Note: This is the first in (hopefully) a series of short-stories depicting important moments  in the life of Éomer, Marshal and later King of Rohan. As this is by no means a closed story, I eagerly await your input, and maybe you have ideas yourself about what other defining moments there could be. As I am only just beginning with this, I’d be most interested to hear your ideas!

Disclaimer: Éomer and everyone else belong to the Tolkien heirs (hard but true). Yet as little has been said about the people of Rohan before the time of the Ring-War, I am taking the freedom to fill a few gaps with my ideas purely for entertainment’s sake.

Warnings: None. No violence, no swearing. A thoroughly harmless piece, I’d say. J Lots of pathos, probably.

Rating: Due to the adult nature of the subject, I’d say a “T” should do it.

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DAY OF RECOGNITION

„I understand this is difficult for you, father, but it is time. If you do not give him permission today, Éomer will be sourly disappointed. He trained obsessively for years. He had improved every time I tested him, and we all know that he is already an outstanding rider. He is ready, my lord.”

The newly appointed Marshal of Westfold, Théodred, who had been summoned to the king’s study, cast a brief glance at the other present man and saw appreciation in the solemn expression of the older warrior before he turned back to his father. Both men knew how hard it had to be for Théoden-King to send yet another member of his family out into the brutal, unsure world outside the gates of Edoras, where anything could happen to a man, and much sooner to an inexperienced lad of sixteen summers. The King did not have much family left, and giving his nephew over to the armed forces after he had already allowed his son and heir into the armed forces had to twist his insides. Yet the lad had made it abundantly clear for as long as Théodred had known him that he would not accept to be spared the fate that called the lesser born boys of the Mark to arms at that age, just because he was considered nobility. The boy had a score to settle with the orcs, and ever since that dreadful day when they took his father when he was just aged eleven years, he had been counting the days until he would be able to bring his vengeance upon them.

Nodding upon hearing his son’s statement, Théoden-King nevertheless looked grey at the prospects of sending Éomer into the fray that cost the lives of so many valiant warriors every day.

“I know he has advanced with the sword and bow. The weapons master told me of his improvements. But the lad is still too impulsive. He hates the orcs with a vengeance, and I am afraid that his rashness will cause problems on the battlefield.”

“We all hate them from the bottom of our hearts, Sire,” Elfhelm, one of the valiant captains of the Eastfold responded, his gaze firm and reassuring. “We all had to learn the necessary restraint to battle them without putting ourselves in danger any more than necessary. Éomer, I am certain, will learn it, too. It is true that he is impulsive and does not think through his actions yet, but that cannot be expected of him at this age. He is a smart lad though, and I know that he wants to do his father honour. When Éomund was killed, I vowed to take the lad under my wings once he would be old enough to join the Rohirrim. I stand by that vow now, Théoden-King. I will teach your nephew what he needs to know, and I will protect him with my life. The entire éored has sworn to watch out for him. He will be as safe as he can possibly be out there, but you have to let him earn his honour. Let him walk his own way, my lord. I know that in your heart, you have already decided upon it, even if it is the most difficult decision any parent has to face, to send their children into battle.  I know he is like a son to you, my lord.” Elfhelm’s gaze briefly wandered over to the bench where the newly made armour was lying, ready to be put on its new owner in an ancient ritual. He noticed that while it was as well-crafted as could be expected for a boy of noble decent, it did not stand out from what the rest of his men were wearing.

His king followed his gaze, and said, apparently having read his mind:

“I told the smith to make it strong, but inconspicuous. I do not want to make Éomer a preferred target for our enemies by giving him armour that would betray his standing. He will be disappointed when he sees it, but it will protect him in more ways than the ordinary.”

“It will not matter to him what armour you will clad him in, father,” Théodred said, squaring his shoulders. “He is yearning to prove himself, and what he is wearing while he is doing it will be of little importance to him.” His eyes on the armour for a moment longer and feeling the importance of the moment, the prince raised his chin. “All are ready for the procedure. Shall I summon Éomer now?”

For a moment, the silence between the three men thickened, then the king nodded his head.

“Yes, it is time. Bring him to the armoury, Théodred.”

“What is taking them so long?” Éomer fumed, impatience creeping through his veins like an army of ants. For the umpteenth time, he turned on his heels and walked back towards the window of his room, from where he could overview the dusty path leading to the stables. “The marshal arrived hours ago! They should have long called us!” 

“Who knows why the marshal is here? Perhaps he has more important things to discuss with uncle than you joining his éored. Perhaps he hasn’t come for you at all!” The girl did not flinch as a piercing glance was shot at her from dark eyes. Éomer had to know that she did not mean it, even if he had hardly slept the nights before out of excitement that the time had finally arrived. At her young age of twelve summers, Éowyn knew for how long her brother had been anticipating this day, and the glint of hurt and insecurity she saw in his eyes now due to her remark told her that now was the wrong time for her banter. “I apologise, Éomer. I did not mean it,” she added quickly, negating her words. “I do not know what is causing the delay, but I am sure they will come for you soon.” 

She swallowed, feeling a strange mixture of pride and jealousy as she watched her brother’s impatient pacing. The honour Éomer would be granted today was something she could never hope to achieve, and the thought stung, as much as she felt joy for her older sibling. Today, he would leave her to ride with the Mark’s most esteemed warriors, to become part of their force and protect their land from the evil that seemed to multiply from month to month, no matter how many of the foul creatures their warriors were slaying on their endless patrols. Strangely, she felt no fear for him. Even though she had seen her share of death in her young life – not least of all their parents – the thought that the Ghost Horse could come to take a soul with him as young as her brother’s was something she could not grasp yet, and she felt confident that Éomer was destined to become a great leader of their people; a captain, or possibly even a marshal. He had that determination. As had she. But she had been born in the wrong body.

“I assume we will not see each other for a while, Wyn,” Éomer said at length, slowly coming to realise the full consequences of this day. He turned away from the window to face his sister, knowing how she had to feel about their farewell. “The captain will take me back to the Eastfold with his éored. I do not know when I will be back at Edoras.”

She felt sad at the thought. Who would be there for her to secretly train with her? To conspire with? To share her thoughts and concerns? Ever since she could remember, Éomer had been there for her, and she for him, both of them fiercely protective about the other and determined never to let any harm come upon them. Théodred, he also belonged to their little circle, even if he was a lot older than they; but he, too, was gone most of the time, protecting the Westfold. And uncle… he cared for them, and Éowyn knew he would do anything for them, but it was different with him. He was an adult. Strangely, she did not consider her cousin that. And then there was also Éothain, Éomer’s best friend. He, too, would be gone after today, like a number of other young men whose time had come, and – behaving like a boy most of the time herself -- she never had had many friends among the girls. From today on, she would be utterly alone.

“Will you live in Aldburg? Will you live in our old home?”

“I do not know, Wyn,” Éomer said truthfully, silently asking himself the same question. It would be strange to return to the place where he had spent his youth. To the house that held so many nice memories, as well as some extremely bitter ones, which were the ones which usually came to his mind first whenever he thought back to these days. He had not been back since the dreadful day of his mother’s burial, except for the annual day of their parents’ death, when their uncle had taken them along to honour their memory by spending some time at the green hills that marked their graves. “I do not presume I will. The marshal lives there now, like we before him. I will probably stay with the other soldiers who have no family there. They used to have a place for themselves when father was marshal, do you remember?”

“Of course! We used to go there to ask for sweets!”

Éomer snorted.

“You may have asked for sweets, but I always went there to hear them talking and telling the adventures they had experienced. Sometimes, they would even let me handle a blade or another token they had taken from the enemy.” Again excitement rose in him at the thought that he would be one of the Rohirrim after the ceremony today. Children would come to him and regard him with wide eyes and ask about the battles he had experienced, just as Éowyn and he had done. It was a thought he could hardly grasp yet, even if he had lived for this day ever since he could think. To become one of the Riddermark’s heroes, maybe even still be remembered in song long after he was gone…it felt unreal.

The knock on the door interrupted his train of thought like a blow. All of a sudden, the young boy felt the heavy beating of his heart all the way up to his throat, and his mouth went dry. The door opened, and it was his cousin whose head appeared in the opening, a slight smile around his mouth, but otherwise his bearing was awfully official as he eyed them.

“Éomer? Will you follow me? You are wanted in the armoury.” His gaze briefly shifted to the other occupant of the room. “You know where you are wanted, Wyn. Léara will bring you there, wait for her here. She should be here any moment.” The girl nodded, suddenly looking equally excited as her brother, and only a brief smile flashed across her face in response to Éomer’s words as he left their chambers.

“I will see you there, Wyn.”

“Well, cousin, how do you feel now that the day has come? Are you ready to become one of the feared Rohirrim?” Théodred’s words resounded in the empty corridor they were crossing on the way to the armoury, overlapping the firm sound of their steps. Despite it being his brother-like relative who was accompanying him, Éomer found it difficult to answer. There suddenly seemed to be an enormous lump in his throat.

“Did uncle really agree?”

“Of course he did, Éomer. Why shouldn’t he have? You are of age, and you possess the necessary skills. You are an outstanding rider, and you show promise with the sword and spear, even if you still have to work on your aim with the bow. What you are still lacking is strength, which will come with adulthood and practise, and experience. You will get both in Elfhelm’s éored. Listen well to what he has to say, for he is one of the most renowned warriors of the Mark. He will teach you what you need to know to survive out there.”

Éomer huffed.

“I do not only want to survive. I want the orcs to fear my name. I want them to run from me.”

Inwardly smiling over the young man’s wilful statement, Théodred nodded.

“Aye, I know. And if you follow the captain’s instructions, they will. Together, we will make this foul brood run back all the way to Mordor! – Ah, here we are finally!” He opened the heavy oaken door and indicated Éomer to proceed inside. “I bring you a new man of the sword, Bergfinn! A young warrior who will tear himself in two to protect the Mark and our people. Clad him in the way that is fitting for a man of such purpose!”

The old smith Éomer had known ever since he had arrived at Edoras to live with his uncle straightened as he eyed him with a strange expression on his face.

“A new protector of the Mark, you say, my prince.” He nodded. “And I am certain he will be a fine protector, and that no enemy will ever be able to do her harm for as long as he is out there. Yet in order to fulfil his task, every protector needs protection himself. Will you please step over here, young lord, and receive your armour? I made it myself with the greatest care, and hope it will protect you from each arrow, bolt, sword or spear you will ever encounter!” His gaze fixed on Éomer, Bergfinn lifted up an apparently heavy bundle from the bench he was standing at, and the low shingle of metal caused the boy’s heart to accelerate even more. Finally, his own shirt of mail! And a cuirass, too! Excited, he stepped forth, and as he turned around on the smith’s indication, he became aware of his cousin’s proud smile.

“Let me assist you with that, my brother-in-arms!”

The commanding sound of the ancient horn called out to the citizens of Edoras, who had assembled on the great round marketplace, the place of recognition for the young men who would begin their warrior-lives today. The ceremony was ancient, and the time for it always the same: twice a year, ten days after Midsummer and ten days after Yule, the cities’ and villages young men who had turned sixteen in the course of the last six months would be called to arms and dispersed into the local éoreds to learn the art of war. Most of them would return to their home after a year of duty to help on the fields of their home villages and pick up arms only in the case of an attack, but some of them would become part of the constant forces that were patrolling the lands, warriors for life. The legendary Rohirrim, who were feared by their foes. The call to duty was one of the most important events in every man’s life, and thus the citizens of Edoras had assembled on the place in full and excitedly waited for their king to address this year’s recruits.

Already, the sound of the horns emitting from outside the Golden Hall announced the arrival of the royal procession from the top of the hill, and heads turned. Preceding the line of mounted warriors was their king on his intimidating mount Snowmane, and he was clad in full armour, as befitting the occasion. Théoden-King was flanked by his son and heir on his young bay stallion, likewise adorned in mail, and a young girl with a serious expression the people knew as the king’s niece. Heralds with banners rode on their left and right, and on them the White Horse Félarof danced proudly on the wind. Following them was the fully assembled Royal Guard on their horses, their shiny armours and helmets sparkling in the sun as they descended the slope toward the great place. At last, a small group of eleven riders followed the procession, all of them young lads whose expressions were a mixture of excitement and pride. Two of them were clad in armour that indicated their noble descent, among them the wilful young man the people recognised as King Théoden’s nephew Éomer and their beloved captain Ceorl’s son Éothain, and their hearts went out to them, silently murmured prayers for their well-being wandering through the rows. Those two, the people knew, would remain among the warriors after their first year of duty… if they survived. They would rise in the hierarchy from simple riders to captains or maybe even marshals, endlessly roaming the Mark in search of their enemies, long after the other nine lads, who would only join the riders to learn the skills to defend themselves and their people would be back on the fields.

Well aware of the importance of that day, the citizens fell silent as their king approached the centre of the square, where he turned his horse and waited until the rest of the procession had fallen into place at his side or, in the case of the young riders who were to be distributed to the éoreds, opposite him. Briefly he met his nephew’s eyes, and the contradiction of emotions that flooded him – pride, fear and sadness – threatened to overwhelm him for a moment before he raised his voice above the now silent crowd.

“Citizens of Edoras! The day has once again arrived. For some of our sons, childhood ends today, and they will commit their lives to the greater good: the protection of our people and our values, and the pursuit of the Mark’s enemies wherever they may find them. For some of you, it may be hard to say farewell. The plains are dangerous grounds, and all of us are aware that when destiny calls us, not even the bravest and most valiant warrior can hide from it. Yet the thought may comfort you of what those young men who have reached adulthood will find out there: each of them will make his way. They will not only be taught the way of the sword, but also be shown the path to wisdom and humility. They will learn to weigh decisions against each other and find the right one, they will learn about battle rage and also about mercy. They will find their courage in the face of fear, and strength and companionship, and grow into respectable men of the Mark you, their parents and relatives, can be proud of. Now let us commit the sons of Éorl to the ways of the warriors with this oath!” 

He turned from the crowd to the eleven impatiently waiting men, indicating with a short nod for them to urge their horses forward until they stood in the middle of the circle. For a brief moment, his eyes lingered on Éomer’s face, and the expression of dedication in his nephew’s gaze moved him. ‘May Eru himself hold his protective hands over you, sister-son,’ he prayed silently, hardly able to keep the flood of emotions from his voice as he began to call the young men forth to individually speak their oath. Last of them, it was Éomer’s turn, and the sparkle in the dark eyes that reminded Théoden so much of his sister told him how much this ceremony meant to him as his sincere voice rang out into the silence.

“My name is Éomer, son of Éomund and Théodwyn. Let the gods hear my words now and punish me if I ever stray from them: From this day henceforth to the end of my days, I swear my allegiance and fealty to the Lord of Riddermark and its people. I shall strive to uphold the values and laws of our land, and I shall defend them against all attacks foreign and domestic. With the wisdom and skill I will be taught, I shall protect our people, and pursue and destroy our enemies wherever I may find them. My life for the Mark and its king. Hail Théoden!” 

Holding his uncle’s gaze, he raised the arm with his sword, and the passion and sincerity of his oath was obvious to all who listened, and heads turned to wait for their king’s response, even though they knew that the words would not differ from the ones he had given the other young men.

“Then, Éomer, son of Éomund and Théodwyn, know that Rohan accepts you in her service. Your vow has been heard, and the way you see to its fulfilment shall determine how you will be remembered.” The king nodded, and even though he fought, the surrounding people could here the emotion in his voice. “You will join Captain Elfhelm’s éored, and the Eastmark will be your realm to protect. Hail, young rider of Rohan!” 

He watched as Éomer directed his steed over to what was now the éored he was part of with an expression of glowing pride, and a bitter feeling of loss overwhelmed him. After the festivities of tonight, it would be a while before he would see his nephew again, and even with Elfhelm’s vow to protect the young man echoing in his mind, Théoden could not help feeling dread over having committed yet another member of his dwindling family to the horrors of war. It was not right to send their children into battle, and possibly see them die before their parents. The gods could be cruel indeed, and Théoden asked himself not for the first time whether he would live to see the end of their struggle. 

As the formal barrier between riders and citizens dissolved and people moved toward the built-up stands with food and ale and music began to rise for the informal part of the celebration, the king’s gaze went up to the sky above them, and the dark clouds gathering in the distance…

CHAPTER 2: A LESSON IN MERCY

Bursts of warm, moist breath against his palm. Foam-lathered hide beneath his other hand. Trembling. The whole body underneath him trembling as it draws in ragged breaths with pained grunts. Increasing to an agonised moan as the mighty head lifts against his hand. Gently, but insistently, he pushes it back, the tear-choked stream of soothing words never once ceasing, an endless litany in denial of the obvious.

"I know it hurts, Little One. I know. But you must stay down. We will help you. You will be fine. It is bad now, but you will be fine! Please, stay down."

The wind roaring in his ears, driving the rain into his face with whipping force as he chases after the two dark shapes that turn away in the face of his onslaught. His arm with the spear drawn back in anticipation of the deadly thrust. Wild triumph at the sight of his enemies’ fear. Nothing will help them now, they are as good as dead, paying for what they did to that village yesterday. Tensing for the thrust, but then sudden movement at the edge of his vision. More shapes suddenly jumping at him. The stunning realisation that he rode straight into their trap! A hard tuck at the reins in an attempt to throw his steed around and evade the clubs that swing against them, yet he already knows that it is too late.

In a desperate attempt to evade the ambush, Stormwing’s hoofs leave the ground. A heartbeat later, her agonised scream pierces the air, but he can feel the sickening crunching of bones through the massive body as the clubs hit her. No time to steel himself for the landing, it all happens too fast. Years of practise send him into a halfway controlled fall, clearing the mare’s body before it can smash him underneath, but the speed they were travelling at sends him rolling over the rugged surface, and not even his armour can fully protect him as he crashes full-force against a rock.

Struggling to turn and rise, but feeling the betrayal of his own body, he falls back with his vision blurring and hot, sticky wetness running over his face. Despite the wrecking pain in his right side, he draws his sword as he sees the dark shapes close in on him, ready for the last defence. Behind them, the terrible scream of his wounded horse.

Suddenly the ground shakes, and like a force straight out of the old legends, his éored thunders to his help, the captain’s voice calling the attack. The orcs hesitate for a brief moment that costs them their lives. They turn and try to flee, only to be skewered by the riders’ lances a moment later. But it is too late. All of it comes too late… His body still not answering to his commands, he crawls over the ground, his heart beating furiously in his throat as he draws closer to the heaving grey body in front of him. The mare thrusts her head up, and another terrible scream echoes through the rain, a terrible, heart-wrenching sound that pierces his insides. He doesn’t have to see her legs to know the truth, but it can’t be. It can’t be…

"Éomer." The captain’s voice is low, but firm. The pouring rain almost drowns it out, but Éomer doesn’t have to hear his commander to know what he is going to be asked to do. He is aware of the men of his éored standing in a half-circle around them, but doesn’t look up. Nothing is important; nothing but the trembling, heaving body underneath him and the steady stream of warm breath against his palm. A stream that cannot end. It must not end. "Éomer, it is time."

The creaking of leather indicates to the 19-year-old that Elfhelm has just kneeled down next to him, paying no heed to the muddy ground. He still doesn’t look up. He cannot do what the captain is going to ask of him, and his throat is so tight, he cannot possible answer. Again Elfhelm’s calm, but persistent voice. Soothing and urging at the same time.

"You owe it to her, Éomer. There is nothing you can do for her. Take your heart in both hands, son of Éomund, and release her from suffering. It is your duty."

Now he looks up, but rain and tears blur his sight, and he hardly recognises his mentor even though he kneels but a few paces away. The dark shapes of the other men form a silent wall around them, among them his friend Éothain. He cannot make out their expressions, and doesn’t care for them as he turns back to his fallen mare, squeezing his eyes shut in torment, because he cannot bear to look at the horrible shape of her broken forelegs. The captain is speaking the truth, but how can he end the warm flow of air against his hand? How can he kill a creature he loves? A creature he grew up together with, taught himself, and which kept him safe for twelve years and served him with unquestioning trust?

