien's dialogue at times which seemed unavoidable; your forgiveness and understanding is my blessing.