Another tormented groan emits from the mud-splattered body, as the mare tries to get up and falls back again.

"Éomer!" Louder now, more insistent. Elfhelm won’t leave him alone. But he is right. Cursed be the Dark Lord and all of his foul brood, he is right! It is his duty.

It takes all of his remaining willpower to withdraw his arm from the trembling grey neck as he lifts himself up into a sitting position. Still, the hand against the mare’s flared nostrils wants to remain there, wants to feel the life in her for as long as possible. He draws in another choked breath and looks at his commander, tears streaming over his face together with the rain, even though he fights now to hold them back. He doesn’t want to cry in front of the other warriors, but the flood is unstoppable. He hopes they don’t see it, but of course they know. The captain has already risen from his knees, but his expression is one of understanding and compassion as he eyes him now. It is also expectant. Urging.

It puts Éomer on his feet even though he can’t say how. His body feels numb except for his left hand, which is tingling with the warmth of the last breath the mare blew against it before he took it away. Observing himself from an outside position, he sees himself unsheathe his sword. It is the blade that killed dozens of orcs in the three years he has been riding with these men. How can he take the life of something he loves with it?

Elfhelm’s words move his sword arm to the point at the mare’s neck the Rohirrim use for their mercy killings. It severs the spine, they taught him. Death is instantaneous and painless… if he does it right. Still numb, he observes as the fingers of his other hand also close around Guthwine’s hilt. Another look at the captain. The older man nods.

"Fast and forcefully. Do not prolong her suffering."

He looks at the tip of his sword, hovering over the yet unspoiled grey spot of soft fur. The outside world ceases to exist. A long, ragged intake of air through his tight throat… and then a forceful thrust. He closes his eyes not fast enough to avoid seeing the body shiver, and drops to his knees when all strength flees him. ‘Forgive me,’ he thinks, unable to speak. ‘Forgive me, Little One!’

No stars can be seen on the heavily overcast night-sky. Not even the moonlight can penetrate the thick layer of clouds. The only source of light on the plains within leagues of desolate blackness are a few fires, nestled into the scarce cover of the hills. The men warming themselves next to them talk silently. None of them feels like speaking today. The toll the orcs took of them before they were destroyed dampens the rider’s spirits. While none of their comrades was killed, two of them suffered injuries serious enough to keep them from duty for months to come, and five more walked away from the skirmish with bruises and cuts. Three of their horses were injured… and one killed. No, it is not a night to celebrate.

"Éomer?" The voice sounds tentative and concerned. As Éomer turns his head, waking from an undefined period of staring at nothing while his hands ceaselessly stroke the strand of hair he took from Stormwing, he looks into his friend’s worried expression. It takes him a moment longer to notice that Éothain is holding out something to him, a wooden cup of steaming contents. "I brought you some stew. You should eat something."

"I am not hungry." He realises that his tone is harsh, but can’t prevent it. All he wants is to be left alone, even if he loathes himself for treating his friend like this. After all, it was Éothain who first wordlessly grasped his shovel to help him bury Stormwing, although he too had to feel beat after the gruelling fight. But he had remained at Éomer’s side until the end, together digging the deep hole and, with the help of a few of their comrades, wrestling the heavy body into it to cover it with soil. Following a Rohirric custom, Éomer had left bridle and tack on the dead mare to be buried with her. It was regarded as a bad omen to re-use the saddle of a horse that had been killed. Before giving her over to the earth, Éomer had said his farewell to his trusted steed of twelve years, stroking the wet fur for the last time ever, while his insides twisted at the stiff, cold quality of the once breathing, warm body underneath his fingers. His hardly gained composure had almost flooded away as he had unsheathed his knife to honour another of their customs and cut a length of the mare’s flowing white tail; a token of memory every rider kept from his first steed. Then they had covered her, first with earth, then with rocks to prevent predators from digging her up, with many of their comrades helping. Éomer had been unable to voice his thanks, but a gaze and short nod had told the men that their assistance had been appreciated.

The dreadful, grey afternoon had turned into a dreadful, black night, and again the men had understood the need of their young member for solitude. The fires have been burning for a while now, but none of them has bothered him. So far.

"Éomer…" It is obvious that Éothain is unhappy with his answer, but he decides to let it rest. They have known each other for far too long for him to insist. "I will leave the cup here for later. Perhaps you want to eat some then." Out of the corners of their eyes, both young men suddenly notice a tall figure rising from the sitting riders and approach them. Pressing his lips tight, Éothain nods to himself. "I will be at the fire with Arnhelm and Fastred… if you need something."

"Thank you, Éothain." With a growing feeling of anxiety, Éomer watches Elfhelm’s large frame approach, and he hides the strand of hair in his pocket, not wanting to be caught with it. What the captain wants from him is an easy guess, even if he had hoped to be spared the conversation today. At least trying to demonstrate his respect to the leader of his éored, he lets go of the blanket he had huddled into and forces his aching body to rise. Fear and grief for his horse had numbed the pain of his own injuries over the afternoon, but now that he sat unmoving on the cold, wet ground for hours, the bruises and abrasions he attained in the fall turned his body into a stiff and throbbing mess. He hardly notices and doesn’t care as he comes to his feet to greet the captain.

Soothingly, the older man holds out a hand.

"Sit down, lad. No need to stand up for me. Not today."

Casting a wary glance at the captain’s unreadable expression, Éomer obeys his superior’s words and unwillingly grimaces. Sitting down hurts even worse than standing up. Not daring to look away as the captain lowers himself onto a stone opposite him, the young rider blindly grasps for the blanket on the ground and rewraps it around his beaten frame, inwardly tensing for the admonition he believes he is in for. Perhaps, it will not be as bad if he begins himself….

"I know what you are about to tell me, captain, and you are right. I behaved foolishly, both by riding into their trap and then by losing my composure in front of the men. I am ashamed of myself, even if that doesn’t change anything."

If possible, the older man’s expression becomes even stranger. It is almost as if Éomer can see a smile behind the guarded mask he is used to seeing, and it sends a sharp sting of anger through him. What could possibly be amusing about the passed day?

"This is what you would think of me, Éomer? What kind of man would I be to admonish you in the hour of your grief?"

"It was only a horse," Éomer insists stubbornly, against everything he feels. "I should be concerned for my wounded brothers-in-arms, not cry over a beast like a five-year-old. I understand that."

"Éomer…" Now he will say it, the boy thinks. He will tell me that I put the entire éored to shame with my foolishness and lack of composure. "I know that you are quite aware of what I will say to you now, yet you seem to be in need of hearing it again: Our horses are our livelihood. They are our allies in our eternal fight for survival. They are the reason we are still alive even though our foes are much stronger in number. With their strength, endurance and speed, they put us in a position to battle and beat hostile forces we would stand no change against on foot. They hate and fear the orcs, and yet they carry us against them with unquestioning trust." Elfhelm pauses, and his voice drops to a compassionate tone. "Do you think that any of the men could have done what you did today without grieving? There are men in my éored who had to perform this hardest of duties more than once, and every time, it tore them apart. Putting to rest something that we love takes courage, and it pierces every man’s heart. Yet what use would be there in prolonging the suffering? All speak highly of mercy, but few have an understanding of how hard it can be to achieve. So do not berate yourself, young rider, because grieving is no reason for shame. I know that – in addition to your personal loss -- you are concerned for our wounded, and the men know it, too, and they respect you for it." Ignoring the his irritated expression, Elfhelm gives Éomer a curt nod as he briefly changes the subject. "That was a violent fall you took. I know Tolgor already looked at you, but perhaps there is something he could give you to numb the pain?"

"I am well enough. I need nothing." Silence stretches between them, and Éomer desperately wishes that the older man would leave him alone again. Yet the captain is not finished.

"I know how much that mare meant to you. She was a gift from your father, wasn’t she?"

The words causes his eyes to burn anew, and Éomer curses silently. He doesn’t want to cry again in front of the warrior. His voice caught in his throat, he nods, stubbornly staring at the ground.

"I remember seeing you with her when you were but a lad. You were so proud. And your father too. He told me often how much progress you made with each other." Elfhelm pauses as he sees the hurt in the young man’s expression. "She earned your grief, Éomer. Pay her your respect tonight, and tomorrow, it will be a new day and you will carry on. Alas, tragedies like yours happen, and we must cope with them as best we can and learn to emerge even stronger. Take the fury over her death with you, and put it to good use when we meet the enemy again. Do not let yourself be blinded by it, but take it with you and let it guide your hand when the time comes, for there is always a next time. Make them pay in blood for what they did to you. Will you promise me this, Éomer?"

Though his eyes still shimmer tellingly in the flickering light of the fire, the captain’s words are a source of comfort great enough for Éomer to be able to speak again, and he lets his mentor see his gratitude… and determination.

"Aye, my lord. That I promise."

The End

 FIRST ENCOUNTERS – Part 1

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"And how has my nephew been faring, captain? And be honest! Has he managed to put your entire éored into disarray yet?" Théoden-King had risen from his throne and descended the few steps which had separated him from the two men in front of the dais, one of whom had been beaming at him in open enthusiasm since he had entered the Golden Hall. Yet in reaction to his uncle’s words, the young rider’s expression quickly changed to an insecure frown as he eyed his commander in anxious expectation of the answer. The wiry warrior broke into a broad grin as he regarded his nervous apprentice.

"Oh, he tried so several times, sire, but since the men had been forewarned by Captain Elfhelm, they knew what to expect from the hotspur you had promised us. They neither listened to Éomer’s suggestions of raiding the Misty Mountains to annihilate every single one of the thousands of orcs living there, nor did they follow his urging to invade Dunland with only one éored." The grin widened at the sight of the crimson hue creeping into the youth’s face, and a heavy hand fell on Éomer’s shoulder and stirred up the dust that had collected there from the journey. "Nay, my lord, we cannot complain about your nephew. Apart from the lad’s impatience that’s stemming from his youth, there is no weakness to him that I could name. He follows all orders willingly and readily, from polishing tack over chopping firewood, to shining arms or repairing armour. He is eager to learn, trains well and has made a few kills already… despite having been told to stay behind and guard the horses we had to leave behind during our assault on a host of orcs in difficult terrain, of course." A twinkle was directed at Éomund’s son, yet Fastred’s grin faded as he turned serious again. "My king, let me assure you that your nephew is a promising recruit. The men like and respect him. I am confident that he will learn about the value of patience, too, before long,. He is a smart lad, a lot like his father."

"Aye," Théoden said, now standing in front of the young man their conversation was revolving around. A smile of fond remembrance played around the corners of his mouth as he regarded Éomer, who looked clearly uncomfortable at being the subject of everyone’s attention. "Of that there can be no doubt. There is a lot of Éomund of Eastfold in this young rider." Letting go of his regal composure without warning, he suddenly pulled his nephew into a hearty embrace which the young man returned after a heartbeat of mortification. "Welcome home, Éomer. To know you under my roof for this Midsummer week is the greatest joy I have had in a long time!" He paused, and, after a thorough glance from head to feet, stated: "You look well. Riding with our warriors seems to suit you, young man."

Ignoring Fastred’s amused expression, Éomer returned the affectionate welcome.

"Aye, uncle. They are all good men, honest and passionate, and so skilled at everything they do! Next to them, I feel like an inapt child, and yet they are kind and patient enough to pass on their knowledge to me. Be assured though that while I enjoy their company, I am also more than glad to be here. Returning to Meduseld and seeing you and Éowyn after almost an entire year of absence was an event I had been looking forward to for weeks."

"And if all goes well, you might even see Théodred, too," the king announced stepping backwards, the joy on his lined face deepening. "Things have been calm in the Westfold lately, so he sent a messenger last week to announce his coming if it would stay this way. He may even arrive this afternoon."

"Théodred comes?" exclaimed Éomer. "That would be wonderful! I wonder how he has been faring, now that he has been a marshal for almost a year."

"I have been hearing nothing but good things about him, sire," Fastred said, both to Éomer and his king. He briefly furrowed his brow as he saw a darkly-clad figure enter the throne room from one of the corridors that led to the king’s private chambers, but then turned back, his features brightening again. "Both your son’s men and the people in the villages are full of praise for their new marshal. Orc raids reportedly have become a rarity in those settlements that suffered from them the most. Together with Erkenbrand, he may even succeed in turning the tide there in our favour permanently."

"Can we not join him in battle one of these days, captain?" Éomer asked, momentarily distracted, although this question had been burning on his tongue. He had also spotted the approaching shape, yet took the stranger for a servant of no further importance. "It has been very quiet in the Eastfold for a long time, and –"

"You fear that he will have killed every single orc the Dark Lord ever bred before we will allow you slay them officially, young man, is it not so?" Fastred cut him off and roared with laughter, while the king smiled at his nephew’s eagerness. "Alas, I fear that not even Marshal Théodred will be able to achieve this deed, and if he did, it would be a source of joy to Rohan, not a reason to frown." He fell silent as the man who had entered came to a halt at the king’s side.

"My lord, we could not find your niece. It would appear that she is not in the hall at all, even though you told her to hold herself ready."

"Did you look in the stables?" Éomer asked, quicker than the king, who had just opened his mouth for the same question. Pale blue eyes met his in disapproval of his manners, and the man’s deadly pale complexion took him aback for a moment, before his opposite turned back to the king.

"Of course we did that, sire. Her horse is still there. She must be somewhere in Edoras, yet why she chose to ignore your Highness’ order is hard to tell."

Théoden did not appear to be concerned.

"I am certain that she will turn up soon, Grima. She wouldn’t want to miss the arrival of her brother." With an indicated nod, he extended his arm, gesturing. "Fastred, Éomer... I would like for you to meet my new counsellor Grima. I am glad to be able to say that his advice has already been valuable in those few months he has been in my service. Grima, please welcome Captain Fastred, second-in-command to Elfhelm of Eastfold and a warrior of great renown himself, and my nephew Éomer, son of Éomund, who just joined the armed forces last summer."

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Captain… young lord…" The dark-haired man bowed in submission, yet before he lowered his head, Éomer felt a thoroughly scrutinising glance on himself that caused the tiny hairs in the back of his neck to stand up. Clearly, Grima had heard of him before and was sizing him up. Wondering whether he was what the man had expected, Éomer answered with an inquisitive, mustering look himself, before he turned back to his uncle to bluntly ask:

"What happened to Folgar, uncle?"

Théoden drew a deep breath.

"Alas, he is no longer with us, Éomer. As you know, Folgard had been fading for a long time already, and last winter, Béma finally decided to call him home to his fathers. It was a great loss for all us, even if it came as no surprise." His features wearing an expression of grief, the king briefly looked at his new counsellor before he turned back to the two silent men in front of him.

"These are indeed most unfortunate tidings, sire. Folgar’s counsel was valued throughout the Mark," Fastred managed to say, his good mood dampened by the news. He had not known the king’s advisor very well himself, yet alone the fact that the man from Fenmark had served the Lord of Riddermark for over twenty years spoke for itself. "Yet it is comforting to hear that you found a man with the wisdom to replace him so quickly."

"And I shall do my best to follow the excellent example he set, my lord," Grima let himself be heard, bowing to his king. "All my wisdom for the Mark and its king."

Impatiently shuffling his feet at the exchange of pleasantries, Éomer finally dared to ask the one question that had been on his mind since he had entered the hall and not found his sister waiting there for him.

"I beg to excuse me, uncle, but may I have your permission to go seek Éowyn? I have a feeling that I know where she is, and after twelve months of separation I can hardly wait any longer to see her."

"Indeed." There was a twinkle in the king’s eyes Éomer knew very well, but he also could not help thinking that – despite the joy of their reunion -- his uncle looked tired. "Aye, Éomer. I remember well that you could always find her when everyone else failed. Very well. You are excused, young man. But be back in time for the evening meal, please. It would be too much to have both my niece and my nephew missing!"

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Éomer could not help smirk to himself as he heard familiar banter rise from behind the smithy.

"This is training, Éowyn! Training! I am not wearing any armour, as you can see! Can you please, for the sake of an old friend, watch what you are doing with that sword before you cut my head from my shoulders?"

"Ah, Gelbrand, but we are fighting! You cannot let yourself be distracted like this in a real fight!"

"But –"

"Giving your training partners grief as usual, are you, sister?" Éomer exclaimed upon rounding the corner and making his presence known. With a shout of pure joy, the young girl who had been standing next to a lanky lad he knew to be the blacksmith’s son, ran toward him.

"Éomer! Oh Éomer, I had no idea you were here yet! I did not see your éored arrive, and yet I had been watching for you!" With the wildness of an unbroken colt, she flung herself into his arms, not even now letting go of her sword, and tears of joy ran over her face as she laughed and cried at the same time at the sight of her older sibling.

Laughing with her, Éomer held her tight, and, as he had done uncountable times when she had been smaller, he lifted her up to whirl her around in a display of unabashed happiness.

"Éowyn! Éowyn! How I have missed you, sister!" Placing her on her feet again, he raised his eyebrows as he noticed something obvious. "By Béma’s beard, you have grown! I could hardly lift you up!"

She slapped him playfully.

"You are being rude, brother! Aye, I may have grown in statue, but I am hardly as heavy as you want me to believe." Curiosity lit up her features as she examined her returning brother. "You have changed as well, Éomer. It is hard to express in what way though. You look… grown to me, too, but in a different way. In a good way. You look older." She caressed his face… and frowned. Carefully, her fingers glided over his chin again, amazed at the scratchy feeling. "I will be… you are becoming a man now, brother. Although I can hardly believe it myself."

"It is about time you started growing a beard, Éomer," Gelbrand teased as he approached them. "A rider with a naked chin is a disgrace for every éored, for it is for everyone to see that he is still wet behind his ears."

Dark eyes narrowed at him.

"And what would you know of it, Gelbrand?" Éomer rebuked, the past year of having been the subject of the older warriors’ good-natured jests having sharpened his tongue. "Those few hairs on your chin hardly qualify for a beard, and you have two years on me! And in addition to that, you also let yourself be bested by my sister in battle. I would remain silent if I were you!"

"I have bested many, Éomer," Éowyn chided with an indignant expression. Forcefully, she sheathed her sword. "It is no disgrace to lose against me. I have quite improved since you’ve been away. Shall I prove it to you?" Her hand remained challengingly on the hilt, and Éomer couldn’t help but grin.

"You mean the first thing I do upon seeing my sister after one year of separation is draw my sword against her? What would others think?"

"You first lifted me up and whirled me around. I would say sparring with your sister would be a suitable second thing to do. People would think nothing of it, and even if they did..." She shrugged, the meaning clear, and then raised a mischievous eyebrow: "After all, we must determine who the stronger one is of us now."

"Ah, but you wouldn’t want to fight me now, Éowyn." The grin widened as Éomer stretched to his full superior size and squared his shoulders. "I am a grim, savage Rohirrim now. Orcs run when they see me from afar."

Her eyes widened in excitement.

"Have you killed any of them? Are you even allowed to fight them yet? Tell me, brother, for I am dying to know!"

"As I am dying to hear about all that has happened in Edoras!" He laid an arm around his sister and pulled her along toward the stairs. "You must excuse us now, Gelbrand, for Éowyn and I need to discuss important matters of the state."

"And very important matters that would be, I deem," the older lad jested, then shrugged. "Very well. I suppose my father could use some help with this wild beast they sent him this noon. I will see if I can do anything for him."

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"Was uncle angry because I wasn’t there to greet you?"

Together, the two siblings had made their way to the backside of the Golden Hall, where they now sat with their legs dangling over the cliff. Far below them to the left, the Old South Road wound its way through the Riddermark, looking like a dusty snake from their elevated position. Not many travelled on it. With the greatest festivity of the year only another day away, most people had already reached their homes and prepared for the bonfires and meals, the singing, dancing and drinking. Unwittingly twirling a dry straw between his fingers, Éomer let his gaze wander over the vast planes he called his home. The land was so beautiful, and he felt an overwhelming love for it.

"I do not think so, Wyn. Uncle knows you. He knows you can forget time over…" He couldn’t hold back the smirk as he turned to look at his sister. She seemed mortified. "… over certain things."

"I didn’t mean to, Éomer, you must believe me. I had been watching the road for your éored, but I never saw it coming. When did you arrive?"

"Not long ago. And it was only Éothain, Fastred and I, so it is quite explainable why you missed us. The captain let us choose whether we wanted to celebrate Midsummer with the éored or our families. All except us hail from the Eastmark, and they can do both, but…" he took a swig from the waterskin he had been carrying around since his arrival. The water was lukewarm and tasted muddy, but he didn’t mind. His expression turned urgent. "I wanted to see you. And uncle. And Théodred. I would have wanted to celebrate with the riders, too, but I could not do both at the same time." He took a deep breath, and his gaze revealed his utter sincerity. "Being here with you is even more important to me, Éowyn. I am glad I have come."

With a joyful smile, she extended her hand to grasp his.

"And so am I! It felt like an age since you left." She beamed at him, the dark eyes sparkling with exuberance, and with a jolt, Éomer noticed for the first time that his little sister was well on her way to becoming a beautiful woman. The discovery made him nervous. Who would be there to protect her from uncouth suitors while he was away? He pushed that enervating thought into the back of his mind for later upon Éowyn’s next question. "Tell me, brother, did you battle orcs yet? What did you do in this one year in the Eastmark?"

"Learning lots of things. Training with the sword, spear and bow. Learning to track and hunt. Helping the people out there in the villages. Whatever was needed." Éomer tried to sound matter-of-factly about his newly developed skills, but could not hide the pride in his voice. "And three months ago, I killed my first orcs!"

Éowyn’s expression clouded with scepticism, but even so, she could not hold back her excitement over her brother’s report.

"But they say that recruits are not allowed to fight in their first year."

Éomer snorted, and the straw he had been twirling finally ripped. He laid his hands on his lap, aware that he would have to bath and change before the feast tonight.

"Yes, such are the rules. Yet the orcs do not care for our rules, sister. While our éored was staging an ambush for them one league away, some of them tried to steal our horses. Éothain and I took care of them." The memory of that fight was still a source of immense satisfaction for Éomer, even though his legs had been shaky after the battle, which had resulted in their first kills. It had been different than hunting. Different than killing a beast. After he had laid open the orc that attacked him and watched it die in its blood, Éomer had lost the contents of his stomach as well, feeling nauseated by the carnage. But this was something he would not tell his little sister. Heroes did not grow sick upon the sight of their defeated foes.

"How many of them did you fight?"

"Three. Disgusting, foul things that soiled the earth wherever their feet touched the ground." He would have spat, but Elfhelm’s words never to spit in the presence of a lady held him back at the last moment. He thought of something else instead and dug into the pocket of his riding tunic. "Here, I kept that from my first dead orc. The captain said they all keep a token from their first kill. Isn’t it incredible?" He opened his fist to reveal a cruelly curved tooth; one of the fangs of a predator. Taking it from his palm to examine it, Éowyn furrowed her brow at her brother.

"Is that... that is not one of its teeth, is it? I mean, you did not –" She grimaced at the though, and he looked offended.

"No! No, of course not! It would make me no better than them," Éomer huffed, dismayed that his sister could think such a thing of him. "It is from a chain he wore around his neck. Fastred said that it’s probably a warg-tooth."

"Eww..." She gave him back his trophy, wiping her hands on her tunic. "That is disgusting, Éomer. Why did you not keep its knife, or whatever it had?"

"But I wanted this!" He turned it between his fingers once more, as always impression by its sharp point and size. He did not want to imagine a set of those closing around his leg. Since Éowyn seemed less impressed though, he used her temporary silence to ask a question of his own.

"But tell me, Wyn, what happened to Folgar? He was still hale when I left, and I was upset to see his place taken by this… this Grima."

He suddenly found himself into strangely guarded blue eyes, and the joyous smile vanished from Éowyn’s face.

"What do you think of him, brother? What kind of a man does he deem you to be, uncle’s new counsellor?"

Her voice sounded strange, too, and caused Éomer to furrow his brow.

"I was hoping you could tell me more about him. Where he came from. Why uncle chose him. I have seen him but for a few moments yet."

"Yes," she replied impatiently. "But we always felt strongly about people even when we had only just met them. What was your impression of him?"

Irritated by Éowyn’s urgency, he pondered the question for a long moment, replaying the scene of his arrival in his head… and remembering that piercing glance the counsellor had given him.

"It is hard to say yet. But he seems an unusual choice to me, not someone uncle would ordinarily have chosen as a replacement for a man who counselled him for such a long time. Why did he not pick Gamling, or Hama? Someone who has served him for years, and someone the people know and trust?"

"All wonder about that. I tried to find out more, and learnt that Folgar brought Grima to Edoras as his apprentice about two years ago. I remember that I saw him a few times in the lower levels before, but never paid much attention to him." She drew in a deep breath, and if possible, her gaze grew even more persistent. "He seems strange to you then, too? Is this what you are saying, brother?"

"Well…" Inside, Éomer felt slight anger rise in response to his sister’s interrogation. And why did she not say what she meant? What was it she wanted to hear from him? Something else came to Éomer’s mind, and he mentioned it. "He looks not very Rohirric. I suspect that there could be some Dunlendish blood in him, although that counts hardly as an argument. You occasionally find those people of different appearance in the Westfold settlements." He paused. "He… he looks a bit sickly, doesn’t he? So scrawny, and this pale skin and such… as if he hasn’t seen much daylight. Do you know where he came from?"

"He said that he wandered around the lands for a long time," Éowyn replied, her gaze wandering up to the Hall of Kings in remembrance of what Théoden-King had told her. "Not just the Riddermark, but also Gondor and the South. He said he had been seeking for wisdom on his journeys, wanting to experience different cultures and learn about their way of living. Yet he does not look to me as if he ever was on such a journey, except if they took him into secret passages underground for a long time."

Éomer could only laugh at that.

"What are you suggesting, Wyn? That he is a troll? Or a Goblin? He looks human enough to me. Perhaps he was sick for a long time before he came here, or maybe he is still sick. There is hardly a pound of meat on him. He looks like a scarecrow!""

She did not laugh with him. Instead, she seemed annoyed at his attempt to ridicule her.

"I suggested no such thing, Éomer. I just thought it was strange that he was so pale when he claimed to have been on the road for a long time. And he never spoke about having a sickness of any sort."

"You do not like him." It was a statement, not a question. A long silence answered him, as if Éowyn was contemplating whether she should tell her brother the truth. At length, she hesitantly admitted, without looking at him:

"I do not like the looks he is giving me."

The words wiped Éomer’s playful mood away like the clouds of a thunderstorm suddenly covering the sun.

"What are you saying, Éowyn? What kind of looks is he giving you?"

She could feel his anger rise, even if she still avoided his burning gaze. Suddenly, she wasn’t certain that she wanted to share her concerns with her brother at all. Éomer was famous for his heated temper. There was no telling what he would do once something had roused it. Suddenly, she felt uncertain.

"I… I could be wrong. It could be that I dislike him because he is so different than Folgar." She forced herself to look up, and urgency burnt in her expression as she stared at her brother pleadingly. " Please, Éomer, do not act yet. I could be wrong, and I do not want uncle angry with us if we err. Just watch Grima for now, will you? See for yourself and decide, because I do not know. I feel uncomfortable when he looks at me, but perhaps it is my fault." She flinched at her older sibling’s darkened expression and touched his arm in a calming gesture without even noticing it. "Please, Éomer, you must promise me!"

"I will watch him, Wyn," the young man stated emphatically. "And if I catch him leering at you, he will wish he never set foot into Edoras!"

The evening meal on the eve of Midsummer was something of the likes Éomer had not experienced in a long time. Although the number of people participating was quite moderate – the king himself, Théodred, who had arrived later that same afternoon from the Westfold, Éowyn and he, Gamling, a long-time loyal warrior of Théoden’s household and chief of the Edoras-based éored, Hama the doorwarden and his wife Éolinda, Fastred and his wife Léara, and the king’s counsellor – the amount of food on the tables seemed generous enough to make them collapse. Centrepiece was an entire roasted piglet, done to perfection in honey and herbs, and emitting a scent that was almost enough for all present to forget their good manners and start eating before everybody had arrived. There were large bowls of potatoes, steamed carrots and corn, and on everyone’s plate a smaller bowl containing a steaming, creamy soup had been placed. Fresh bread added its mouth-watering scent. Exquisitely worked carafes held wine, ale, a variety of juices and water, and additional smaller plates and bowls at each seat indicated that the feast would not end with the boar.

He had been hungry upon his arrival, ravenous in fact at the thought of the king’s famed Midsummer meal, but now that he actually sat at the table, listening to the older men and watching them eat, Éomer suddenly found his attention claimed by something other than the food. While the men merrily indulged themselves on the feast, the young rider listlessly poked around with his fork on his plate, his eyes on the man sitting on the opposite side of the table, three seats across. His uncle’s counsellor. With all the attention of a bird of prey, Éomer observed the darkly-clad man from underneath his eyebrows whenever he lowered his head to eat, or over the rim of his glass of wine. Éowyn at his side pretended to pay the advisor no heed, but long years of experience told Éomer that his sister was tense and uncomfortable. Despite of this being the first reunion of their family after one year, she talked only when spoken to and kept to herself, even when Théodred, with furrowed brow, inquired about her unusual silence.

"I apologise, cousin, if my quietness causes you grief. It must be the wine, for this is the first time I ever tried it, and I fear that it makes me feel tired and gives me a heavy head. Please, forgive me."

"Ah, but of course you are excused, Little One," Théodred laughed in amusement. "I was afraid that it might have been something else that was ailing you. But I have to agree with you, the wine is rather heavy, father! Shouldn’t Éowyn be drinking juice or water only?" He shifted his attention back to the king, but Éomer did not hear his uncle’s reply, because he felt his sister suddenly turn rigid on her seat. He looked up – and straight into pale blue eyes which lingered on his younger sibling’s slender frame, a distant, appreciative smile playing around the corners of Grima’s thin-lipped mouth. For the eternity of ten more heartbeats, the counsellor did not notice the young man’s piercing glare as he stayed lost in appreciation of Éowyn’s beauty. Then he woke with a start. From one moment to the other, the dreamy, faraway expression melted into an inscrutable mask, in which the pale eyes became solid blocks of ice. He knew he had been caught. Feeling heated rage rise in his veins, Éomer countered the glance, and it took all the restraint he could muster to not outright shout at the counsellor across the table.

"—wasn’t it, Éomer?" Fastred’s raucous laughter interrupted the silent duel, as the older warrior slapped his apprentice heartily on the back. "By Béma, you looked greener than the grass you were sitting upon when we came back! But he slew those orcs, my lord! Their corpses looked so messed up, I felt almost sorry for them! May the Valar prevent that your nephew’s anger is ever directed at me!" He laughed again and almost spilt his ale as he raised his tankard in salute at the young man he had been talking about.

"Éowyn?" The king did not laugh along with his captain and his son. Instead his gaze lingered on his oddly behaving niece as his hand with the glass of red wine he had been holding sunk. "What is it, child? Would you like to be excused from the table for today? You look unwell."

Éomer twitched as he regarded his sister’s taut, pale features, and the sight of her distress caused him to boil inside.

"Aye, uncle, I would be grateful if you did, for my head is hurting. I would very much like to lie down."

"I can bring her to her chambers, my lord," Grima hurried to say. "I will send for the healer and tell her to brew something to ease the young lady’s predicament, if she wants it."

‘All that ails her is you!’ Éomer wanted to shout, and only bit on his tongue at the last moment as he laid down his cutlery.

"I will do that, uncle," he said instead, his gaze determinedly on his sister as he slid back with his chair to stand up. "Since I haven’t seen—"

"But we were just talking about your battle with the orcs, Éomer!" Théodred objected after another sip of wine. Apparently, he had not yet sensed the tension between his relatives and their counsellor. "You cannot disappear from this table without having shared your perspective of the battle with us! As often as I had been playing the orc in our training fights, I want to hear now how you disposed of them. Let Grima accompany Wyn to her room, I am certain he won’t mind."

"Of course not, my prince. Shall we go, young lady? Would you need a steadying hand?"

Éomer wasn’t sure, but it felt to him as if there was a sparkle of triumph in the counsellor’s eyes as his glance found back from his lord’s son to the object of their discussion. Éowyn looked pale as she came to her feet, but her expression remained calm and composed, not betraying for a moment how much she was dreading the unexpected turn of events.

"I thank you, counsellor, but it is only a headache that is ailing me. I can very well walk by myself. I bid you all a good night. Uncle… Cousin…" Regal and haughtily, Éowyn indicated a stiff nod at the guests at the table before she turned around and disappeared into the twilight of the corridors, leaving Grima to follow in her wake.

"Wyn? Éowyn?" His tentative knocking was not rewarded with an answer, and in the flickering light of the torches which had been lit for the night, Éomer found himself in a strange situation. He had waited for a while after the meal had ended, and until the noises in the Golden Hall had died down, before he had silently slipped out of his room and made his way over to his sister’s to inquire about what had happened after she had left with Grima. But now, no one was asking him in.

His natural impulse would have been to just open the door and look whether his sister was faring well after the disconcerting experience at the meal. But he had been away for a long time, and while he had learned the skills of a rider of the Mark somewhere far away in the Eastfold, Éowyn had grown and her body begun to change into that of a woman. He knew from experience that girls could be strange at that age, coy and moody, and they suddenly seemed to value their privacy a lot more than before. Éothain’s older sister had been like that, too, and that afternoon when the both of them had bolted into Aldana’s room without knocking to show her a wounded bird they had found in the grass was one of the memories that were best forgotten.

Éowyn... there was no mistake to be made that she was about to grow into a beautiful woman, too, with the unusually dark eyes they both shared, and her proud and noble face. The flowing golden curtain of her hair had been tamed by a thick, artfully bound braid during the meal, leaving her slender neck uncovered, and the tight white-golden gown she had been wearing had likewise subtly hinted at the ongoing change. It was no wonder men were starting to notice her. Which was an even more unsettling thought. How was he supposed to watch out for his little sister when he was away slaying orcs in the far reaches of the Mark? And what in Béma’s name was he supposed to do now? Walk away without looking after her?

Pondering his options, the young rider finally opened the door with the utmost caution. Silently, he stepped into the dark room and waited for his eyes to adjust to the pale illumination of the moonlight, even though the absence of another form of light told him already that Éowyn was sleeping. A moment later, he recognised her slender form underneath the blanket, and saw the slow rising and falling of her chest. Unable to ignore the urge, Éomer took the two steps over to her bed, and then – cautiously to not wake her up – sat down on its edge to gaze at the sleep-softened featured of his younger sibling. Reflexively, his fingers smoothed away a strand of the golden flood which had partially fallen over her face, and his heart flowed over with love.

‘I will protect you from him, Wyn,’ he vowed silently to himself. "I will protect you from anyone out there who wants to do you harm. No matter where duty may take me, I will be there should you ever need me. Do not be afraid, Little Bird.’

He sat for a moment longer, lost in thought, until a faint noise from the slightly opened door alerted him that he was no longer the only waking soul in the stillness of the night. Not wanting to get caught in his sister’s chambers when he had obviously little business there, Éomer hastily rose and hid behind the heavy curtains. An instant later, the narrow crack he had left open widened to reveal a dark shape. Cautiously peeking through a thin part of the curtain, Éomer tensed when the moonlight revealed his uncle’s new counsellor stepping into the chamber, and his lips moved in a silent curse. In his hands, Grima was carrying a tray with a can and a pot of steaming contents, which he now quietly sat down on the little table opposite the wall where Éowyn was soundly sleeping. What in Eru’s name was that scarecrow doing here? Serving the royal family was the duty of their servants and maids, of which Grima was – in the common sense -- neither, and Éomer had little doubt that his sister would never have allowed that man into her room had she been awake. But his younger sibling was walking through a different realm right now and oblivious to the silent, pale figure that turned away from the table to regard her with an expression on its face which caused Éomer’s blood to churn. It took all of his restraint not to jump out of hiding and wring the scrawny counsellor’s neck. His knuckles digging into the fabric of the curtain instead, he watched as Grima’s lips moved with words that were too low for him to understand, until – after an eternity, it seemed to him – the darkly-clad man slowly turned away and left the room.

Remaining where he was for a few moments longer, his heart furiously beating in his throat, Éomer considered his options. It would have been hard for him even had he not been eating and drinking and the blood circling his stomach instead of his brain. Even in his calmest mood, he knew he was no deep thinker or strategist. He was known – and famous – for his straight, even blunt manner, and often his reputation alone had helped him achieving whatever he had set out to do. People were easily intimidated by his forceful presence... lads of his own age, at least. But what was he supposed to do about this? Tell Théoden? Or Théodred? But then he would have to admit likewise having been where he had not belonged in the middle of the night. And what exactly was it that he had to tell? That he thought Grima had been looking at Éowyn in an inappropriate manner? Like his bluntness, his protectiveness of his younger sister was no secret to anyone, and likely to be dismissed as over-eagerness by his cousin and uncle, possibly even smiled at. No, if he wanted to protect Éowyn from this worm, he would have to take matters into his own hands!

With a last look at his still sleeping sister, Éomer silently crossed the dark room and slipped back into the empty corridor, straining his ears for signs of his opponent. From behind the corner, the sound of distant footsteps carried lowly through the great hall, and Éomer followed them stealthily until he could see Grima’s bowed shape in front of him, about to disappear into his own chambers. Silently approaching while the counsellor still had his back on him, the element of surprise was with the young warrior as he seized his opponent’s arm and violently pulled him around, his voice lowered to a threatening hiss.

"What were you doing in my sister’s chambers, Counsellor Grima? Counselling her while she was sleeping? Despite the uselessness of such an undertaking, you would be the last person she would ask, and you know that!"

The pale blue eyes stared at him uncomprehendingly for the longest moment, before the startled look in them vanished and was replaced by the calculating glance Éomer had already seen twice before. With a jolt, Grima freed his arm and stepped back, but behind him was only the wall. Noticing that he was cornered, he decided to attack.

"What is the matter with you, young lord, that you think you must sneak up on your uncle’s advisor in the middle of the night and assault him? Is it the ale speaking through your tongue, or is it something else?"

Éomer’s eyes were two blazing coals in a face filled with rage.

"You know exactly what I’m speaking of, counsellor! Even if my sister wasn’t feeling well, it was not your place to enter her room unbidden. That is a maid’s duty, not yours!"

"Oh… I see." Grima rose to his full, not very intimidating height, and his eyes narrowed. "So you were there, too. I thought I felt someone else’s presence in the room, but I was not certain." He tugged at his coat which Éomer’s assault had put into disarray. "Now, I do not even want to ask you, young lord, what your business was in your sister’s chambers, hiding even, because you knew you were doing wrong. But since you seemed to have been there, you should have noticed that I brought your sister medicine for her aching head. She had still been awake when I left her earlier and apparently fell asleep very quickly afterward, even before I could bring her another pot of freshly brewed tea. One of the kitchen-maids specifically stayed up to make it for her in case that the first one would not suffice. So, yes, I cared for your sister. Is that a crime in your eyes, Éomer son of Éomund?"

Taking another angered step forth at the counsellor’s denial, Éomer’s gaze pierced the darkly-clad man, and rising fury made his hands tremble. His restraint was almost gone.

"Yes, you brought her the tea. And then you stood by her bedside, leering at her! Like you did at the table! Éowyn caught you! I caught you! And if you deny it once more, I might just forget myself and make you remember – and regret it!"

Pale blue slits sparkled in ice cold fury at him, and when the counsellor spoke, his voice suddenly took on a new quality as he sneered:

"Ah, I see. Your little, insecure sister set you on my track, hoping that you would scare me away with this infamous temper of yours. Oh yes, son of Eomund, do not believe that I haven’t been warned! In fact, both your uncle and your cousin told me of the brash and uncontrolled young rider who would join us on Midsummer’s eve. They told me to be careful around you, because all it took for Éomund of Aldburg’s son to lose his temper would be the vaguest hint of an idea planted into his head. I must say that I did not believe them at first. I thought a young man riding with the Rohirrim for an entire year already would have to be more thoughtful, more composed… but you certainly seem to deserve every bit of that reputation."

His hands trembling so badly with rage that he had to prop them against the wall next to Grima to not hit him, Éomer felt control slipping away from him. No longer caring who heard him, he raised his voice.

"Aye, scarecrow, I do indeed deserve it. In fact, I am proud of it! Many fear me, but only those who are doing evil things to the people I care about. I may have a quick temper, but I can also read people. And it only takes one look at you to see that you’re a liar! And I’m telling you now, I promise it, in fact, that if I catch you again lusting after my sister, or if I hear about it from her, I will come, no matter where I am at that moment, and I shall wring your filthy neck! You keep your fingers and your eyes off her, or you will regret it! "

"How unfortunate to find such narrow-mindedness and hate in the family of my dear lord, whom I have to come to know as a benign, open man who will not judge people on their appearance," Grima rebuked acidly instead of looking intimidated. "It is nothing new to me that people hate me because of the trace of Dunlending blood in my veins. They hate me for nothing more than my dark hair, despite my efforts of being useful to them. Mind you, young lord, I have known this evil game since childhood, and I always tried to comfort myself with the thought that those were only unlearned people, not knowing better. I always imagined the nobles to be different. Your uncle certainly is, he sees my effort and rewards it; he sees my vast knowledge and uses it for the best of our people. And your cousin, too, he knows better. But your heart, young man, seems to have been poisoned by what happened to your parents. You are blinded by rage, and when you lash out, you care little who you hit. I am sad to find such prejudice in a house like this."

"And you will be sad for something else, too," was all Éomer managed to say before his throat tightened to the point where he could no longer speak, and he grasped the counsellor by the shoulders and violently pushed him into the wall behind. "You shall be –"

"Éomer!" Over the thunder of the pulse in his ears, he had not heard the door opening behind him, and suddenly he was forcefully pulled back himself, losing his grasp on Grima as he stared into Théodred’s stunned expression. "Éomer, what are you doing? Are you mad?"

"He appears to be drunk, my lord," the counsellor managed to say before Éomer could collect himself enough for an answer. Indignantly, he tugged at his tunic, and his eyes sparkled with contempt. "I brought his sister tea against her headache, and he accuses me of having uncouth thoughts about her. A lass of thirteen summers! What is he thinking of me, Lord Théodred?"

"You were leering at her, I saw it!" Éomer shouted, still fighting against his cousin’s grip. "The Gods alone know what you were doing to her in your thoughts, but I saw it, and if I ever catch you again –"

"Enough of this, Éomer!" Théodred’s voice was harsh as Éomer had never heard his cousin before; every bit the marshal commanding a foolish rider. He felt heat creep into his face, but knew not whether it was from rage or shame over being yelled at by the man he was regarding as his brother and idol. "I apologise for my cousin’s behaviour, counsellor, and I assure you that it will not happen again. Please, if you would not mention this business to my father…"

"Of course not, my prince," Grima agreed, indicating a nod. His eyes briefly grazed Éomer before their expression grew gentler again when he shifted his attention back at Théodred. "Be assured that this will remain between us. I do not mean the lad harm. He has obviously been spurred into this by his sister, and we all know how confused the girl has lately been. I do not blame him for trying to protect her, but I would appreciate it if Your Highness could see to it that this incidence will not repeat itself."

"And it will not. I will talk to my foolish cousin." Théodred’s tone was adamant, causing Éomer’s stomach to transform into a solid block of ice. "I bid you a good night, counsellor. Once again, please accept my apologies for this unfortunate business."

Grima smiled benignly.

"I have already forgotten it, my prince. I bid you a good night as well. And you too, young lord," he nodded to Éomer, thus rekindling the fire which had been burning within Éomund’s son anew. "I am certain that by tomorrow, when you have sobered, you will realise your mistake, and we two shall be friends." The counsellor disappeared into his room, leaving a fuming Éomer and an infuriated prince behind.

"Théodred, I can explain –"

"Not a word, Éomer! Follow me!" With great strides which were an indication of the older man’s anger, Théodred hurried through the empty corridor to his study, the echo of his firm steps following him. Biting his tongue to not object to his cousin’s order, Éomer followed in his wake, a maelstrom of fury and dismay threatening to sweep his composure away entirely. He knew why Théodred was heading for his study and not his room: he would be lectured, and it would be a lecture he would not forget, and the prince didn’t want for the king to hear it, whose chambers were adjacent to those of his son.

With an expression of stone, Théodred finally turned and held the door open for him, his grey-blue eyes sparkling in the flickering light of the torch. Like a sheep to the slaughter, Éomer passed through, his hands balled into fists inside the pockets of his tunic and inwardly shaking with fury over the injustice that he was being seen as the villain and not that poison-tongued scarecrow. Stepping forth to the middle of the room and waiting for his cousin to light a candle, he prepared to defend himself. Yet as Théodred looked up, Éomer had to admit that he had never seen the king’s heir so furious.

"Théodred –"

"You speak only when I tell you to, Éomer. For now, you will listen to what I have to say to you, and you will think twice before you will say anything." The king’s son drew a deep breath, and his gaze went over Éomer’s shoulder to the tapestry on the wall. Focussing. Collecting himself. Perhaps it was a habit he should try to pick up himself, Éomer mused briefly, when -- without a warning -- the grey-blue eyes re-focussed on him.

"Éomer, I am disappointed in you. I cannot even begin to tell you how disappointed I am. Attacking my father’s counsellor like this, within Meduseld… You insulted and assaulted a man who earned my father’s trust, and who is, in fact, his right hand! No matter what you think he did -- and we shall have to speak about this matter, too -- it simply is not your place! You forgot yourself, Éomer! You always were a hotspur, quick with your temper, and once roused, shut to reason! This was difficult when you were still a boy, but understandable given your personal tragedy! You are a Rohirrim now, however! You have been riding with our men for one entire year! You should know better! It is time to grow up, Éomer, because you cannot go around insulting and attacking whoever you feel has deserved it!"

Grinding his teeth at the admonition, Éomer pressed:

"But what if he does?"

"No matter what you think happened, it is your duty to come to me or uncle with that business. You speak to us first, and leave it to us to decide about it. It is simply impossible for you to attack a member of the royal household! I am loath having to stress this, but even though you are of noble blood, you are only a distant member of the royal family, you are a guest here! A preferred guest, but a guest nonetheless!" He failed to see Éomer’s expression darken in response to his words. "By Béma, Éomer, do you have even a remote idea of what you have done?" Théodred shook his head in consternation and drew a deep breath. Which made him notice something else. "And I am sad to find that Grima was right: you are, indeed, drunk. I did not notice how much ale you had at the table, but in your own interest, you will refrain from filling your glass for as often as you like in the future. I will be counting the tankards, Éomer, if I have to!"

"But I am not drunk!" It was too much. How could his cousin be thinking that of him? And how could he say that he was not an important part of their family? Angrily ignoring the burning in his eyes and trying to swallow the rising bitterness, Éomer stubbornly insisted: "I saw him leave Éowyn’s room, Théodred, where he had no business! I saw his lusting glances at the table! He is lying, Théodred! And you know that I would never lie to you!" Despair in his eyes, he stared at his cousin’s face, where he found to his dismay not what he had hoped to find. There was no understanding, no willingness to reason. Instead, Théodred looked grim. "It is true that Éowyn told me first about Grima’s inappropriate glances. But she was uncertain, Théodred. She did not tell me to do anything about it, but asked me to see for myself instead and then decide."

Théodred sighed. This was a conversation of the likes he would never have deemed necessary, and apparently, Éomer wasn’t willing to see the mistake he had committed until he would be punished for it. He didn’t want to punish his own cousin.

"Éomer, we both know what results from your sister telling you that she feels threatened by someone or something. There is only one possible result. She knows that. She played you, but you are a rider of Rohan now, not some inexperienced lad anymore. You must know better, Éomer! You cannot simply charge into the people your sister accuses like a hungry warg! All the more since Éowyn has been a very insecure girl for months now. She has been quite difficult since you were away. You cannot trust her judgement!"

Éomer’s eyes narrowed into slits. What was Théodred insinuating now? That his sister was mad? Could this discussion possibly grow any worse?

"What do you mean by that?"

"A lot has changed since you were away, Éomer, and not least of all your sister. But I am certain that you already noticed that… Éowyn is growing into a woman now. Her body is changing, and with her beautiful face, delicate frame and golden hair, men are starting to regard her differently than before. She knows not how to handle their interest yet, but that is to be expected at her age. She cannot be blamed for her insecurity, but it is a fact that she feels threatened by those glances, no matter who gives them to her. This has been going on for months! Even if Grima looked at her appreciatively –"

"I would not call it that, Théodred!" Éomer rebuked heatedly. "I know ‘appreciative.’ And I know ‘lusting’. Éowyn is right to feel threatened by him. And I cannot believe you would rather believe a stranger than us!"

"Grima is no stranger anymore, Éomer. He has been counselling my father for four months now, and his counsel was valuable in every single case. He has already proven himself as an asset to the court of Rohan. You will have to accept that." The sudden chill in the prince’s voice chased a shudder down the younger man’s spine. No matter what he would say in his defence, the battle was already lost. Théodred had made up his mind, and miraculously, stunningly, he had decided against his family… in favour of a crooked-looking, false liar… and thief. A thief of his uncle’s sympathy. The taste of defeat in his mouth was bitter.

Letting himself fall into his chair, his arms dropping heavily onto his thighs, Théodred looked up, and the disappointment in his features felt to Éomer as if he had been it in the gut.

"Listen, cousin, even though this is serious business, I do not want to tell father about it. Grima gave me his word that he won’t say a word, and neither will he hear it from me… under two conditions."

His expression wary instead of eager to promise whatever his cousin would order him to do, Éomer could not help asking:

"Yes?"

"First: Nothing like this will ever happen again. And second: tomorrow morning, before breakfast, both you and Grima will meet me here, and you will apologise to him. And –" Théodred added, already seeing the objection in his cousin’s eyes, "—you will make an effort at making it sound and feel honest!"

"I will not apologise to this… this liar! I did nothing wrong!"

"You will apologise, Éomer, or father will have to hear about it from me." The prince’s expression froze. "Neither he nor I can accept such unsolved business in Meduseld. If you do not show regret for your actions now, we will have to walk a different path, and I doubt that you would like it very much." Another deep sigh. "Éomer… why are you making this so hard for yourself? And for me? Do you think I want to do this? Do you think I enjoy admonishing you?" He saw the sparkle in the younger man’s eyes, betraying the overflow of his cousin’s emotions.

"But Éowyn… what will become of her when you do not punish Grima? He will see this as encouragement, and once I’m gone –"

"I will keep an eye on her, Éomer." By Béma, the young lad’s commitment to his sister was almost heartbreaking. "Tell Éowyn to come to me if she feels uncomfortable. I will see then what I can do for her."

"But you are rarely here yourself!"

"But father is. Do you think he is blind to Éowyn’s needs? Éomer, trust us. We are aware of her distress, but we also know the man well you are accusing, which is why I was so angry. I understand now that it is because he is still a stranger to you, and you cannot know better, but please, you must do this one thing I’m asking of you: apologise to Grima, and the incident will be forgotten… Éomer? Will you promise me this?"

"Aye." Staring at the floor in acceptance of his defeat, Éomer could not bring it over himself to look at his cousin. Now they both were disappointed in each other. The guardian he had always seen in Théodred from the moment on when he had stepped into Meduseld, had ceased to exist, and even though the king’s son was trying to soothe him with his offer of looking after Éowyn, Éomer knew with sudden finality that the days of protection from above were over. From now on, the two of them would have to look out for themselves. He straightened, and finally, felt secure enough to meet the older man’s gaze: "Aye, Théodred. I will do that if it is your wish. But I will continue to watch his every step for as long as I am here. You are right that I do not know Grima… and I do not trust him. He will have to earn my trust."

"That is only fair." Théodred smiled, glad to put the nightly quarrel behind them as he came to his feet. "The hour is late. Let us go to sleep, before uncle wonders about our wretched appearance tomorrow. It will be an important day."

After a sleepless night and a night of being angry at himself, his cousin, the accursed counsellor as well as all the entire world, Éomer felt both bodily and spiritually beat as he trod down the corridor to his cousin’s study. His head was throbbing like a bad tooth, and there was a taste in his mouth as if something had crawled inside and died there. Every fibre of his body wanting to turn back, his feet reluctant to take him to the scene that would set his defeat in stone, the young man approached the closed door with a heavy heart and knocked.

"Come in!"

The door seemed heavier than usual as he opened it, his insides frozen like a pond in winter. As he stepped into the room, the sight of the slightly bowed figure in front of his cousin’s desk caused his ribs to tighten to the point where he could hardly breathe. This went against everything he was feeling! And yet he stepped closer, his face an unmoved mask under Théodred’s scrutinising glance.

"Éomer? I believe you have something to say to our counsellor Grima?" Do it, Éomer! said his cousin’s expression. Swallow your pride and do it, because I do not want to punish you! Turning to the darkly-clad man, but still feeling Théodred’s keen gaze on his back, Éomer raised his eyes, and despite the uproar of his emotions, his voice sounded flat when he spoke:

"Counsellor Grima… I am here to apologise for my inappropriate behaviour of last night.. In my concern for my sister and under the influence of an amount of spirits I am not accustomed to, I forgot myself and my place when I attacked and insulted you in the way that I have. I promise herewith that no such thing will ever happen again, and I seek to make amends and hope that you accept my sincere apologies."

"And I accept them, Éomer son of Éomund." A slight, slow smile spread over the counsellor’s face as he regarded the young man in front of him; pale blue eyes stabbing against brown ones – and reading them. Sensing the disdain behind the courteous words. "And since I have been told that you are a man of your word, this should take care of our quarrel once and for all. Let’s put it behind us." And with these words, he extended his hand while the smile deepened. Understanding the insult, but keeping his expression unchanged, Éomer took it; a handshake of poison.

"Very well," Théodred’s relieved sounding voice could be heard from behind them, and Éomer could not help but smile grimly to himself. A stroke of luck had seen to it that his cousin had missed the true nature of their exchange: a confirmation of the continuation of their feud with other means. "I am glad to see this dreadful business solved. We do have many enemies outside these halls, we do not need to make new ones and complicate things within them. We must stand united, gentlemen!"

"You are perfectly right, my prince," Grima agreed eagerly, nodding his head. A good-natured smile found Éomer. "And I am confident that we will. I am certain this young man has learned his lesson."

"I apologised to you, counsellor. This should be indication enough of my intent," Éomer said gruffly, wanting nothing more than out of this room, which was feeling smaller with each moment he was forced to spend in it. To his relief, Théodred seemed to have nothing to add.

"So Midsummer starts well. That is wonderful. Let us all prepare for it and meet at the breakfast-table in a moment to join my father. I will be there as soon as I have read and signed this parchment." Grasping his quill, the prince dismissed the two men in front of his desk with a nod, and they turned to go.

Not sparing Grima so much as a glance as they approached the door together, Éomer briefly halted to look back at his cousin, and this time the bitterness over the injustice he felt he had been treated with was openly visible on his face. In a matter of the utmost importance to him, Théodred had chosen to believe a stranger rather than his relative. And yet worse, he had told Éomer that he did not deem him an immediate part of the family. Of all the painful accusations of last night, this one had hurt the worst, and it was still aching. For the first time in his life, Éomer felt he had been betrayed..

Yet as his cousin had already busied himself with the paper on his desk, he missed the glance. It was probably for the better better. The open accusation on his face would have raised questions he wouldn’t have wanted to answer, Éomer mused, and with the taste of defeat still in his mouth, he turned to leave… and jumped at the unexpected sight of his uncle blocking the doorframe.

"Éomer, you, too, are here, and so early in the morning? What are my son, my counsellor and my nephew plotting behind my back on such a beautiful morning?" With a twinkle, Théoden extended his hand to ruffle the young man’s hair as he had done when Éomer had still been a child, only stopping himself at the last moment at the sudden recognition that he was facing a proud warrior now, who would not appreciate the fatherly gesture.

"Nothing of importance, uncle," Éomer managed to say and pulled himself together, but the king’s darkening expression told him that his strange mood had been noticed. Had Théoden also seen the glance he had given his son? "We were just leaving."

"Is there aught wrong? Éomer?" Yet another pair of eyes that tried to penetrate his façade. Éomer felt tired of it.

"We had a little quarrel, father, but it is nothing that would be worthy of your interest," Théodred’s voice came from behind, thankfully directing the king’s attention away from him. With a last confused look at his nephew, Théoden entered his son’s study, and the door closed behind him, leaving Éomer behind in the empty corridor… or rather, the almost empty corridor. A few steps to the right, the counsellor had been waiting for him, his chin lifted and the expression in his eyes challenging.

"You see now who it is your cousin trusts in, son of Éomund. I advise you to keep this lesson in mind and to remember it well."

Determination lighting up his eyes, Éomer rose to his full height and squared his shoulders, and his voice was calm, but firm, when he answered to his opponent’s dare.

"Last night, I gave you a promise, counsellor, and you would be well-counselled to remember it just as well: Touch my sister, and you die!" Not waiting for a possible rebuke, Éomer turned away, knowing that he had just made his first personal enemy…he vowed silently to himself.

White. The world was white, but it was not the soft whiteness of gently falling snow that made it a joy to ride under the open skies. No, the air was a savage white beast, assaulting him with a thousand of needle pricks whenever he dared to lift his head in search of the path, throwing its load of ice crystals at him with gale-force winds.

It was hopeless. No direction could be kept in this storm which had darkened their surroundings to the point where not even the most experienced of the miserable warriors trapped in these elements could tell whether it was still day or already night. There was no light for orientation; neither from the sun, nor the moon or stars. All was swirling, grey-white and biting cold. Éomer knew not how their scout was supposed to find the farm they were headed for under these conditions, but he knew one thing for certain: if Arnhelm failed, they would die. Already he could sense his horse’s exhaustion underneath him. Stormwing’s face was ice-encrusted; her breath rising in white clouds in ragged bursts as she sought her way through the accumulating snow.

 Hunched over her neck in search for a little cover and miserably trying to keep his heavy fur-lined cloak wrapped around him, Éomer heard Éothain cough somewhere behind him. It was a hard and dry cough, and already the night before it had hit him that his friend was in trouble. Éothain obviously had run a slight fever then, and when he had mounted this past morning, he had looked pale except for the dark circles underneath his eyes. More than all of them, he needed shelter and a warm bed, and preferably a warm meal. The blizzard had hit them unexpectedly, the clouds moving so fast that it had already been too late to make for one of the distant villages when the first signs of it had revealed themselves. Understanding, however, the danger rolling toward them, Captain Elfhelm had ordered their éored to disperse and make for the nearest settlements in four different groups, as he knew these to be only small and not able to accommodate an entire host of riders. Thus their group of only fifteen riders was making for a farm in one of the valleys of the Ered Nimrais like their scout had suggested, and while the narrow winding path eliminated the chance of getting lost on the way, it also channelled the wind and makes the ride an excruciating experience for horses and riders alike. Also, Éomer’s glance repeatedly went up to where the mountain tops disappeared underneath the swirling grey. Even if it was impossible to see the snow accumulating on the slopes, he knew that it was there, threatening to bury them if the storm blew its mass loose. He could not tell for how long they had been riding through this white inferno, but he could not wait to leave the narrow path they were currently travelling through. Just when he  had finished the thought, the mountains retreated and gave way to a broad valley he could rather sense than see.

“We’re almost there! Follow me!” Up ahead, Arnhelm forced his exhausted steed into a reluctant gallop, and Éomer kicked his heels into Stormwing’s flanks to catch up, not quite daring to hope just yet that their ordeal would end. Yet soon enough dim lights appeared through the snow like a mystical vision, only solidifying to reality when they have almost reached the battered group of wooden huts at the end of the valley.

***

Finally, out of the cold! It was the only clear thought Éomer was capable of as he slid from the saddle and led his exhausted mare into the barn, leaving the  wind to angrily roar its fury over their disappearance outside. Around him, the men began to unbridle their mounts with numb fingers. It was still cold enough in the building to see their own breath, but at least they were out of the biting storm. Fighting with the ice-encrusted tack, Éomer whispered soothing words into Stormwing’s pricked ears and gently rubbed the mare’s cheeks and nose in an attempt to get both her and his hands warm. Behind him, Éothain led his gelding in with stiff legs. A short glance confirmed how awful he looked, and a moment later, another hard cough fit rattled his lanky frame.

 “Let me handle Scatha, Éothain,” Éomer said, seeing Elfhelm approach them over the young rider’s shoulder and feeling the other men’s attention on them. “You should take your bedroll and lie down immediately.”

 “But I can do that,” his friend protested not very convincingly. It was a rule set in stone that before a rider would see to his own comfort, he first had to take care of his steed. It was a rule none ever would question. “And it will get me warm, too.”

 “You look as if you are already far too warm, son,” Elfhelm’s deep voice cut into their discussion. “And you also look as if you can hardly manage to stay on your feet.”

 “It is not –“

 “You will lie down immediately, Éothain. I do not know when we will move on, but an ill rider will slow us down. See to it that you get some respite. Fréalaf will tend to your horse.”

 “But I can do that for him,” Éomer objected, not understanding why the captain would not allow him to take care of his friend’s errands. Determined grey eyes turned toward him.

 “No, you cannot, Éomer, because you will accompany Arnhelm and me outside. Leave the tack on your mare and come over here.”

 Speechless at the sudden prospects of having to head back into the raging elements, Éomer exchanged a brief glance with Éothain before he followed the order and approached Elfhelm, who was already back in discussion with the young woman who had granted them shelter. Finally getting his first thorough look at their host, Éomer furrowed his brow at the realisation that she seemed extraordinarily young to be alone on this farm, and not only that, but caring for three little children, too. The smallest one sat heavily clothed on her arm and regarded the fierce Rohirrim talking to them with obvious distrust, while the other two, who were already old enough to walk, half hid behind their mother’s legs and only peered at them with reluctance, afraid. Coming to a halt next to his captain, Éomer gave the young mother another glance and found himself confirmed. She could not be much older than he, if she even was. And the oldest of her children had at least seen four, if not five summers. Did they indeed start so early in these outer reaches of the Mark?

Before he could further ponder the answer to his question, their scout halted to his left, and Elfhelm turned toward them, his face grim.

 “Freya here just told me that her father and brother are still out there. The storm probably surprised them as much as it surprised us. Since she is offering us shelter, the least we can do to repay her kindness is look for her family and bring them home safely. Do you feel up to it? Arnhelm?”

 “Of course, captain.”

 “Aye, captain.” Éomer fought to keep the rising dread from his expression as a particularly strong gust of wind howled along the barn. Béma, he had hardly succeeded in getting the blood circulating in his fingers again yet. But as the young woman’s thankful gaze found him, he nonetheless found himself attempt an encouraging smile with his half-frozen face.

 “I assume they have sought cover somewhere in the outer fringes of these hills here,” Arnhelm mumbled, already concerning himself with the map. “The terrain is quite rugged and should have many suitable cornices and caves. We might be back even before darkness falls if they are there.”

 “I cannot tell you how grateful I am, my lord,” their host brought out, gently rocking the babe in her arm as it began to weep. “My family has been living here for generations, and my father knows the terrain well, but this is an unusually fierce storm, and a hard winter. We even had wolves circling our farm over the past weeks, because they can find no other food, and I am concerned.”

 “If there are wolves, they better see to it that they don’t cross our path,” Elfhelm grumbled, one hand on the hilt of his sword “But let us not stand here idle and chat. The sooner we ride, the sooner we will be back.” He opened the barn door, and driving snow at once blew into the relative warmth of their shelter. Taking his heart in both hands, Éomer followed his captain and the scout outside.

***************

 It was astonishing, but the storm was still gaining strength. Whereas before it had only slowed down their proceeding with poor visibility and occasional strong gusts, it was now attacking them with the savageness of a hungry predator, pushing and pulling at them and sucking the warmth out of their bodies through the layers of clothes they were wearing. Visibility had decreased to the point where it was virtually non-existent, and as he looked repeatedly back to orient himself, Éomer found to his concern the light from the huts already vanished and not even the mountains enclosing them visible. They were riding through a swirling world of grey and white, a world without directions, and he deemed it quite possible for them to freeze to death almost at the doorstep to the farm without finding their way back. All he could still see and all he concentrated upon was the indistinct shape of his comrade in front of him. If Arnhelm lost the way, they would die.

 Shivering miserably under the layers and layers of clothes he was wearing, Éomer almost bumped into the scout’s horse as the older man suddenly pulled on the reins and held up his hand, shouting:

 “Do you hear that?”

 Straining his ears for anything apart from the constant angry roar of the gales around them, Éomer straightened in the saddle.  For a moment, he thought he heard something; a snarl, almost drowned out from the elements, but definitely not the wind. He tensed and concentrated harder, and thus was caught unprepared when Stormwing suddenly reared. He landed in the snow with a soft thud, his face burning from the cold whiteness, and embarrassed to the bones.

 “Éomer? Are you all right? What happened?”

 Elfhelm’s concerned voice sounded as if the captain was at least a quarter-league away as Éomer scrambled to his knees and knocked the snow from his front.

 “I—“ Four pairs of pale yellow eyes suddenly appeared through the swirling snow and locked on him with deadly intent. Instantly going for his sword, Éomer’s numb fingers locked around the hilt. “Wolves!”

 He jumped to his feet, but was knocked over when a great weight crashed against him from behind, and the impact knocked Gúthwine from his hands.  Even while he was falling, he saw the eyes in front of him jump, and the dark shapes surrounding them solidified into snarling faces and bared fangs flying toward him. Then suddenly a great dark silhouette blocked them from his view, and he heard an anguished yelp.

 “On your feet, lad!”

 Éomer tried to comply, but was suddenly thrown forward as again something crashed into him. A furious growl next to his ears and a hard tug at his hair told him that the wolf had sunken its fang into his hood. Not even attempting to find his sword in the snow, he went for his dagger instead and lashed out. The pull on his hood ceased, but only a heartbeat later, teeth closed around his wrist with great pressure and made him drop the blade with a yell. Beating at his opponent with his free fist, Éomer threw himself at the wolf, acting on instinct. His arm locked around the animal’s neck as he pulled it down with his greater weight, his wrist still in its maw and the pressure mounting as he sunk his knee into the wolf’s flank with all the force he could muster.

 “Left, Éomer!”

 Arnhelm’s voice was coming from directly behind him, and instinctively he shifted his weight to the left, just as the scout’s lance cut through the space he had occupied a heartbeat before  to skewer the predator. For a moment, the pressure intensified to the point where Éomer expected his bones to crack – and then he was released so suddenly that he fell back forcefully in the snow… and landed on something hard. His sword! Pullling it out from underneath him just as another pair of yellow eyes advanced, Éomer thrust it into the swirling snow in front of him. A brief moment of resistance… and then the blade sunk into the predator’s chest, killing it so fast that it died without a noise. More movement behind him. Whirling around on his knees, the bloodied blade scythed through the air.

 “Ho! Ho, lad! It is only me! They are gone. Have mercy on your captain!” Open concern coloured Elfhelm’s tone as the captain slid from his saddle to look for the youngest member of his éored. “Are you hurt?” Extending a hand, he helped Éomer to his feet and already saw the answer to his question in a red line which wound down its way his opposite’s face from underneath the hood. “Let me see that.”

 “I am fine,” Éomer objected, still feeling mainly embarrassed over having fallen from his horse. Even the older warriors were looking to him for his riding skills. Now he had most certainly ruined his reputation as one of the best riders of the Mark, something he had been furiously proud of. Carefully, he opened and closed the fingers of his right hand and grimaced. It appeared that nothing was broken, but by Morgoth’s stinking breath, it hurt! Meanwhile, the captain had pulled back his hood and smoothed aside a strand of hair to look.

 “Ah, ‘tis but a scratch. You were lucky, son. Your hood, however, is a lost cause.” Elfhelm nevertheless looked dismayed over having the youngest member of his éored wounded in a battle which had not been necessary, but there was also pride in his expression. “You handled that well, Éomer. You moved fast and were not frozen by fear when they attacked you. You even killed one of them yourself, and if Arnhelm had not speared the other one, I am sure you would have strangled it.”

 “They were only wolves,” Éomer rebuked with more self-assuredness than he was actually feeling. Now that the battle was over, he realised with embarrassment that his legs were starting to tremble, and he was glad when Arnhelm rode up to him to press Stormwing’s reins into his hand.

 “Only wolves!” roared Elfhelm as he ruffled his recruit's hair with amusement. “That is the spirit! Let’s tie our trophies to our horses and bring them back with us, for they’ve got very thick, very warm fur. You will be glad to have it before this winter is over.” He was in the process of unfastening the length of rope from his saddle when suddenly another voice could be heard over the howling wind, and the next moment, two dark shapes, a tall and a smaller one, stumbled toward them.

 “Béma be blessed! Thank you! Thank you, my lords!” The man was barely recognisable underneath the heavy layers of wool and fur he had wrapped around him, but the Rohirrim did not doubt for a moment that they had finally found whom they had come to find. “We sat on that outcropping there for hours after the pack of wolves encircled us, and then the storm came! You saved us! Say ‘Thank you!’ Halad!”

 “Thank you, my lords!” Even through his cloak, it was obvious that the lad was at the end of his strength, shivering violently. Éomer estimated that he could not be older than ten summers. Very young to be outside in these conditions. Feeling awkward, he concerned himself with tying up the dead wolves and fastening the other end of the rope to Stormwing’s saddle.

 “’tis nothing,” Elfhelm said with a dismissive gesture. “Your daughter sent us. It is the least we could have done after she offered my men shelter for as long as this storm lasts. But let us not talk. It is getting dark, and I think we all will feel better with a roof above our heads and a cup of warm broth in our hands.” He watched as Éomer swung into the saddle and then followed his example, extending his hand to the waiting man. “You will ride with me. Arnhelm, you take the lad. Let’s make haste before Béma decides to dump all the winter’s snow onto our heads!”

********

“—and then the wolves came, and one of them bit a hole into my cloak! Here, Freya, look, what a big hole that is!” The lad spread the fabric, and his voice was high with excitement as he told his sister of his big adventure.

 “Aye, that is indeed a big hole,” the young woman agreed as she mustered the boy’s evidence with due attention. Yet she could not hide a very relieved smile as she heated water in an old iron pot and poured herbs into it. She had known that something had been afoot when her father and Halad had not returned from their errand by noon, even though they had only gone out to herd the sheep into the barn against the advancing storm. Yet with three little children to take care of, she had not been able to go looking for them herself. She did not know what lucky incident had brought the Rohirrim to her, but when the dark shapes of their horses had advanced through the driving snow, she had been more than glad to see them.

 “They were hungry!” Halad continued, who did not feel that he was being treated with the bidden respect. After all, he had survived an attack of wolves! “They wanted to kill us! But then the Rohirrim came and saved us! They fought with them, and forced them to flee!”

 “Yes indeed, they did, Halad.” She turned around to where the captain and the younger man were standing, who had accompanied him into the storm. After a hearty embrace, her father had left to see whether there was anything the Rohirrim in the barn would need, and she was alone with the two men in the kitchen. Her expression sobered when she saw the younger warrior’s torn hood and the thin trail of blood which had trickled down his handsome face. “And for that I am most thankful. Did you already thank them, Halad?”

 “Of course he did,” the broad warrior who had introduced himself to her as Captain Elfhelm said. “He is a fine lad with good manners.” Ruffling the boy’s hair, his eyes briefly swept the kitchen. It was a very sparsely decorated hut, but under these conditions, it seemed to him like a castle.

 “Well, on some days more than on others, isn’t it, Halad?” Freya jested with a twinkle in her eyes, and then rubbed her hand on her plain tunic. “Come, let me give you a hug. I am so glad to have you back!”

 Éomer could not help being fascinated with their host’s warm and giving demeanour. The girl was not overly pretty, not someone he would have noticed had she passed on the street next to him at Edoras. With her ash-blonde, wild hair which she had bound into a thick braid and the rosy complexion and plain clothes, she looked very much like the farm girl she was, but her friendliness had him enamoured. There was so much love between the members of this family, that he suddenly missed his own. Éowyn, Théodred, his uncle… what were they doing right now? He had lost track of time, but it had to be around Yule, and wasn’t that usually the time for families to be together?

 “I will go see what the men are doing,” Elfhelm finally announced and turned to go. “See whether they have made themselves comfortable, or whether I will have to reprimand someone for using your sheep for a pillow.” His jest brought a laugh to Freya’s face that caused a warm feeling in Éomer’s stomach.

 “Our sheep are hardy, Captain Elfhelm. They will not die if a man rests his head on them. But while you are looking, perhaps you want to take this along to make them yet more comfortable!” She pointed to a big pot that was hanging over the fire, and from where a delicious odour was spreading through the room. “I’m afraid it is not much, only some rather thin stew with potatoes and a bit of chicken—“

 “It is more than we could accept with a good conscience, my lady,” Elfhelm said with an all-encompassing gesture. “You do not have much for yourself, and then we come along and you waste your precious supplies on—“

 “—some men who rescue my family from the wolves. Aye, captain. And that is why you will also get some freshly baked bread as soon as it is ready. And I will accept no further objection, my lord!”

 Éomer could not help grin over the refreshing way the young woman was handling his fierce commander, and found it difficult to hide his amusement when Elfhelm suddenly turned toward him.

 “I see. Mutiny it is, huh?” He twinkled. No one deems it necessary to follow a captain’s orders anymore. What is the Mark coming to?”

 “It is a shame, my lord. Really.”

 “I do, however, have one more request, Lady Freya, as much as I’m loath of asking even more of you.”

 “Oh?”

 “That young rider here…” Elfhelm laid a heavy arm around Éomer’s shoulders, causing him to blush. “He was injured in the fight. Not grievously, but I would be grateful if you could have a brief look at the scratches.”

 “I will gladly do this, captain. You see the smaller pot there over the fire? That is already the water for him. Please make sure you take the right pot outside, or I will wash your rider’s wound with stew, while your men have to drink hot water with bitter tasting healing herbs. That can be in nobody’s interest.”

 With a roaring laugh, Elfhelm stepped over to do as bidden.

 “No, I assume not.”

 “Do you need bowls, or anything? Spoons?”

 “Nothing, my lady. Thank you. Every rider has his own set. You have already done far too much for us.” A semi-stern glance found Éomer, who had followed their exchange silently, and feeling a bit awkward. “I hope I can leave you alone with this rogue… Éomer, will you behave?”

 Narrowing his eyes in indignant protest, Éomer responded:

 “Of course, captain. What-- ” But with a broad grin on his lips, Elfhelm had already left. Still staring at the closed door in disbelief, Éomer jumped when he was suddenly addressed. Somehow, in the meantime, Freya had made it over to him, the steaming pot and a few cloths in her hands. She smiled at him.

 “And now let me thank you, young rider, for battling with the wolves. Let me wash this scratch on your head, and also I would like to have a look at your hand. Please, sit down.”

 Slightly embarrassed, Éomer shook his head, but did as bidden nonetheless.

 “In fact, it is not really necessary. I am fine. They barely even touched me.”

 “Aye,” she countered. Even if the rider was still young, he was a warrior, and would rather die than ever admit hurting. She knew all about this kind of man. Even her little brother was the same. “I can see that it is nothing life-threatening. Yet it is always better to be safe. There could be dirt in those bites, even if they are only scratches. Better to wash them. It will only be a matter of minutes… or are you afraid it might hurt?” She twinkled.

 Her teasing did the trick. Indignantly, Éomer straightened on the chair, aware of the inquisitive glances of the children behind Freya. They had just run into the kitchen in their wild chase, presumably to see whether their mother would have something to eat for them, sweets or otherwise, and now found this lanky, fierce-looking young man sitting there. He had their undivided attention.

 “Of course not.”

 “Very well. I did not think so.” Pulling another chair close and sitting down in front of him, Freya drenched the cloth she had brought into the strongly smelling water. “And I promise you that it will not hurt, too. I have a lot of experience in cleaning scrapes.” Carefully, her fingers smoothed away the bloodied strand of hair to reveal the tear in the skin, and she felt him tense underneath her touch.

 “I see. Your own children must keep you constantly occupied.” Her amused laughter found Éomer unprepared. It was strange to be so close to this woman. She seemed not to be intimidated at all, not shy about touching him.

 “Ah, but they are not my children! They are my siblings. What do you think of me?”

 “Your siblings!” he echoed sheepishly, feeling rather stupid, and then hissed when she pressed the hot cloth against his head wound. Behind Freya, the children were giggling.

 “Halad is already eleven summers old. I am eighteen. Things may go a bit faster and easier in this regard in the deep Mark than in Aldburg or Edoras, but we do not wed as children here, either, young rider.”

 Heat crept into Éomer’s face, and he was thankful that Freya could not see his expression while she was treating the injury.

 “I am sorry, my lady.  I… I did not mean that—“

 “Oh, you are not the first one to be mistaken,” she laughed, cleaning the scratch with swift moves. “Think nothing of it. I take it as a compliment. Now, you were lucky here, young lord. It seems that your hood took the brunt of the wolf’s fury, and only one of his fangs scratched you. This should heal in no time. It won’t even need stitching.” She leaned back and met his gaze. “Now let me see your hand.”

 “Only if you stop calling me ‘young rider’, or ‘young  anything’. My name is Éomer.”

 “Éomer.” She nodded. “I will call you that… if you call me Freya. I do feel rather old being addressed as ‘lady’.” Another nod. “Now show me your hand, Éomer.”

 Carefully, he took off the thick glove and peeled back the torn sleeve, clenching his teeth as he did so. This was decidedly worse than the little scratch on his head.

 “Oh…” Mustering the black and blue of his wrist and lower arm with concern, Freya carefully took his hand and gently moved it. “How is this?”

 “Not too bad,” he pressed with taut face. ‘Liar’, her look said, and she moved his wrist in the other direction and saw him wince.

 “I see.” Even though the skin wasn’t broken, she wiped it gently with the cloth. “It would seem to me that nothing is broken, but it is badly bruised. If you have a little more patience left, I will go and apply some cool soil. It will help with the pain and also reduce the swelling.”

 “Soil? But everything is frozen outside!”

 “I always keep some inside for such occasions. My siblings do not care whether it is summer or winter to scrape their knees or hit their heads during their wild chases.”

 Éomer chuckled as he watched her leave for the adjourning room.

 “I do remember my sister and I used to be the same. We often had our uncle angry with us because we would be a complete mess after our forays. Of course, as the older one, I always bore the brunt of his fury.” The children still stared at him, and his smile widened as he slowly relaxed. Slowly, shyly, the smallest one smiled back.

 “So you have a sister?” Freya’s voice came from next door, where she rummaged between supplies. “How wonderful. I assume that you are quite protective of her?”

 He nodded and met her gaze when she came back, bandages and a bucket of red-brown, moist contents in her hands.

 “Aye… but aren’t we all? These are dark times we are living in. We have to watch out for each other. Always. The moment we let down our guard, someone pays for it. And not necessarily oneself.” He watched with interest as she began to smear his arm with the clay; her touch light enough not to hurt, yet strong enough to distribute the thick substance evenly from his elbow to his wrist. He found it a rather pleasant experience… but then, she suddenly stopped, and her brow furrowed as she regarded him pensively, as if she was trying to read him.

 “That sounds like bitter experience. What happened? Who did you lose?”

 It was not something he was keen on talking about. Not now, not with a stranger. Yet she seemed to understand, seemed to possess a knowledge similar to his, and that notion loosened his tongue.

 “My parents. Five years ago. Our uncle took us in his household, and I love him dearly, and yet…”

 “It is not the same. Aye. I understand.” Having finished with the clay, Freya began to carefully wrap his arm with a piece of cloth. “It is a pain that will always stay fresh, no matter how much time passes.” She swallowed, and then looked up from her work. For the first time, the smile had completely vanished from her face. “We lost our mother ten months ago. She died in childbed. It was devastating, especially to my father. He knew not how to go on. But we had to. We had to care for the little ones.” She paused, and briefly looked over to where she could hear the noise of her playing siblings in another room of the hut. At length, she resumed her work, fastening the end of the bandage around his arm and leant back. “That made it easier. I had a task. And I love them so much, I could not bear if anything happened to them. I would tear myself in two to protect them… even if I am not a skilled fighter.”

 A new seriousness stood in Éomer’s eyes as he regarded her.

 “I can help you with that. I can show you the moves.”

 Now the smile stole back into her expression, however distant.

 “I do not have a sword, young rider. What should we train with?”

 “We will find something. Let me show you how to defend yourself!” He came to his feet, eager to start with his self-appointed task, yet met a sceptical look.

 “I would like to, Éomer, yet you should rest that arm. Moving it around is not going to make it heal any faster.”

 “Ah, I don’t need it for a lesson in defence. Come, let us begin!”

                                                        ******

 The darkness had thickened to the point where he could only find the barn through the dim glow of light emanating from inside as he left, and the snow crunched underneath his feet. It was already knee-high, and so far, the storm was showing no signs of letting up. Strangely, Éomer did not mind. Considering that they were trapped in a very provisional shelter in the middle of a blistering storm with next to no food, an ill rider, and far away from where they had planned to be, he was in an amazingly good mood, feeling light-hearted for the first time in what seemed like weeks to him. However unlikely it had been, he had found a kindred spirit out here in the desolate wilderness of the outer Mark. A woman who shared his experiences and knew which words to speak to soothe the still lingering pain. A woman who displayed true courage by living out here, depending on herself only and fighting for survival on a daily basis, deeply caring for her family despite the fact that she had rarely stepped out of the shoes of childhood herself yet. The very thought of her warmed him despite the blistering cold, and when he stepped into the barn, the expression on his face was obvious enough for Arnhelm to commentate dryly:

 “Didn’t I say that you shouldn’t have left him alone with her, captain?” Unanimous laughter followed his remark. Heat flushing his face, Éomer quickly made his way back to Éothain and their horses in the far corner. Yet even his friend was grinning at him.

 “The captain said that they were only scratches, yet if it took her so long to take care of you...“

 “Silence, Éothain!” Éomer grumbled, well aware of the bemused faces around him as he opened his saddlebag to rummage around for the little bowl he kept in there. “Speak not of things of which you have no understanding!”

 “Ooh…” The young rider meant to add another teasing remark, but a cough fit interrupted him and made him spill the water he had been drinking onto his lap.

“That serves you right.” Ignoring his comrades’ inquisitive glances, Éomer stepped over to where he saw the pot of stew standing on the ground. In the meantime, he also noticed, their men had apparently finished what Freya’s father had set out to do in the morning, because the barn was filled with bleating, smelling sheep. Another look also confirmed that the riders had indeed left some food over for him.

 “It is already cold,” Arnhelm again made himself be heard. “But I assume you do not mind, do you, Éomer? If your flushed face is any indication, the heat inside of you should be enough to warm the stew in your stomach quite nicely.”

 “Enough, Arnhelm,” Elfhelm ended the banter from where he sat, and his tone sounded annoyed, although Éomer could not tell whether he or their scout’s teasing were the source of it. Neither did a glance at his captain reveal anything about Elfhelm’s disposition, and so Éomer settled for just filling his bowl with the cold stew and breaking off a piece of the bread. With the men finally resuming their various conversations, he lowered himself to the ground in the corner Éothain and he were sharing and started to eat.

 The smug smile had entirely disappeared from Éothain’s face when he spoke again.

 “I am sorry, Éomer. I did not think that it was serious… or is it? She struck me as rather plain.” He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

 “It is not what she is about, Éothain.” For a moment, Éomer stared unfocussed into the distance, chewing on a piece of bread and trying to bring order to his emotions, which were in an uproar. “She is a very courageous person… and a very giving person, too. In a way, she reminds me of Éowyn.”

 “Of Wyn?” Éothain’s eyes widened in astonishment.

 “Their likeness would not be evident to anyone who only regarded her fleetingly,” Éomer mused, not looking at his friend. “Yet it exists. She would fight for her kin to the very end, even if she never learned how to.” He lifted his gaze. “I taught her a few moves, that was all, Éothain. Out here, she will need them before long, I’m afraid.”

 His friend’s gaze remained doubtful.

 “And that is all there is to it? You want her to be able to defend herself? I apologise, my friend, but I do not believe you.”

 “I do not care whether you do or not. All I care for now is a few hours of rest after this long day, so if you please…” Setting down his emptied bowl, Éomer leaned back into the hay, pleasantly heavy with sleep. Yet before he could drift off, he once more heard Éothain’s voice.

 “She is a commoner, Éomer. Keep that in mind.”

 He did not honour the words with a reply.

******

 “—wake all the others. We might need every hand.”

 “You really think they can come in?”

 “I do not know, but if they do, we must be ready.”

 “What about the family? Their hut looked even more unstable than the barn. Shouldn’t we get them over here? They will be safer.”

 “With all these animals in here? No. It’s the sheep they’re mainly after. There is more prey to be made in here. This will be their main point of attack. But you are right that we need to protect the family, just in case. A few of us should head over there.”

 The discussion was held lowly and occasionally drowned out by the rustling of moving animals, alarmed snorts, the occasional snoring of a sleeping warrior and the howling wind. For a while, Éomer had believed it to be part of the uneasy sleep he had drifted into after an eternity of listening to Éothain’s laboured breaths and coughing close by, but as he opened his eyes to flickering twilight, he knew that it wasn’t so. On the other side, the horses and sheep were moving restlessly around in their stands and stalls, and slowly, he woke to the feeling that something was wrong. Something else was howling outside beside the storm; something that sounded hungry… and big.

 With a start, Éomer sat up as something scratched from outside against the wooden wall to his right. Then the sound of air being deeply drawn into lungs. Testing. Probing. Looking for prey.

 “What is the matter?” He dared not to raise his voice.

 “We’ve got company,” his captain’s dark voice answered him lowly. Slowly, Elfhelm turned around, the lantern in his hand eerily illuminating the scenery. Most of the men seemed awake now, and hands went in search for their swords.

 “Wolves?” Collecting himself and grasping the hilt of his own blade, Éomer slowly came to his feet. He exchanged an alarmed look with Éothain, who had also just woken.

 “Alas, I fear it is worse,” Elfhelm grumbled, his gaze following the stealthy trail of movement from outside, slowly but surely moving toward the barn door. It was locked, yet the lock did not look very strong to Éomer. “They sound too big. I assume that it is a pack of wargs.”

 “Wargs!” The word passed in hushed and horrified whispers through the building. “What should we do now?” All men safe the two youngest members of their éored knew about the ferocity of the orc-wolves. All of a sudden, the sheltering wooden walls around them didn’t seem so safe anymore.

 “Let us see how many there are.” Carefully climbing the long ladder to the upper floor, Elfhelm and his scout moved to opposite windows to risk a glance into the night while their men waited with baited breath.

 “They are wargs.” Arnhelm hissed, and then -- after a heavy moment of silence – added: “I see six. Around the barn and the hut.”

 “There are five more on this side.” With a silent curse, Elfhelm turned away from the window, his mind reeling. Underneath him, the level of noise was rising steadily the more alerted the animals in the room became. It was only a question of time until the bleating and neighing would trigger the predators’ attack. With fifteen riders, the outcome of the battle was unsure. And if they all climbed up to his position, they would be outside the wargs’ reach, but would probably lose their horses and many of the family’s sheep. And what of the family itself? He came to a decision.

 “Arnhelm, get your bow and then take position at that window again. Éothain, you too. You are one of our best archers. See if you can hit some of them from up here. It may dampen their bloodlust or even discourage them from an attack entirely. The rest of you, ready your swords and take position next to the door. Arnhelm, this will be your command.” He began to descend.

 The scout furrowed his brow.

 “What will you do, Captain?”

 “I will see whether I can make it over to the family. I need two men to accompany me.” He straightened and looked around as Éothain passed him on the way up the ladder, meeting only worried glances.

 “Head over there? Through these beasts?” Arnhelm’s expression was unreadable in the flickering twilight, yet his tone left no question open as to what he thought about his commander’s plan. “How do you plan to achieve this?”

 “With a feint. But first I need two men. Who will accompany me? It is dangerous, I can not lie about it. So I will not order you to. But that family needs our protection. If you need any further motivation, think of the children!”

 “I will go,” Éomer heard himself saying before he had consciously realised his decision, and his stomach turned to ice in response. Yes, he was afraid, but there was the memory of Freya’s smile as she tended to him, and the gentleness she had treated her siblings with. He could not accept the thought of them becoming warg-prey, even if it meant putting his own life at risk. How many times had he promised Éowyn to protect her when they had heard the wolves circle their home in the hard winters of their childhood, and yet he had never been forced to follow through. Now it was time to prove himself, time to prove to himself that he was able to face his fear and not freeze in the face of danger, even if he expected Elfhelm to reject his offer in favour of a more experienced man. Yet to his surprise, no rejection came.

 “Who else?”

 “I”. Tolgor, the healer of their group and a very apt and swift-footed swordfighter himself, stepped forth. Éomer felt a little more confident at the sight of the two valiant fighters he would enter the warg-infested night with. “What about the diversion you spoke of, captain? What will it look like?”

 “The rest of you, who will not take position at the door, will herd the sheep into the far corner of the barn. See to it that they make as much noise as possible. Be loud yourself. Do everything in your power to draw the wargs back there. Once you have succeeded, we will dash over.”

 “What if the doors are locked?” Arnhelm voiced his doubts. “I would be surprised if they weren’t. Once you’re outside, even the briefest delay could end in disaster.”

 Elfhelm nodded.

 “You are right. We need to let them know that we are coming. Can you see anything behind their windows? I am almost certain that they heard the wargs, too, and that they are waking. Can you see light?”

 “I can hardly even see the hut in all this snow.” The scout inhaled deeply, not liking his captain’s idea, even if he couldn’t deny the necessity. Following an instinct, he waved his lantern across the window, hoping that at least the people opposite them could see him and would know that something was about to happen. While he waited anxiously for a return signal, two large dark shapes moved into his field of vision, scratching at the hut’s weathered walls. Probing. No doubt picking up the human scent behind the sheltering planks. He cursed. “There are two of them right at their doorstep now. At least two I can see. I do not know, captain…” He swallowed as the first warg threw its massive body against the wood. “They are about to force their way in.”

 “Then we’ve got no time to lose!” With a gesture, Elfhelm motioned Éomer and Tolgor to follow him, taking position right behind the door. “Fraccas, Héaland, you lock the door behind us as soon as we’re out, and be fast! The rest of you, move! Make noise!”

 His heart accelerating to a frantic rhythm, Éomer unsheathed his sword, his fingers slippery inside the glove as he waited tensely for Elfhelm to give the command. Behind them, the remaining men of their éored formed a chain to herd the bleating sheep into the far corner, shouting and stomping their feet.

 “Arnhelm?”

 “The two in front of the hut look up….” Before the scout could continue his report, they all heard the loud bellow from outside, and then the movement of heavy bodies through the snow. “It’s working!”

 “They are here now!” Éothain reported from his position, failing at trying to sound calm as the first heavy impacts from outside made the wooden walls reverberate. Horses and sheep shrieked in alarm. Éothain had his bow in hand and drew an arrow from the quiver. “Shall I shoot?”

 “No. Not yet. It could drive them away again. Do not shoot before we have reached the hut. Just try to keep them occupied! Come!” Tearing the door open with one powerful move, Elfhelm stepped outside, and the first gust of wind almost threw him down. Wordlessly, he motioned for the two men following him to run as fast as they could.

 Éomer had never been so afraid in his life, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it. The storm was severe, blowing into their faces and freezing them and knocking the breath from their lungs. Together with the knee-high snow, it slowed their supposed dash to a fast walk, and in the whirling white, it was almost impossible to see their destination. His own ragged breath echoing in his ears, Éomer plodded ahead, inwardly praying that the conditions would also make it impossible for the wargs to pick up their scent. Praying that Freya and her family were awake and seeing their approach, ready to unlock the door.

 They had made it halfway over when, with a pained grunt, Elfhelm suddenly collapsed in the snow. His heart missing a beat, Éomer turned around, expecting to already find dark shapes jumping at them. Yet he could not see further than for a few paces. He was still trying to penetrate the darkness around them with his keen glance as Tolgor bowed over their captain, trying to pull him up.

 “What is it? What happened?”

 “Stepped into a hole!” the warrior pressed with clenched jaw. “I think I broke my foot!”

 “Lean on me! Éomer?”

 Taking another heartbeat to pierce the diffuse white and grey of their surroundings, Éomer turned back – and froze as he saw two gleaming yellow eyes behind his comrades. Apparently, not all wargs had accumulated behind the barn. The big predator rounded the corner and lifted its ugly head, seeing and smelling them at once. Without thinking, Éomer stepped away from Elfhelm and Tolgor and waved his arms above his head.

 “He! You! Here! Here!” Then, under his breath to his still kneeling captain: “Run!”

 He had barely ended when, from the security of the barn, an arrow passed him by with a swishing sound and embedded itself in the orc-wolf’s massive shoulder. Bellowing, it jumped at him nevertheless, its instincts urging it to follow the moving target instead of attacking the rigidly standing men close by.

 For a moment, Éomer stood frozen with terror, the scene how the warg would rip him apart with those incredible jaws playing before his inner eye in all detail.

 From one heartbeat to the next, he understood that flight was not an option. Footing was treacherous, and the snow too high. The warg would be upon him in an instant. So instead, he shifted his weight and lifted Gúthwine in defence.

 “Éomer, no-“

 More shouts from behind, where the men had opened the barn-door to yell and distract the predator. To him, they were in another world as those hell-blazing eyes jumped toward him with a furious roar. At the last possible moment, he dived to the side, spinning as he did so, and drew his blade over the passing predator’s flank as the massive shoulder threw him to the ground. Roaring again, the great beast sat back on its haunches in an effort to turn, yet slipped on the icy ground.

 “Éomer, run! Run!”

 Somehow, he scrambled to his feet, pure reflex now. Sensing more movement behind him. It was not important. Important was solely the dark rectangle that had opened in the wooden wall to his right, and through which Tolgor was shoving a severely limping Elfhelm and then turned around to shout:

 “Faster! He’s almost upon you!”

 He needn’t have heard. The snow crunching under the warg’s weight told him how close his pursuer was. The stench of its breath told him how close it was. He would not make it. Then, suddenly, another furious roar emitted, so close that he felt the warmth of the exhaled air. He didn’t turn to see what had happened. The opening was directly in front of him now, and with a frantic effort, Éomer dived into it. The door slammed shut. Yet before the bolt could be secured, it flew open again under the impact of the beast, and a great head with maliciously blazing eyes appeared in the opening, biting at whatever was not fast enough to jump back. Its hideous jaws closed around Freya’s tunic.

 “Help me! Help me!” Freya’s voice, high with terror as she was about to be drawn through the narrow opening.

 Forcing himself to his feet, Éomer pushed her back forcefully and heard the ripping of cloth just before he threw himself against the door next to Elfhelm, Tolgor and their host. The beast’s angry snarling and bellowing filled the narrow space, even drowning out the storm. Despite their combined efforts, the door was slowly being forced open, and now they heard another warg behind the wall.

 “Push harder! Push!”

 They were no match for the beast, four men struggling – and losing. Sweat beading his brow despite the cold, his muscles and sinew creaking under the effort, Éomer propped his feet against the ground, his back against the opening door – when he saw her.

 “Freya, no!”

 Although the warg’s first attack had almost cost her life, she thought not of hiding, or moving out of harm’s way, not even to soothe her crying siblings further down the corridor. No, she fought for them, suddenly returning from where he had pushed her with a hayfork in her hands. With all the force of her lean body, she thrust it into the opening, and an agonized roar answered her. The great head disappeared, tearing the fork from her hands.

 “Push!”

 For a moment, the pressure slackened, and they reacted as one. The door slammed shut, and Freya slammed the bolt shut before it could be forced open again. Yet it was not over. Again and again, the beasts outside threw themselves against the door in white hot rage, and the wooden planks groaned under the impact. With their backs against the door in support, the men stared at each other.

 “This is a strong door,” Féonwar, Freya’s father managed to utter between two impacts. “We were attacked by wargs before, many times. They cannot break this door.” Yet his eyes belied his doubts.

 “Freya?” Trembling, their little faces glistening with tears of terror, the four children were standing in the doorway to the kitchen, the youngest ones clutching their toys to their chest. “Freya, we are afraid.”

 “They will not get in here, Willa.” Another impact drowned out her words, seemingly in protest to her remark, then it went suddenly very quiet. Her eyes wide and ears strained, she stood rigid, staring at Éomer. All held their breath. Had the wargs lost interest in them? After another long moment of silence, she tiptoed over to where her siblings were standing, still shaking. Crouching, she extended her arms to encompass them all in a soothing embrace. “Don’t be afraid. These men will protect us. They are warriors. They are not afraid of some wild beasts.” They shook like leaves in the storm in her arms, crying silent tears of fear, while they all heard the movement of heavy bodies moving around the hut. Leaving the door they knew now to be well guarded and searching for another way in.

 Freya’s eyes widened as she stared at her father, the words escaping her lips in an almost inaudible whisper of fright.

 “They’ll try the other side again!” Féonwar exhaled. “They had almost forced their way through that door before you came. You distracted them just in time. But I fear it won’t hold much longer…”

 “Éomer, you stay here. Tolgor, come with me!” Hardly able to walk, Elfhelm followed their host to the front door while he already heard the predators’ heavy breathing from outside. The door looked already partly splintered. “We must barricade it with something!” He had barely ended when the door shook in its frame, and the huge head of the orc-wolf appeared in the opening, wood exploding around its massive neck as it bared its cruel teeth at them. The two Rohirrim reacted simultaneously by cutting down their swords in a hacking motion and almost decapitating the beast. Spilling redness onto the wooden floor, the warg collapsed, and its eyes turned glassy.

 “Don’t look. Don’t look.” She could not cover all her siblings’ eyes, yet the soothing stream of Freya’s words never ceased as the three little ones clamped their fingers into the folds of her tunic, sobbing. Behind them, Halad stood, lost, because he did not fit into his sister’s embrace. A brief glance through the window confirmed to Éomer that finally, his comrades had succeeded in luring the remaining wargs back to the barn, where Arnhelm and Éothain were beginning to pick out their aims. At last, he felt secure enough to sheathe his sword and extend his arms to the trembling boy. He knew how the lad was feeling. Not too long ago, he had been in the same position.

 “Halad? Come here.” A wondrous look found him as Freya turned her head in astonishment, and then the boy was there, hesitant at first, but when his tear-streamed, pale face lifted to find nothing but affirmation in the warrior’s gaze, he finally accepted the comforting embrace and closed his eyes. “It is good, Halad,” Éomer said with a calmness he wasn’t feeling himself. Yet telling it to the lad also helped soothing himself as he followed the battle outside through the window. “We will get through this. They will not get in here. I promise.”

 It was strange. All of a sudden he remembered the winter, when he had been forced to listen terrified to the sound of a host of orcs in their ambush on Aldburg. They had known that the marshal and his éored were not present, and had seized the opportunity to plunder the city and set huts on fire without having to fear resistance worthy of mention. Only men of too many or not enough summers had fought against them and eventually succeeded in making them turn and flee with their loot. Éomer had been ten summers old then, and much like Halad a lad who had tried to fight his fear and act courageous like the adults. And yet he had found himself in his mother’s embrace, too, clinging to her and trembling while he had heard the fell creatures in front of their hut. Listening to her endless litany of how they were safe, that the orcs would not get in. His mother had promised it to them. And the orcs had passed. Éomer had never known what had made them turn away, but to a boy of ten years, the promises of an adult meant the world. He suddenly felt the weight of his words heavily on his shoulders as not only the boy was looking up at him now, but the little ones in Freya’s arms, too. Thankfully, Elfhelm chose that moment to speak out.

 “The carcass blocks the door. I do not think they can force their way in here now.” He grimaced and groaned as he leant against the wall, favouring his right foot.

 “I think they are all by the barn again,” Éomer replied lowly, still staring out. He could not see much in the still driving snow, but it was also quiet in the hut now, and however much he strained his ears, he did no longer hear the sound of heavy steps or breathing through the walls.

 “Then let me have a look at your foot, captain,” Tolgor said in the same low tone, as he slowly sheathed his sword. “Perhaps I can splint it.”

 Elfhelm shook his head.

 “Splint it, first, then look at it later when the danger is over. We need to be ready in case they return. We will hold watch for the rest of the night. Éomer, yours will be the first!”

 “Aye, captain.” Éomer felt the boy tensing in his arms in reaction to Elfhelm’s words. “This is only a precaution, Halad. They will not come back. We taught them to stay away.” Grimly, he stared at the dead warg whose ugly head and thick neck still invaded their refuge. The bleeding had stopped, but it was still a sight he would have hoped to have spared the children. Before he turned back to the window, he observed as Elfhelm lowered himself to the ground with a suppressed grunt, his back propped against the wall as Tolgor went to work.

 It would be a long night.

                                                          ---------------------------

 The pleasant smell of tea woke him. It was the first thing he noticed together with the realisation of daylight when he opened his eyes. The next sensation was the stiffness of his body and the discovery there was no feeling in his left arm. Yet brief glance down brought back the memory and a sleepy smile to Éomer’s face. The boy still lay propped against his side, exhaustion having claimed him after the horrors of the night, and his weight had cut off the circulation of blood to his limb. Carefully pulling it out from underneath Halad’s body and rubbing it, Éomer suddenly saw a cup of steaming contents appear in his line of vision. Gratefully, he took it.

 “Thank you.” A quick glance brought his orientation back. Tolgor was standing by the window, overlooking the distance to the barn, while Féonwar and Elfhelm were sleeping further back, where he could only see their feet. The smaller children he could not detect, and he assumed that Freya had laid them to rest in their beds after the immediate danger had passed. His eyes briefly came to rest on the dead warg, and he realised that the puddle of blood around it was gone.

 “I wanted to clean that up before they wake,” Freya whispered as she sat down next to him. Despite her youth, she looked tired. The night had taken its toll on all of them. “They do not need to see that.”

 “Aye. They went through much already last night.” Emptying the cup with a few long swigs, Éomer handed it back and cautiously stood up, his joints and muscles creaking after the long hours of half sitting, half lying in an awkward position. Not wanting to leave Halad on the hard ground, he bent down and lifted the boy up to carry him over to where his siblings were sleeping in their room. Giving a low groan in his sleep without waking, the lad at first seemed reluctant of letting go when he was laid down on his cot, but then huddled into the blanket nonetheless, oblivious to his adult caretaker. For a moment, Éomer paused, and his gaze wandered over the sleeping children, softening. It seemed wrong that their young ones had to endure so much. All that fear the past night. His own experiences with the orcs. Having to constantly live in fear of being killed or losing loved ones... it was not fair. They had done no evil in their young lives; why then had the children of the Mark to suffer so much? The thought angered him, and as he turned away to leave, Éomer realised for the first time how important the service his éored provided really was.

 The Rohirrim had been his heroes for as long as he could think back. Joining them had been his greatest wish ever since he had barely been able to hold himself alone on a horse. To the child he had been then, being a rider of the Mark had been all about adventure. To boldly charge against their foes, against orcs and Dunlendings and all the other fell creatures that assaulted their lands, and to throw them back. To sleep under the open skies and prove oneself in battle, to be famed for his deeds, all that had seemed most desirable to him in his youth. That phase of enthusiastic admiration, however, had abruptly ended with the death of his father. The eleven-year-old boy he had been then had no longer cared for adventure or the respect the warriors were being treated with. At age eleven, joining the Rohirrim had been all about wrath. An all-consuming, deeply burning desire for vengeance, an urge to repay the Dark Lord’s foul brood in blood for what they had done to him and his family. He had literally counted the days until his sixteenth birthday, until he would be allowed to join, and he had prepared himself with a seriousness and passion which had even made his friends uncomfortable.

 And now, while he was looking down on the sleeping children, it dawned on Éomer that he was entering a new phase. The Rohirrim were no force called into existence for personal vengeance. They were protectors. Whenever they rode out in search for the enemy, it was to protect people like these, people who stood no chance fighting on their own in this harsh world, like Freya, her father and her siblings. The realisation of the noble cause he was serving struck him forcefully, and a new, strong sense purpose filled him.

 A strange prickling feeling between his shoulder blades told him that he was no longer alone, and when he turned around, he saw her standing in the doorframe with an expression of wonder on her face.

 “You are good with children. Halad has been difficult since mother died. He no longer accepts embraces from me, or lets me comfort him. That he came to you last night really means something. You should be proud of yourself.”

 Feeling awkward about Freya’s high praise when all he had done was caring for the people who meant something to him, Éomer slowly shook his head.

 “It doesn’t mean that he no longer loves you. He only wants to show you that he can take care of himself now. And he wants to prove himself. He no longer wants to be treated like a child.”

 She gave him a weak smile.

 “I see. You were the same when you were his age, I would wager.”

 He nodded thoughtfully.

 “Aye. I wanted to protect my family. After my parents’ death, there seemed little point in playing. From that day on, all I ever wanted was to be taught how to fight so that I could avenge them.”

 “Isn’t it sad though?” Exhaling, Freya took a step into the room and came to a halt before him, and her blue eyes met his and held them captive. “That our children have to grow up so fast? That most of them will know about the existence of death before they are five years old? That they grow up under conditions that fill them with rage to the point where all they want is to learn how to wield a sword and kill their enemies? That is not what an eleven-year-old boy should be wishing for, is it?”

 He remained silent at that. It was almost frightening how their thoughts were so much alike. A strange tension seemed to fill the room all of a sudden, and he asked himself whether she was feeling it, too. Brusquely and not knowing why, he turned to leave, muttering:

 “I must go and see where I am needed. I assume there will be much to do after last night.”

 It sounded trite even to his own ears as he awkwardly stepped past her, hating himself for his own insecurity. She took his hand, stopping him. The unexpected touch sent a hot wave travelling through his body, and his heart suddenly beat furiously in his chest, torn between the urge to flee and anticipation of what would happen if he stayed. The two battling impulses rooted him to the ground.

 “Éomer…” Freya took his other hand, too, and he gave it willingly, his stomach full of butterflys as he looked into the pools of blue, inwardly cringing at the earnestness and depth of her gaze, but not wanting her to stop, either. No one had ever looked at him like this. “Thank you. For risking your life for us, and for what you did for Halad. He needed that, and desperately so. Ever since mother died, he had withdrawn from me. But he seems to trust you. He seems to see something like an older brother in you, someone who makes him come out of his isolation… and I am grateful for that. Even if I don’t see you as an older brother.”

 He still couldn’t say anything. His throat had tightened to the point where speaking was impossible, but that was well, because his head felt empty, too, and nothing of sense would have come out. Freya’s closeness took his breath away. Béma, where was this leading them?

 “I… I—“ He never got to finish his sentence, because even as he fought for the right words, she suddenly rose to the tips of her toes and gently, shyly, brushed a butterfly’s kiss onto his cheek. Even though her lips barely touched his skin, it left him thunderstruck nonetheless, and when she pulled back, a nervous smile spread over her face as she regarded him anxiously in expectation of his reaction.

 “I… I hope I wasn’t untoward. If I was, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to—“

 He was only sixteen summers old. He was inexperienced, but he had never felt like this, anxious and jubilant at the same time, light-headed as if he were about to faint, and he knew the meaning of this storm of contradicting emotions. His grasp intensifying, he pulled her close and just before he closed his eyes, saw her nervous expression light up in sudden joy. Their lips met. Cautiously at first, tentatively. Uncertain. Afraid that she would shrink back once she realised what was happening.  But she didn’t, her lips remained soft underneath his touch, and they responded. Slowly, but then with growing conviction as the urge became greater. Letting go of her hands, he pulled her close instead, capturing her in a fierce embrace under the onslaught of his emotions while her hands glided over his back.

 For the eternity of a dozen heartbeats, time stopped, and their surroundings ceased to exist. It mattered not that Freya’s siblings were sleeping close by; it mattered not that in the next room, her father was talking with Tolgor. The knock at the door was not important, nor was Arnhelm’s voice from outside reporting that the wargs were gone and the danger over, if not the storm. All that mattered was the feeling of her in his arms, and the taste of her lips. The smell of her hair, and the softness of her body underneath his fingers.

 “Freya? Freya, are you in here?”

 It was Féonwar’s voice which finally cut through the moment of bliss and caused her to pull back, still heavily breathing. For another moment, their gaze remained interlocked, and the same sense of wonder and exhilaration stood written in blue and brown eyes alike as it dawned on both of them that something had begun they had not in their wildest dreams hope to find out here in the middle of the storm.

 “Freya, why are you not—“

 “Shh!” She put a finger on her lips as she turned toward her father just as his head appeared in the doorframe. “We were just putting Halad to sleep. I am coming. Éomer, are you coming, too?” Looking back over her shoulder, she gave him a little mischievous twinkle as she motioned him to leave the sleeping children. They had a secret now, a sweet, wonderful secret, and nothing, not even the memory of the terrible night that lay behind them, could touch them.

“Do you always keep a hayfork in the house? I must admit, it was a sight I did not expect.” Éomer wondered aloud, smiling teasingly. He was leading Stormwing on a rope behind him, with little Willa and Wyndra proudly sitting on the mare’s back and beaming down, while Freya had the smallest one in her arms and Halad was walking alongside, content with being in his presence. Ever since the lad had woken, he had been around Éomer, at first shyly asking the young warrior about his life as a rider of the Mark, and then gratefully accepting the little errands the men trusted him with by and by, once they had noticed how much Halad was awed by their presence. From helping taking care of their horses to polishing tack, the youth had enthusiastically accepted each task, and again Éomer had seen himself in the lad. Like Halad, he had always been around the warriors whenever his father’s éored had been home, eager to listen to the tales of their courageous deeds. He still vividly remembered the day when one of the younger soldiers had entrusted him with his sword, showing him a few parries and blocks and explaining to him how one had to take care of such an artfully crafted item. Steel was rare in the Mark, it was not something they made themselves, but had to trade with Gondor in exchange for their precious horses. Éomer had felt excited over being allowed to handle such a valuable token, but then his father had seen them and berated the soldier for lending a sharp blade to a lad of only six summers.

“Of course I do. This was not the first time the wargs attacked us. We often have to fend them off in this part of the Mark, especially during hard winters. I have no shiny sword like you,” Freya spoke into his memories, waking him. Teasing back, she slightly tilted her head. “I must take whatever weapon is available. But the fork is good, as efficient as any sword. I discouraged many wargs and wolves from eating us with it. I may not look as elegant as you in the fight, but in the end, they run from me just the same. Isn’t that all that counts?”

“In the end, yes.” Looking over to where his comrades were still busy with the disposure of the three predators they had killed last night, Éomer shook his head. “I still won’t believe it though that you want to keep their meat. I would never think of eating a warg.” He knotted his eyebrows in disgust at the thought.

“I agree that it is not the best-tasting meat I’ve ever eaten,” she agreed, following his gaze. “But there is certainly worse, and it fills your stomach. Out here, we cannot afford to choose. We can only rarely slaughter one of our cattle or sheep, and we even have to be careful with the geese and the chicken. So when a great piece of meat falls onto our plates from out of nowhere, we eat it, as long as it can be eaten. Where have you lived so far, that it would be different there?” From where they were, it was impossible to determine what grizzly task the men back at the barn were carrying out, and she was grateful that the captain had ordered Éomer to take them for a walk for the duration of the slaughter, since his injured arm prevented him from partaking in any of the activities the warriors were filling their day with. Not only would it spare her siblings the gruesome sight of the wargs being cut to pieces, but it also presented her with an unexpected occasion to be together with Éomer, even if they were not entirely alone. And the good news had not stopped there: With the snow still falling and the pathways through the mountains blocked, Elfhelm had asked her permission to stay for two more days, a request she had granted more than gladly, as it meant that Éomer would be here for Yule. It all sounded too good to be true.

“I was raised in Aldburg and then moved to Edoras when my uncle took us in his household. So, aye, things were different there. Except for the year of the great draught when I was but a child myself, we always had enough to eat, and no shortage of meat, either.”

“I see.” She blinked. “Life spoiled you! Well, young rider, then prepare to experience your first true Rohirric Yule feast, as your kinsmen in the outer reaches of Rohan celebrate it! What an appropriate time to taste your first warg. I promise that I will try to make this a pleasant experience.” His indignant expression made her break into laughter, and her siblings along with her. Finally, Éomer could not help but laugh with them, and it felt good. He was still smiling when they returned to the farm, and the nervous feeling in his stomach had by then changed into a pleasant warm glow. Heads turned as they passed the working Rohirrim, but Éomer did not notice their unusual attention.

------------------

It was late before the three dead wargs had been disposed of; the best part of the meat now either freezing in the family’s storage room for later use or in the process of being marinated in herbs for next day’s Yule feast. The remains had been burnt in some distance from the hut, leaving nothing but a pile of blackened bones which were fast covered by the snow. With the exception of Éomer, Éothain and Elfhelm, who were either injured or ill, all men had made themselves useful by either helping to let the orc-wolves disappear or repairing the damage to the hut and barn.

Now that night had fallen once again, Éomer could not help feeling tension return as the darkness brought back the memories of the recent events. Would the diminished pack try it again, or had the loss of three of its members discouraged and convinced them to seek easier prey elsewhere? Thoughtfully, he chewed on the piece of bread he had kept from the evening meal, and his gaze once again went through the window to the hut. A slow, wistful smile spread over his face. How much he longed to be there now, with her. Yet he had his duty to fulfil, and after a whole day of feeling more or less useless, he was grateful for the opportunity to add his part to the protection of Freya’s family.

Settling back against the beam, Éomer suddenly heard a voice call out for him from below, muted as to not wake up the nearby sleeping men, but sounding urgent nonetheless. Furrowing his brow, he looked down from his elevated position, and saw to his surprise Tolgor climbing up the ladder.

“What is the matter, Tolgor?”

“Elfhelm wants to have a word with you. He told me to take your position in the meantime.”

The healer’s words cut through Éomer’s bliss like a knife. Had he done something wrong? But he had been told to take Freya and her siblings away from the site of the slaughter!

“What does he want?”

“I do not know, Éomer, you will have to ask him yourself. Now go, he is waiting for you.”

Putting the half-eaten piece of bread down, Éomer waited until his brother-in-arms had cleared the ladder and then descended with a growing feeling of wariness, angered by his bad conscience when he did not even know what he was feeling guilty of. A moment later, he saw Elfhelm sitting in the corner underneath his own position, his back propped against the wall and his injured foot resting on a thickly folded blanket. It was indeed broken, Tolgor had confirmed after his examination in the morning, and his verdict had darkened Elfhelm’s mood. The captain hated being forced to inactivity, and had instead resorted to chasing his kinsmen around in a gruff way Éomer had so far not experienced from his commander. With a growing feeling of anxiety in his stomach, Éomer stepped closer.

“You were asking for me, Captain?”

“Éomer! Aye, I was. Come over here, son, I need to speak with you. Sit down.”

The older man’s expression was inscrutable, and while Éomer had the notion that Elfhelm was at least not angry with him, he also was not likely to have called him from his post for nothing. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the ground, hardly daring to look his captain in the eye as the warrior began to speak.

“What is the matter, young rider? Why do you stare at the ground and evade my gaze, as if you were expecting to be berated for something?”

His head still bowed, Éomer looked up from underneath his eyebrows.

“Is that not why you called me, my lord?”

“Then what failure would it be that I would accuse you of?”

“I do not know. But—“

“There is no “but”, Éomer. If you cannot name it, I can’t as well…except maybe for the foolish thing you did yesterday.”

His heart missed a beat. There. Now he would hear about it. Yet why did the captain not speak more clearly?

“Foolish, my lord?”

“Stepping away from us to divert the warg’s attention. Battling that beast even though you are yet barely experienced in fighting. It was a bold move, but it could have gone wrong. Those creatures are fell beyond belief. For a moment, I feared for you.”

Éomer frowned.

“But it would have killed you!”

“It would not have attacked if all three of us would have stood together. They are vicious, but they also prefer easy prey. But of course you couldn’t have known. This is something only experience teaches you.” Upon seeing his apprentice’s dropping face, Elfhelm snorted in amusement and patted Éomer’s hand. “Nay, young rider, do not take my words to heart. What you did was very brave, but please wait with a repeat until you are ready for it. Your father would be furious with me if something happened to you. And we both know that the great Marshal Éomund of Aldburg would find a way of letting me feel his wrath even from the halls of your ancestors. You would not want that, would you, son?”

“Of course not, captain. I will try to be better, even if what happened, happened out of an impulse. I did not think about it.” Relief was too great for words as Éomer readied himself to return to his post. “Was this what you wanted to speak with me about?”

“I wanted to thank you, aye, but it is not the reason for your being here. We must speak about the girl.” Without a warning, Elfhelm’s expression darkened, and both the sight of it and the captain’s words knocked the breath from Éomer’s lungs. So he had been right to be wary. A chill raced down his spine.

“Aye?”

Grey eyes held him captive, and in the flickering light of the candle, Elfhelm’s face had never looked more serious.

“Let her be, Éomer. It cannot work.”

All of a sudden, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the barn. He felt like suffocating.

“But… why? And how—“

“All noticed it, Éomer. Do you think we are blind? Alas, I wish I had known how serious this is for you; and I would not have sent you out with her this afternoon. I was relieved to have her and the children out of the way. But now that it can no longer be disregarded… Éomer, that girl belongs to the ordinary folk. She is a farmer’s daughter. You are a rider of Rohan. It cannot work.”

“Why not? You have a family yourself! My father had a family, and he was a Marshal of the Mark! Why should I be doomed to stay alone?”

“I did not mean that you should stay alone. As you know, most of the men have families. Alas, they do not see them often, and it tears them apart every time they have to leave, but it works because they are perfectly matched. You and Freya, however, are not a match.”

“How would you know?” Éomer rebuked harder than he had intended, and anger clouded his expression. “You know nothing about her, and little about me!”

“I know more about you than you think, Éomer. I probably know you even better than you know yourself.” Elfhelm inhaled deeply, knowing about the sensitivity of the issue he was discussing with the young warrior. “And I know enough about Freya to understand that the two of you cannot stay together. She is a farm girl, Éomer, and I mean that in an appreciative sense. She works hard to ensure that our people have enough to eat, and there is no task that is more important. Her family has worked on this land for generations, and it is a great part of who she is. She would never leave it, Éomer, and I know you well enough to say that you would never be content with living the life of a farmer.”

“Perhaps I would!”

“No, you wouldn’t. You have strived for becoming a Rider of the Armed Forces all your life, and the six month you’ve been riding with us are enough for me to determine that you have found your true calling. I know how meticulously you prepared yourself for it, and I haven’t said that often to recruits, Éomer, but you show extraordinary promise. Your sense of duty is impressive for one so young. I cannot remember that I ever had to reprimand you for not doing what you had been told, and my memory is well, young rider! You learn fast, you get along well with your comrades, and your instincts are impressive. You are a very good rider, and your swordplay improves with each sparring. You are eager to prove yourself, and you would never be content with sowing crops and ploughing fields. With staying in the same place all your life, isolated from other people. Nay, Éomer son of Éomund, the blood of a warrior flows through your veins, whether you like it or not. It was written on your face the moment you swore your oath to Théoden-King, and it was written on your face last night when I asked for the two men to accompany me outside. This is your calling, and you would lie if you denied it. I know you that well at least.”

The grey eyes pierced him, and Éomer felt naked under the knowing stare. It was as if Elfhelm looked right into his head, and he wanted to shout his anger over the captain’s intrusion right into his mentor’s face. Yet something held him back, and it was the realisation that the older man was speaking the truth. He had hardly yet begun to live the life of a warrior, but already he knew that it was what he had been born for. It felt right. And yes, he wanted to protect their people, and teach their enemies to utter his name only with fear. But he also wanted to have Freya by his side. What was he to do?

Reading the storm of contradicting emotions in the young man’s face, Elfhelm extended his arm and gave Éomer’s hand a comforting squeeze.

“I am sorry, Éomer. She is a warm-hearted and courageous lass. I understand that you would feel that way toward her, but neither of you would find happiness if you stayed together. Think about it.”

Not knowing what to answer, Éomer stared at the floor, heat flushing his face. This was not fair. Elfhelm could not forbid him to see Freya, not for as long as he did not neglect his duties. As silence stretched between them, the young rider understood that he was dismissed.

“Would that be all, Captain?”

“Yes, Éomer.”

He rose to his feet, still unable to face the older warrior.

“Then I will go back to my post again. My watch has hardly begun yet.”

“Éomer?” Elfhelm’s deep voice was coloured with compassion. “Think about it. It is not I who stands between you. It’s the circumstances.”

Nodding, but avoiding his captain’s gaze, Éomer turned toward the ladder.

The first thing Éomer realised on Yule day was that it had stopped snowing. The storm had blown the clouds away, and now the sun was reflecting from the white landscape, everything glistening so brightly that their eyes hurt just looking upon it. Ice crystals sparkled like jewels, and their golden light lifted every rider’s heart after the dreary days which lay behind them. The wargs had not returned, and thus Éomer exited the barn in high spirits, despite of a sleepless night of pondering. After hours of deep thinking and listening to both the arguments made by his head and his heart, he had finally made up his mind and could hardly wait to see Freya again. Elfhelm had to be wrong, he had decided. Their different standing was of no importance. If he did not care for it, why should she? Freya and he would make it work.

Sauntering over to where he saw the young woman leaving the shed with a bucket of fodder for the chicken and geese in her hand, Éomer called out to her with a happy smile on his face and the feeling of excitement surging through his body. It felt good to be confident with his decision after a night of doubting.

“Good morning, Freya! Isn’t it a wonderful day for Yule?” His gesture encompassed the blue sky and sunshine, but when she met his gaze, the expression on her face was a bucket of cold water into his face. The skin around her eyes looked swollen and red, as if she had cried, and his smile was not returned. Instead, she wordlessly turned her back on him to enter the stable. Dumbfounded by this utterly unexpected reaction, Éomer hastened his steps to hold the door open for her.

“Is aught wrong? Freya?” If he was not mistaken, there was accusation written in her eyes as she briefly looked back over her shoulder. But if that was so, what had he done to deserve that? “What is it? Did I do anything?”

“You were not honest with me, my lord.”

Honestly perplexed and indignant at the accusation at the same time, Éomer struggled with both his voice and the right words as he felt his temper rise. Why was she addressing him in this formal manner?

“You would call me a liar? What did I lie about? And why are you talking to me like this?”

“You may not have lied to me, but you did not tell me all I needed to know.” Avoiding his questioning stare, Freya pretended to be utterly occupied with the task of feeding the animals which surrounded them with excited clucks and battled for the best positions.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

Again silence answered him, until finally, the object of his puzzlement inhaled deeply and turned toward him, noticeably bracing herself.

“Why did you not say that you were the son of Marshal Éomund of Aldburg? And that you were the king’s nephew?” She lifted her chin, and her expression bespoke her deep disappointment. “You are a noble, Éomer. I figured as much from your clothing and manners, but I could not know that you were a descendant of Rohan’s most respected bloodline. Why did you not tell me?” Her bright blue eyes scrutinizing and painfully betraying her bitter emotions, she stared at him for a moment longer before she brusquely turned her back on him to leave him standing, bereft of words. With renewed vigour, she resumed the feeding of the birds, almost throwing the fodder at them.

Frantically searching for the right thing to say, Éomer shoved a goose away with his foot to follow her deeper into the shed, tempted to kick it instead. The truth was that he had not wanted it to look as if he was taking advantage of his position. He had kept his ancestry secret from her out of good intentions. So how could she be angry with now because of that?

“Freya…” He extended a hand to her shoulder to stop her, but she shook it off with an abrupt turn. Only then Éomer realised the glistening wetness of her eyes in the semi-darkness of the stable, and a sudden pang of guilt raced through him. He had never wanted to cause her pain. “I thought it not important. What would have changed if I had?”

“Everything, Éomer!” she raised her voice, in danger of choking on the words as her throat tightened. “Everything would have changed, and you know it! I would not have allowed myself to be infatuated with you had I known who you were!”

This was getting stranger and more awkward by the moment. Éomer narrowed his eyes in disbelief and growing anger.

“Because you despise nobles?”

Impatiently, she shook her head, and the next hand of fodder was thrust to the ground so forcefully that the chicken fluttered away from her in irritation.

“Because it is not the tradition of our people. It would never be accepted. You could be the King of Rohan one day, you cannot love a commoner, and you know that very well. Did you not tell me because you guessed rightly that I would deny you if you told me? Was it just because you wanted to brighten your days for as long as you would be trapped here with us and then discard me? Were you only toying with my feelings?”

Her words knocked the breath from his lungs. How could she think such a thing? Gods, it hurt to hear her talking like this. Did she even know how much she was hurting him with her suspicions? His voice betraying his sudden bitterness, Éomer asked heatedly:

“You would believe that of me? I have been nothing but utterly sincere with you! I would never pretend anything to a girl just for the prospects of a warm bed for two days. I even came here to tell you that I meant what I said to you yesterday. That I do not care what my captain thinks about us. I suppose it was he who told you?”

“My father. He spoke with your captain before. But it not important who told me. I am an ordinary girl, Éomer! I am not highly educated. I know how to milk a cow, or how to raise a pig or a calf when it is abandoned by its mother. I even know how to slaughter them, but I can neither read, nor write! I have no education in the ways of the nobles, I have no fancy dresses. I know nothing about how to behave at the royal court. I have never even been to Edoras! You could not afford to be seen with someone like me!”

“All that is of no importance to me,” he objected, desperate now. What was the matter with her to disparage herself like that? And how could she not trust him? “That is why I did not tell you: I did not want it to stand between us, and I cannot believe that my lineage would matter to you!”

She wrung her hands. Why did he not understand?

“It will matter to the people, Éomer! It would matter to me, if I heard that a member of the royal family married a commoner! The bloodline of Eorl is the best Rohan has to offer; it is our people’s pride! It is where we put our trust in, and therefore it must remain as strong as it can possibly be.”

He was incredulous.

“I cannot believe what you are saying! You would say that your blood would weaken the Mark? Surely you cannot mean that! How can you have such a low opinion of yourself?”

“I have no low opinion of myself, but I know what I am, and I know what I am not. We were born for different tasks in life. Éomer, this is the way the common people are thinking! You cannot change it. My duty is feeding our people, and I am honoured by it and take it seriously. Yours is the protection of our land, and I know that you are just as serious as I am about your task. We both must serve Rohan in the best way we can, Éomer, but our ways of serving are different. We must do what we were born for. What is expected of us. We cannot just run away from it!”

She was all but shouting now, and he could no longer help not raising his voice, either.

“But I won’t ever be king! Théoden has a long time on the throne to come yet, and after him, it will be his son, who succeeds him, not I. I do not plan on becoming trapped in the Golden Hall for the rest of my life. I will always be out here, roaming the plains and protecting our people. That is the way I want it.”

She nodded.

“And that is the way it should be. But who knows what fate has in mind? Do you know? Life in the Mark is dangerous; I do not have to tell you that, especially after last night. The prince protects the Westfold; he is battling orcs and Dunlendings every day. Something could happen to him, Éomer, and then you would be heir to the throne. Have you ever given this any thought?”

“The king’s son is too valiant a warrior for anything to happen to him!” Éomer rebuked with conviction in his voice, stubbornly denying himself the vision Freya had just pointed out to him.

Her gaze grew even more intense.

“Even if you are right, and it comes as you hope for: what good would I be to you if you were roaming the Mark with your éored in protection of our people? I could not accompany you. I would always be alone. And while I would not wish for anything to happen to my father, I am not blind. He is growing old, and one not-too-far day, all the work on this farm will be left to me and my brother and sisters... and the man at my side.” She shook her head in desperation. Why was he making this so hard? She had cried the entire night over life’s injustice, but when morning had shown its pale face to the world again, she had finally come to accept the ancient facts of life in the Riddermark. Why could he not do the same? “This is my life, Éomer! My days are filled with caring for my family and our animals and our fields. I know no other way of life, and I would not want it.”

His brow furrowed at that.

“But if I asked you to come with me to Edoras—“

“So that the women at the court could wrinkle their noses and laugh at the silly farm girl?” she interrupted him. “Éomer, no! I do not belong there. This is my home, the place I want to be. My family has owned this piece of land for as long as I can remember. Before us, my father’s father lived here. And his father before that. This is my responsibility, Éomer. I cannot just leave, even if I wanted to.” She put the empty bucket down and stepped up to him, laying her hands on his chest when she noticed his angry expression. “I feel bound to this piece of land, Éomer. This is where my roots are. Do you not feel bound by the oath you swore to our king? I know how important your duty as a rider of Rohan is to you, you cannot hide it. You are a good man, and very protective of the people under your care. You are good at what you do, and you love it. You would not find happiness leading my life.” She drew a deep breath. “Éomer, our people need you out there. They need your protection. We depend on it. Forsaking your true calling would be a betrayal, both to us, and to yourself. Do you not see it?”

He was at a loss, having only one more point left to make, and yet he knew that it would not change her mind as he grasped her hands and held them firmly, dark eyes meeting blue.

“But I love you.”

She swallowed, and her features were grave. She did not shrink from his pleading gaze.

“No. No, you don’t. We have known each other only for a day, Éomer, it is not enough to fall in love with someone. You probably think that you could grow to love me, and I know that I could grow to love you, if we were given more time… but nothing good can come out of it. We need to remember our place in life and let it be. One day, we will find the person who is our perfect match, but we are not meant for each other. I know that you understand; I see it in your eyes. You want to deny the truth to yourself, but you are aware of it just the same. Let’s not fight over this. I want to remember you fondly, and perhaps, we can be friends. Would you want that?” She bent back in his arms to read his expression.

“Friends?” he echoed, hollowly. What was friendship compared to love? An empty thing, nothing he wanted when his emotions ran far deeper than that. What good was being accepted, but not loved? Given the choice, he rather wanted nothing. But he knew not how to put it into words.

“Your captain patrols this territory quite often,” Freya spoke again, desperate to comfort him. “I do not want our future meetings to be bitter. I want to look forward to seeing you again next time your éored travels this path. Would you not want that, too? Éomer?”

“But it is not enough for me.” Gently, he raised her hands to his face, brushing his lips over them while he inwardly pleaded her to listen to him. She did not fight it.

“But when it is all I can offer you, will you take it? Or will you hate me now when you ride away, and let us both suffer the sharp sting of disappointment each time we see each other?” His silence and the dark expression on his face frightened her. “Éomer?”

“What choice does that leave me with?” Letting her hands sink, he shook his head, half angry and half dispirited. Gods, what had he done wrongly to deserve this? Why could life not be good to him once in a while? Unexpectedly he had found someone who understood him… and was rejected. Letting go of his grasp, he took a first, hesitant step back. “I could not hate you. But it is too early yet to say what I can offer you instead of my love. I am sorry. Freya…”

Turning with a last, sad shake of his head, he left the shed, and her behind. The morning that had started out so well had lost all brightness for him. Rejoining his comrades in the barn and ignoring their curious glances, Éomer strode over to his captain to request to be one of the two men who would be sent on a scouting trip today to investigate the conditions. He could not possibly remain at this place even an hour longer…

-------------------

The metal buckles and clasps were even colder than his fingers as Éomer readied his steed for the continuation of their ride, his mind not on the task at hand. Automatically, he tightened straps and fastened the girth around Stormwing’s rump, not partaking in his comrade’s cheerful banter. After three days of forced inactiveness, the men were looking forward to continuing their patrol through the winterly Mark and meet with the rest of their éored to hear how they had spent Yule. Even Éothain’s condition had improved to the point where the young man felt eager to leave, but his friend’s unusual quietness prevented him from contributing to the expectant conversations. Done with his preparations, the son of Ceorl slowly turned around, silently observing Éomer’s strangely automatic movements. This was a mood he had not yet seen his friend in, and it worried him.

“Are you all right, Éomer?” he asked lowly, almost drowned out under a burst of laughter from the men in reaction to a jest Arnhelm had made. “Can I help you in any way? Hold Stormwing for you, or…” He shrugged, not really knowing what he could offer that would be of service to his friend.

“Thank you, Éothain, but I can do this.” Éomer paused only briefly to cast a grateful glance back at him. “This will pass. Do not worry for me. In a day or so, I will be the same hot-headed, stubborn rider you’ve cursed for years, yet for today I would request that you take no heed of me.” He turned back, and with a deep breath, Éothain followed his example to concern himself with his own steed again.

While his hands busied themselves with the tasks they had performed countless times before, Éomer’s thoughts went back to the past evening. It had been the dreariest Yule he had experienced in years. Despite the generous feast and his comrades’ good mood, which had resulted in singing and many comical stories they had shared with the family, he had sat quietly among them, filling his stomach without a taste for what he ate. Avoiding Freya’s anxious glances, he had stuffed the meat and steamed vegetables into his mouth and not once reacted to Éothain’s concerned questions whether he was feeling well. When at last the feeling of suffocation had become too much for him, he had volunteered for the second watch and gladly left the barn.

The cold air had cleared his head, and for the longest time, he had stared at the stars, trying to master the strong feeling of disappointment which had weighed him down all day. Inwardly, he knew that both Freya and Elfhelm had spoken the truth, and his mind had already grown to accept the fact that she was not meant for him, even if his heart was still fighting it. Not for the first time, he cursed the strength of his emotions, the passion being one of his defining character traits. It made life so complicated. How much easier things would be if he were more level-headed, as cool and detached as the older riders of his éored. And yet, he knew not whether – given the choice - he would have given it up. Trying to empty his head and think of nothing while his keen eyes surveyed their surroundings, the sound of the barn door opening had woken him from his contemplations. Of course, it had been her. Not daring to approach him, Freya had closed the door behind her, her gloved hands anxiously working the pelted collar of her cloak as she worked up the courage to address him. He saw her before his inner eye, heard her voice inside his head as if she were still standing next to him…

“Will you be all right?” Her tone was quiet and concerned, and Éomer’s gaze travelled over her as he searched for the right words to say. She looked beautiful in the pale light of the stars and the waxing moon; the silvery reflections lightening her ash-coloured hair and lending her white complexion an almost translucent quality. Yet it was her expression where Freya’s real beauty lay for him – a maturity and wisdom written in her eyes which stood in stark contrast to her still young face, and which indicated the goodness of her heart and soul. The shabby cloak of rabbit fur she was wrapping around her too thin frame, the freckles and slight lines on her face giving her away as someone used to working hard on the fields under the open sky, what did they matter? He inhaled deeply, lowering his eyes for a moment before he felt confident enough to speak.

“Aye.” And with growing conviction, he had added with a slight nod: “Aye, I will be. It is for the best.” Briefly contemplating whether to tell her how bitter he still felt, he decided against it. It would not help the situation. A first hopeful sparkle lit up her anxious gaze.

“So we will remain friends when you leave tomorrow?”

He nodded again and braced himself as she approached, encouraged by his quiet, if not resigned tone.

“Aye. How could I ever wish you evil?” He took her hand as she extended it, not breaking eye contact. A slow, relieved smile began to spread over her face as she rose to the tips of her toes to breathe the slightest of kisses onto his cheek.

“Thank you. This means a lot to me,” she whispered, the band which had tightened her chest and hardly allowing her to breath suddenly gone. “This place will always be a home away from home for you, should you wish for it.” The smile vanished. “May Béma keep you out of harm’s way, Éomer. Our prayers and good wishes will accompany you.”

“And may he also keep a watchful eye on this farm and your family whenever I cannot be around to guard you myself.” Too moved to think of anything further, Éomer removed his gloves, cupping her cold cheek with his warm fingers. The touch of her skin stirred up his emotions yet again, and it took all of his remaining restraint to remain composed and return only her innocent kiss.

For a small eternity, time stopped. And when he finally straightened again, holding her gaze, he felt the beginning of something new between them, and his bitterness vanishing.

“Take care, Freya.” The slightest trace of a smile accompanied his words, and she returned it gladly and whole-heartedly.

“You too, Éomer.”

With a last forceful tug at the saddle belt, Éomer concluded his preparations and straightened. There had been nothing left to say. With a small nod, Freya had taken the first few steps away from him backwards, blindly extending her hand for the handle when she reached it, and keeping eye contact with him until the last possible moment before the door closed behind her. He had stared at the space she had occupied until a burst of laughter from inside had woken him from his sunkenness. And this would be the picture he would take with them when they left now.

Taking the reins to lead Stormwing out of her box, Éomer followed his comrades outside.

--------------------

The sun was not yet up when the fifteen riders exited the barn, leading their saddled and bridled horses outside to continue their patrol through the Eastmark. It was a cold but clear day, and their breaths rose in white columns into the twilight as they assembled on the path that would lead them out of the valley. The men’s mood was spirited after the three days’ forced rest and the excellent meal they’d had the night before, and even Éothain had recovered from his illness enough to look forward to their ride.

Shutting out all emotions he felt stirring inside of him at the sight of the fully assembled family, Éomer swung into the saddle and watched his captain limp over to the people to express his gratitude for the accommodation of their éored. Good wishes were exchanged, and finally Elfhelm, with the help of Arnhelm and Tolgor, mounted his steed. Éomer’s gaze wandered over the five people who would have to brave the hard life of the Mark alone again after their departure, and he could not help wondering if he would see all of them again next time the way led them here. What would they do if the wargs returned? Or the wolves? What if a band of orcs found this sheltered valley in the White Mountains?

‘They have always lived here,’ he remembered Freya’s words. ‘They have lived here for generations, and they will continue to set the fields and help our people survive for generations to come. They are living the life most of our people are living: self-dependent, proud and stubborn. They will not yield to the dangers of the wild, ever. Life is harsh out here, but they can master it, with a little help from us every now and then.’

His eyes found Halad, and the lad beamed as he felt his attention. With a brief, acknowledging nod, Éomer finally shifted his gaze to Freya, who stood behind her brother, her hands on his shoulders, and the pain of rejection was still there, albeit distant and muted, already fading. They both had their duties waiting for them. He had taken vows to protect the people under his care and to avenge his father. He had only yet begun to fulfil them, and yet their fulfilment was what he lived for. With new determination, he inclined his head in a composed gesture of farewell, and from the expression of relief which was now spreading over Freya’s face, he knew that he had been understood.

“Be well, Captain Elfhelm,“ Féonwar spoke into his silent observations. “Your unexpected arrival was a blessing for us, and yet I pray that your path will remain free of enemies for the next days. May Béma himself hold his protective hand over you and your men.” The farmer’s gaze travelled over the waiting riders, briefly pausing on Éomer before he bowed, and Elfhelm nodded his appreciation.

“I thank you, Féonwar. May he also hold it over you and your family.” Turning to his men, he forced his bay stallion to the head of the éored and raised his voice: “Let’s go, Rohirrim! They are awaiting us at Aldburg!”

Men and horses eager to move after their forced confinement, the éored thundered in a white cloud toward the end of the valley. Just before they entered the narrow mountain path which had brought them to the farm, Éomer cast a last look back at the five small shapes between the barn and the house who had filled his vow with meaning.

The End